Page 33 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Five

“A gentleman holds my hand. A man pulls my hair. A soulmate will do both.”

― Alessandra Torre

Scarlett

“I think Jonathan will be here tonight,” Victoria said with a grin. “Maybe you’ll finally be able to fuck him.”

She looped her arm through mine as we wandered deeper into my parents’ mausoleum of a mansion. Marble floors, sterile art, fake smiles.

My father had invited the usual circle—close families, legacy names, political handshakes dressed in black tie. Some bullshit dinner to celebrate his next project in London. A tower or a museum or something else made of stone to distract from the rot beneath it.

A few days ago, he had called me to let me know I’d be attending. Said he’d be grateful if I sang a song.

Grateful. As in, you don’t have a fucking choice.

Théo trailed behind us in silence. Black cargo pants, boots, tight long-sleeved top, bulletproof vest, earpiece in.

Yesterday, after the shoot and the best sex of my life, we’d run through back-to-back meetings, followed by a Versace fitting and makeup trial for the GQ Woman of the Year issue. We had gotten home and I’d collapsed on the couch, still in full glam, and passed out almost instantly.

Next thing I knew, it was early afternoon and I was waking up in just my underwear and one of Théo’s black shirts. It was too big on me and smelled like him—warm, clean, and a little dangerous.

My face felt bare. No lashes. No makeup.

I turned my head and saw an open box of wipes sitting on the nightstand. Not only had he carried me to bed, but he’d taken my makeup off too.

I hated to admit it, but I loved that he’d taken care of me. My stomach did that annoying fluttery thing I hated.

To think this man hadn’t touched a woman in thirteen years. And somehow, I was the one he’d broken that promise for.

Whatever line he had sworn he’d never cross, I’d made him crawl right over it.

“Maybe you can even do it in your childhood bedroom,” Victoria teased, laughing as she pinched my arm.

My eyes flicked back to her. “What?”

I hadn’t heard a single word she’d said. I was too busy fantasizing about the man behind me. Grabbing my arms, pushing me up against the wall, pulling my panties to the side, and fucking me so hard the whole house would hear.

Victoria gave me a look, one brow arched. “You’ve been weirdly quiet all day. What’s going on? What are you hiding from me?”

My cheeks flushed. Fuck.

“Nothing,” I said way too fast. “I just?…?really don’t feel like dealing with my father and his exhausting little speeches.”

“Well, you know what they say—a good fuck a day keeps the breakdown away. Let me go find Jonathan for you,” she said, slipping her arm out of mine and taking a few steps ahead.

A low groan came from behind me—rough, faint, but very much real.

“Yeah, maybe. I just?…?want food. Like immediately . I’m starving. Literally dying.”

I didn’t wait for her answer. I grabbed her wrist and practically speed-walked us toward the dining table, where guests were already sipping overpriced wine and pretending to enjoy themselves.

My father gave us a nod as we walked in, and we sat just as the butlers started circling like vultures in white gloves, placing food on the table like it was the Last Supper.

I started talking to Victoria about where we should run away for our next summer vacation. My label had graciously postponed my tour, which they claimed was due to some dramatic “divergence” between shareholders and budget approvals.

Translation: The money men weren’t happy and blamed the setlist.

Whatever.

It was supposed to be a mini tour anyway, just a few cities, nothing wild. But apparently it was too expensive for something so “small scale.” Boo hoo .

Honestly, I didn’t really care.

Victoria popped a shrimp into her mouth, then leaned toward me with a smug little grin. “What did you do to LeRoy? He looks like he wants to murder someone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger scowl on his face.”

I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. My cheeks were already burning, and I could feel his eyes on me.

“I may have broken his blender this morning,” I muttered, grabbing the closest champagne glass and draining half of it. “The noise was making me homicidal. He’s been pissed ever since.” A lie.

We hadn’t spoken since yesterday. Not properly.

There was so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted to ask. I had a thousand questions clawing at my throat.

I wanted every secret he kept. Every filthy little truth. I wanted to carve them into my brain and make them mine. I wanted to know if he felt it too—that pull. That sick, breathless ache that made it impossible to want anyone else.

This afternoon, before I could even drag myself out of bed, Victoria had barged into my room in her pajamas, ranting about her investor fling, the one with veneers.

Apparently, he’d blocked her on every platform after she’d told him she wasn’t going on their date because he hadn’t booked the best restaurant in New York.

