Page 43 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Thirty-Three

“Man may have discovered fire, but women discovered how to play with it.”

― Candace Bushnell

Scarlett

Self-loathing crawled up my throat like bile, bitter and burning, but sharper. Worse .

It sat on my tongue, hot and metallic, as I watched him disappear down that dark hallway behind a stripper I’d paid thirty-five thousand fucking dollars for.

He hadn’t even looked back. Not once. No wink. No smug thank you.

His eyes had been glued to me all night, like I was the only thing he could see, like breathing me in was a fucking necessity. But now? Gone. Off to get his cock worshipped by some blonde with dead eyes and a baby voice.

I should’ve felt satisfied. I’d made my point.

He said I was the only one, and I’d handed him a test he’d failed without flinching. Liar. Just another man who said pretty things to get close and then went exactly where he was told not to.

But I didn’t feel victorious. I felt like I wanted to throw up. I wanted to crawl into the corner of that grimy club, curl up on the sticky floor, and sob my heart out.

I tossed back the rest of my virgin mojito and hated myself more for it. I couldn’t even drink, couldn’t even dull the edge that kept cutting deeper. Sobriety was supposed to give me clarity, but all it gave me was a front-row seat to my own humiliation.

“You know,” Victoria hiccupped, pressing against my side, “you’re the best boss a man could ever dream of. Buying a two-hour lap dance? Iconic.”

“A very generous boss,” Nicholas slurred, downing another shot and nearly missing his mouth. He was pale now. Really pale. Drunk as hell and teetering like one push would finish the job.

“Yeah! Generous!” Victoria giggled as a new stripper strutted out dressed like a cop.

A sheer bra, a plastic badge, a micro skirt that barely counted as a napkin. Handcuffs spun in her fingers while that awful siren sound blasted through the speakers.

My skin was damp with sweat. I could feel it rolling down my back as my gaze flicked toward the hallway again.

Ten minutes. He’d been gone for ten fucking minutes.

Nicholas groaned. The stripper shoved him into the booth and slapped the cuffs on.

“I’m gonna—” he whispered.

I stood up. “I need a cigarette.”

“You said you quit,” Victoria blinked.

“I did,” I lied. “I just need?…?air. Or space. Or both.”

“Okay, well let me come with you?—”

“No!” Too fast. Too loud. I caught myself and tried to fix it. “I mean, Nicholas is about to puke, and he’ll need you to hold his hair or his hand or whatever.”

“Vic,” Nicholas moaned. “I think I—” He didn’t finish. He gagged, then painted the stripper’s thighs with tequila and regret. She shrieked like he’d stabbed her. Victoria screamed louder.

I turned, walking out quickly. Let them clean up their mess. I had my own, and it was already eating me alive.

As I stormed down the same hallway he’d vanished into, the pink lights washed everything in a soft, pornographic glow, which felt fitting since my heart was somewhere in my heels and I was two seconds from losing the last of my dignity.

The music shifted to something slow and moaning. Of course it did.

My brain was already painting the scene in high definition: Him, legs spread, head tilted back, the blonde grinding against him, tits in his face, her fingernails on his chest. I could practically hear him grunt.

I wanted to scream. Or slap myself. Or both.

I braced myself, heartbeat crawling up my throat, already tasting bile. There were three doors. Just three. One of them held the heartache I’d paid for.

My hand trembled around the first knob. I pushed it open and instantly regretted it. Two strippers dressed as anime twins were taking turns whipping a man on all fours whose boxers were around his ankles, his stomach folding onto the floor. There was a leash. There were sound effects.

I didn’t even blink.

I just closed the door like it’d burned me and whispered, “Nope. Therapy’s expensive.”

I turned and tried the door across the hall. Inside, a woman in a full pencil skirt and heels was sipping red wine while a stripper in a silk dress danced to Beethoven. I stood there for a full second like my brain needed time to reboot.

I shut the door again and pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to erase whatever the hell that was from my memory. For three straight minutes, I’d seen more depravity than my entire time in rehab.

Okay. Third time’s the charm.

Sweat prickled down my spine, my heels throbbed, but it was my soul that felt bruised raw.

I yanked the last door open, heart already in my throat, and stepped inside before my pride could catch up, closing it behind me. Pressing my back to it, my breath stuck somewhere in my chest.

And what I saw? It wasn’t what I had expected. Not even close. A heavy breath clawed its way out of my lungs.

Théo stood stiffly, back to me, haloed by city light like a fallen angel. The room smelled of perfume and sweat, but he stood untouched.

Pristine. Fully dressed. Alone .

