Page 73 of A Taste like Sin
“Yes,” Damien replies. “The atrium, if you please.”
Heavy footsteps advance across the far end of the greenhouse, but I never see the faithful bodyguard
enter this section at least. A few moments later, the steps retreat.
“All done, sir.”
“Thank you, Julio.” Once he’s sure his servant is gone, Damien stands and extends his hand toward
me. “Slight movement, I’m afraid,” he admits. “But I promise it will be well worth the effort.”
I grasp his hand and allow him to pull me to my feet. Showing no concern for our discarded clothing,
he starts forward, fearlessly navigating the aisles of flowers. I notice his hand feeling along the
various stands, orienting himself, I suspect. But there’s an unmistakable familiarity that makes me
envision him spending so much time in here that he’s memorized every inch.
“How is this for compromise?” he wonders as we reach the threshold of a large, open space beyond
the main greenhouse. The same area he brought me the first time we had dinner here. Then, it served
as a makeshift pizza parlor—and a chilling backdrop to a lurid conversation revolving around my
virginity and his insane brother Mateo.
Now, the place reads Damien Villa down to the black tablecloth draped over a wooden table, laden
with steaming plates.
“Five-star French restaurant to go?” I inquire, eyeing the pastries and extravagant cuisine.
He laughs and advances toward the table, angling one of the chairs toward me.
Once we’re seated, we eat in relative silence, him unabashedly naked still. Observing him now
reveals more than ever before. He lazily munches on the end of a croissant, but his true focus is
tracing the veins on the back of the hand I have braced on the table.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs heatedly. “Hermosa niña—”
“How can you tell?” I blurt, only to realize how rude it sounds. “I mean… Are you merely aiming to
flatter me, Mr. Villa?”
“No.” His tone dips an octave, suddenly serious. He captures my hand entirely, lifting it for his
physical inspection. His thumb grazes the flat of my palm as if the divots and swirls there can tell him
all he needs to know. “Your body is a masterpiece. One I hope to explore in full.”
“You do still owe me a painting,” I point out.
He laughs. “Yes.” He lifts his head in my direction. “And answers. You can demand them from me
now, if you want.”