So now she was single, offended, and very much in denial.

And I was frustrated.

The kind of frustration that sat low in my stomach and pulsed behind my thighs. The man I needed to talk to stood on the other side of the room. Watching.

And I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it. Because he was my bodyguard.

Dinner passed in a blur of expensive wine, hollow compliments, and forced laughter. I smiled when I needed to. Laughed when expected. But the only thing I could feel was the weight of his stare on the side of my face.

Eventually, we moved to the ballroom. The pianist was already waiting, seated at the glossy-black baby grand. The guests filed into the red velvet chairs, murmuring and sipping champagne.

I walked to the mic slowly, hips swaying. Not because I was nervous, but because I wanted him to watch.

My dress was a deep-red velvet, the same shade as my hair. Strapless. Tight. A slit high enough to flash the top of my thigh with every step. I’d chosen it for a reason. It was the kind of dress that made men stare and women whisper.

“Good evening, everyone.”

Applause. A few whistles.

My eyes found him instantly. He was standing at the back, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Grey eyes burning.

The pianist played a soft, slow opening in low notes.

I wrapped my fingers around the mic stand.

“Allow me to reintroduce myself tonight,” I said, my voice smooth. “I’m Scarlett Harper. And the song I’m about to sing hasn’t been released yet. I wrote it recently?…?for someone very, very special to me.”

My fingers slid higher on the mic. My lips barely touched it.

“It’s called ‘Sinful Desires.’”

Applause rose again as I nodded to my pianist, signaling I was ready. The lights turned off, leaving only one on me.

I’d written this song the night we got home from the club. The night he had finally kissed me.

I closed my eyes, nails trailing softly over the mic, and let the music pull me under.

Then I sang.

Velvet lips, blood in the champagne

Kissed me slow just to forget my name

Touched like hunger, stitched in skin

Left bruises blooming under porcelain

Mirror cracked, lipstick smeared

Diamonds choke where truth appeared

He says I taste like the end of grace

So he keeps coming back to beg for a taste

Sinful desires, dressed in black

Velvet tongue and a gun in my back

The lights are mine, but the bruise is yours

You broke in quiet, but you kicked through doors

I opened my eyes slowly, lips still parted from the last note, letting the silence wrap around me.

All eyes were on me, but I only cared about his.

He was standing near the window now, half in shadow, thumb brushing across his lower lip.

And I kept singing like I wanted him to pull me offstage and make me moan the rest of the lyrics into his mouth.

I closed my eyes again.

He drinks my secrets from crystal glass

I come undone while the cameras flash

Sinful desires, red-lit fire

We don’t kiss, no, we conspire

We’re not soft, we’re not pure

We’re the kind of ache that has no cure

Say my name like it’s your sin

And I’ll say it back while I kiss you again

The last note slipped out breathily from my lips just as the applause erupted.

I opened my eyes, blinking against the lights as the room lit up again, flashes of gold and crystal catching in my lashes.

Everyone was on their feet, clapping loudly as I walked off the stage.

A butler announced that dessert was served, and the room began to shift. A few people came up to me, shaking my hand, telling me this was the hottest song I’d ever written. That I was beautiful tonight. That my voice was unreal. That I had to release it.

I smiled. Thanked them.

And when the last person had finally left, and my pianist gave a polite bow before disappearing into the hall—I exhaled. Fully.

I moved toward the door, fingers curling around the handle.

I shut the door with a soft click, turned the key, and locked it. Then I turned off the lights. The room fell into darkness, except for one thing. A single spotlight, left on from rehearsal, lit the center of the stage.

I leaned back against the golden double doors, hands tucked behind me.

Théo stayed still, his back to me, staring out the window.

“So?…?what’d you think, soldier?”

A pause.

“Jonathan Peers is a lucky bastard.”

My brows pulled together as he finally turned, back now pressed to the window.

“Jonathan?” I blinked, honestly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you wanted to fuck him. Thought maybe you’d serenade him too.” His voice was flat, but his eyes weren’t.

Ah. There it was.

Jealousy .

Cold, vicious, and curling at the edges of every word.

I turned, heels clicking as I walked slowly back to where I’d stood before. The spotlight caught me again, waiting right where I’d left it. I stopped in front of the mic, dragging my hand down the stand.

I glanced over my shoulder, lips curling. “You think I’d sing all that for?…?Jonathan?”