Not a wrinkle on him, not a mark. No lipstick on his neck, no guilt on his skin. Thirty-five fucking thousand down the drain.

Thank God.

A bitter laugh scraped my throat raw. “What happened, soldier? Couldn’t get it up? Or was she not into brooding, lying psychos with attachment issues?”

No answer. Not even a twitch.

I pushed off the door. “Tell me, did you really waste two hours of paid tits and fake moans just to brood in front of some glass? Jesus. I didn’t know PTSD now stood for Pathetic Théo’s Soft Dick.”

His jaw shifted. A tick. Just enough to know I’d hit it. Good.

I wanted him to snap. To fight back. To hurt me the way I needed him to, so I could finally stop aching for the man I used to believe in.

“You know,” I murmured, each step deliberate, hips swaying more than they needed to, “if you needed a warm-up, I could’ve helped. I’m really good with my mouth. Especially when I’m angry.”

The lights were low, walls dark, a black velvet sofa sitting in the middle. A chandelier glowed soft and gold above us.

He turned slowly and leaned against the window, arms crossed. Grey eyes unreadable, but darker than ever before. “Didn’t know you were giving lessons now, Miss Harper.”

I smiled. “Only for the hopeless cases.”

“Then maybe you should apply for a position here. You’ve got the mouth for it, the tits for it, and that fucked-up little craving for a spotlight. Only thing missing is a price tag pinned between your pretty legs.”

The shame twisted under my skin, but it wasn’t shame for me . It was shame for still wanting him , for still feeling that pull between my thighs when he looked at me like I was something disgusting he wanted to throw away.

I flinched. Just barely. But his eyes caught it. And for half a second—half of a goddamn second—his mouth parted like he was going to take it back.

He didn’t.

I dropped onto the velvet sofa, legs crossed. “Maybe I should. My voice won’t last forever. Might as well put the rest of me to good use while it’s still worth paying for.”

He turned back toward the window, his height towering, his head nearly kissing the top of the frame. Broad as ever. Broader, even. Like he’d spent the last year punishing himself in the gym, building a body big enough to carry all his lies.

“Thought you didn’t like to make your boyfriends wait.”

For a second, I frowned. My lashes dipped. Right?…? Nicholas .

“He left. Puked his guts out after one too many drinks.”

Théo hummed lowly, like it amused him. “Big man you got there.”

My eyes threw daggers at his back. “He may not be tall, but at least he’s not a sneaky little liar.” I stood quickly, eyes already on the door like it was the only way I’d survive another second in that room.

The ache in my lungs had started to fade the moment I’d seen him alone. It made me fucking sick. That just knowing he hadn’t let anyone else touch him had made something in my chest loosen. Made my pulse slow. Like peace was ever his to give me.

I wanted to claw it out of myself.

I needed to get out before the rage softened. Before the hatred keeping me alive gave way to whatever was still rotting inside me. I needed to leave. Now .

Before I started hoping again.

“Oh, but he is.”

I froze, hand still on the doorknob.

“I wonder what the press will say,” he said, “when they find out America’s broken little sweetheart is fake-dating a man who’d rather choke on cock than touch her.”

The words landed like a punch straight to my gut, my stomach sinking to my heels. How the fuck did he know?

“Tech’s a fucking beautiful thing,” he continued, tone cruelly amused.

“Took me just less than five minutes. Pulled up his IP. Tapped a feed. Found a certain Matthew in sweatpants, screaming at two cats under a rainbow flag and a framed photo of him making out with your supposed boyfriend in Rio. Cute place. Maybe a honeymoon.”

I didn’t turn around. Not yet. Just let the silence burn between us until it curled beneath my skin and made my teeth ache.

“Also,” he added with venom, “tell your little PR prince that lying about his height is useless. Guy’s barely five-nine on a good day.”

My jaw clenched. “At least he lies to the world, not to me.” I turned slowly, spine stiff as it met the door again. “Which I guess is something you wouldn’t understand, soldier.”

He wouldn’t get it.

Not how it felt to wake up every fucking morning with a new IV taped to my arm, the sting still fresh, a nurse smiling like a saint while pumping me full of chemicals that made me forget who I was.

Not how my heart had kept breaking in quieter ways, splinter by splinter, until I couldn’t tell what hurt more: the silence, or the fact that no one had come to save me.

He wouldn’t understand how obeying my father was the only way I could’ve made it out of that place without ending up sedated, strapped down, or worse—dead.

How survival had come with a price.

And I’d paid it. Every goddamn day.

“Why did you come in here, Miss Harper? Jealous I’d let someone else sit on my cock?”