Page 76 of A Taste like Sin

“For now,” I say coyly. “But who knows how long that may last? Maybe as long as one of your pretty

roses?”

“I’m afraid not.” His grip tightens. “If only it were that simple, Ms. Thorne.” He stands.

I balk. His free hand brushes the table for guidance as he circles it toward me, and a tug on my wrist

urges me to my feet. One ruthless yank pulls me close and his lips flutter over mine. Once. Twice. On

the third brush, mine fall open by accident, letting him in. Urging him deeper. My fingers are in his

hair before I can help myself. God, it’s softer than his skin. Like silk. Vaguely, I’m aware of the edge

of the table striking my hip as he steers me to face him. Before I realize it, I’m sliding back onto the

ledge.

“Wait.” I break the kiss, panting for air. “S-Stop.”

He does, his breath feathering my throat in heavy, unsteady bursts as I curl my fingers around his

biceps, intending to shove him off. Clear my head. Think. He muscles in closer instead. Silverware

scatters, sliding dangerously close to the table’s edge.

“I’m merely following your rules, Ms. Thorne,” he says into my throat. “You desire to be kept—as

well as distracted. I aim to oblige.”

Iwake up twisted within the silk sheets of that infamous red room. As my eyes open, the mirror on

the ceiling paints my appearance in stark relief: swollen, bitten lips, a nest of hair, and a hollow,

sallow face.

My phone is ringing. It has been almost nonstop for the past five minutes, but I can’t seem to move to

grab it. At least not until the millionth ring when I finally crawl off the mattress.

“Juliana,” Diane says when I answer, her voice strained. “We… Can you come to the hospital? We

need to talk.”

“What’s happened?” Fear rides a wave of nausea threatening to escape from my throat. “Is he—”

“No, no, your father is fine,” she says quickly. “It’s just… There are some arrangements we need to

go over. Just come down when you can.”

After hanging up, I shower and then dress in the plainest items of clothing to be found in Damien’s

mocking wardrobe: a white shirt and beige slacks. As I enter the foyer, I don’t find him lounging on

the leather chaise or lurking in the corners.

But on a table near the door, someone left a gray folder with a single rose draped across it. Printed in

ominous black font are the wordsBorgetta Murder Case. Swallowing hard, I tuck the file beneath my