Page 3 of Make Me A Sinner
It doesn't take a genius to know where this was supposed to lead. One word and lunch would be forgotten—along with our clothes. I know that’s what I should do, for the sake of my sanity. I should start living again, or at least try to. It wouldn't even have to be a relationship. Maybe just casual sex, but it would be something else besides the tormenting thoughts that keep running the show in my head.
My eyes fixate on the knife, chopping rhythmically on the board. I could easily develop an obsession with watching the blade go back and forth against the wood.
A flash of me holding a knife blurs my mind, and suddenly I’m up on the kitchen counter, legs spread open, and Set's tongue lapping between them ready to take my sanity away. I know I should shake the memory off and snap back to reality, but instead, I squeeze my eyes to keep it alive for a little longer. Just enough for that tightening sensation I’ve missed so much to sneak back, winding from my waist straight down to my core.His tongue is there, pulling Venom tricks on me, digging inside my pussy like it’s a fucking oil well.
The sensation builds like it is going to take over my whole body soon, and my breasts ache without his hands on them. My breath quickens, trying to keep the memory alive just long enough to push me a bit further, and I swear I'm seconds away from coming when Marco's voice snaps me out of it. "Are you okay?" he asks, and I can see he stopped cooking just to check on me.
"Y...yeah," I try to steady my breathing, but it doesn't seem to be working too well. Actually, it doesn’t seem to be working at all.
"You seemed gone for a second," he continues, then slowly gets back to the frying pan.
Yes, I was gone; maybe I’ll stay gone forever because that flashback stirred more torment in me than any real touch ever could.
I wish I could’ve remained present and focused on Marco's small talk or whatever else he had in mind, but my eyes kept drifting to the scar that crosses my palm, my thumb rubbing over it until it starts to hurt. The good kind of pain. The awakening kind of pain.
By the time he finishes cooking, I’ve polished off the bottle of wine, and though that looks promising in his eyes, for my personal life, I know it's a full-on disaster. This day—lunch, or dinner, whatever it is—isn’t ending the way Marco probably hoped. I think I knew that when I accepted his invitation. This was only lunch between friends, no matter how badly I wanted to turn it into something else. Like my get-out-of-jail-free card to escape from my personal jail—my mind.
And just to top it all off, the pasta was absolutely delicious. It's definitely the best one I've had since coming to Italy, maybe even in my entire life.
I praise his cooking skills while doing my best to smother any hopes he had that this was something more than a lunch between friends. He’s a perfect gentleman and knows better than to push me. Respecting my boundaries should’ve also been a turn-on, but it comes off as a turn-off for me.
Like I said—I'm an emotional masochist, and my brain seems to be made of shattered parts and bad wiring.
Marco offers to drive me back to the mansion after we finish lunch. I think he hopes I'm just shy, and maybe he needs to take things slow.
Doesn’t he know he’d probably have to smash my head into a wall just to knock some sense into me and charm his way into my heart—and my panties?
I refuse anyway—the driving home part. I don't want to give him hope, and I don't want to owe him anything. Lunch was enough, and it's not like I’d ever return the favor. Definitely not cooking shirtless for him. I think a late lunch at El Ciano, two buildings down the street, is the best I’ll ever do to repay him.
He kisses my hands as he walks me to the bus station, and all I can think about is the bandage that used to be there—after Set ate my soul through my pussy. There’s been a little comedian living inside my head for a while now, reminding me with every damn word just how wrecked I really am. Or maybe just how wrecked Set made me.
I usually enjoy riding the bus through the picturesque Italian landscape. Feels like walking into a painting. But, of course, just my luck, the damn thing broke down halfway home. The engine overheated from the rising temperature, and so did we. For the past hour and a half, we have had to wait for another ride. Now I regret not taking Marco's offer to drive me. But then again, I regret a lot of things in my life.
As soon as I get home, I hop into the shower to wash the summer heat away and cool down. The heat wiped me out. Iended up crashing on a rattan sunbed in the backyard and not waking up until morning. Sleeping for fourteen hours is the first sign of depression. A new problem to add to my growing list.
At least the night didn’t get to torment me, because in the daylight, everything feels a little less impossible. I usually just wander the estate, read a book by the lake, or do some more wine tasting in the cellar. But this time, not even daylight could save me from him. Funny how I thought giving Marco a chance would help me fix myself in some way, but it only ended up dragging me deeper into the madness I've created for myself. I feel like a vegetable. And even though I did manage to go into the garden and pick up some real organic vegetables like tomatoes, and cucumbers, I couldn't bring myself to eat anything. It's like I'm devouring myself from the inside out, unable to realize how it is that I found myself trapped in a situation where no matter what I do, I lose.
Maybe I've been alone with my thoughts for too long. Maybe cutting myself off from the outside world was a mistake. I'm starting to think I should move back to a big city again so that the day-to-day struggle and external noise can finally numb the voice inside my head.
The day’s just another rerun of the countless that came before. Same glass of wine. Same lying on the porch. Same, counting the stars. But this time, when my eyes close, I’m back in his living room—just for a second.
My mind drifts to how I first found out about his Magic Cross—damn, that was incendiary—and how I was sitting at the bar, replying flashes of our time together, just like I’m doing now. I imagined his arms wrapping around me, then, he was there. But now, no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes, he doesn’t come. I can’t summon him, just the pain that seeps through the void he left behind.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about all the ways he brought my darkest fantasies to life. I gasp at the memory of how he felt inside of me—the way my body vibrated whenever he was near me. How he made me feel alive.
But then, I remember something else, and even though I convinced myself back then it was only my mind playing tricks on me, the way his tattoos were shifting in the mirror still creeps back in. Because the more I think about it, the more I feel like I missed something crucial about him. Like an important piece of the puzzle—one that would have tied everything together.
Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to make him less of a killer, so my conscience would be at peace with how badly I still want him. Because that's all there is to it—physical lust. It can’t be anything more than that.
I only really spent three days with him. You can’t fall in love in three days, especially with a killer. I still hope I’ll get over him eventually. I'm just weirdly homesick for memories I never got to make.
I'm one step away from crying when a light breeze carries in a familiar scent. My body locks up, my pulse spikes, and my damn breath just vanishes. But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that my pussy tightens like a dog recognizing its owner’s scent—so intense, and so unmistakable it yanks me to my feet.
I sniff the air, like a madwoman, wandering the garden, nose high in the air, chasing phantom scents or, more likely, my one-way ticket to the nuthouse.
But then the scent vanishes—just as fast as it came—reminding me it’s just another figment of my imagination. The same way Set’s warm body next to mine often haunts my dreams. But I know better than to cling just to the steamy memories. I remember the dark side, too, the bone-chilling partwhere he’s truly a killer—a man who destroys everyone who crosses him, without even a flicker of remorse.
I finish my glass. Okay, let's be honest, I finished the whole damn bottle. At this rate, by the time I leave this place, I’ll have drunk my entire paycheck. I don't even like alcohol, but lately, it's the only friend I’ve got. That, and my OCD—which has gotten way worse than before. I count things all the time. Not just the stars, but also objects—random crap around the house. My latest obsession is with vases. There are fourteen vases from the terrace door to the back of the house, where my room is. And since tonight isn't going to be any different, I start counting.
