Page 16 of Sinner
She’s standing by my bed, one hand resting on the simple gray comforter. In the flickering light, with my sweatshirt hanging from her petite frame, she looks achingly young—and unbearably beautiful.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I say, my voice rough.
She doesn’t turn. “Is this where you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Do you dream, Nico?” Now she faces me, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Do you dream of me?”
I should lie. I should deny everything, send Caterina away, and maintain the fragile barrier between us. Instead, the truth spills from my lips like blood from a wound.
“Every night.”
She moves toward me, stopping just beyond reach. “Tell me about these dreams.”
“Caterina—”
“Tell me.” It’s not a request.
I swallow hard. “I dream of your hands. Your voice. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.” The confession burns my throat like whiskey. “I dream of things I have no right to dream about.”
“And in the morning? When you wake?”
“I pray for forgiveness.”
She steps closer. “And does it come? This forgiveness?”
“No.” The word hangs between us. “Because I’m not truly repentant. I can’t bring myself to regret wanting you.”
The candle trembles in my hand. Outside, the storm rages, rain lashing against the windows like God’s own fury. Or perhaps His tears.
“Put down the candle, Nico,” she whispers.
I set it on the dresser, its flame guttering briefly before steadying. The room fills with dancing shadows and the scent of hot wax.
She reaches up, fingers brushing my throat. I stand perfectly still as she hooks one finger beneath my collar, tugging gently until it comes free. The small white rectangle falls to the floor between us.
“Cat.” Her name is a prayer and a plea.
“I want to see you,” she says. “Not the priest. The man.”
Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt, each one opening like a surrender. When she pushes the fabric from my shoulders, I shudder at the feel of her cool hands against my bare skin.
“Your turn,” I murmur, finding courage in the darkness.
She raises her arms, allowing me to pull the sweatshirt over her head. Beneath, she wears only a simple white bra, the fabric damp from her wet blouse. My breath catches at the sight of her—the delicate curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, and the flat plane of her stomach.
We undress each other slowly, reverently, each garment removed like an offering. Caterina’s shoes are placed neatly beside the bed. My belt coiled on the dresser. Her skirt, still damp, draped over a chair. Undergarments shed last, a final barrier crossed.
In the candlelight, her skin glows like amber honey. I trace the curve of her hip with trembling fingers, hardly believing she’s real, that she’s here.
“Are you afraid?” she asks, reaching up to touch my face.
“Terrified,” I admit. “Not of this—of after. Of losing you.”
“You won’t lose me.” She pulls me down until our foreheads touch. “I’m already yours. I have been since the first time I saw you.”
When our lips meet, it’s different from the desperate clash in the vestry. This kiss is tender, searching, a question and an answer wrapped together. I guide her back toward the bed, our bodies pressed so close I can feel her heartbeat against my chest.
