Page 49 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

“She let the jealousy slip out of her fingertips.”

― Jodi Lynn Anderson

Scarlett

The fire crackled under the wood, smoke curling up into the dark, the sand still warm under my feet.

I took another long gulp of the homemade strawberry lemonade and sank deeper into the towel.

The hem of my dress was damp from the ocean. My hair smelled like sea salt.

Nicholas was focused on not burning the marshmallows, a task he suspiciously perfected almost immediately. He handed a perfectly golden one to Liya like it was a gift and turned to Pierre, her assistant, with the same grin.

“You want one too? I’m in a generous mood.”

We’d been out here for two hours. Laughing. Eating. Pretending our collective trauma counted as bonding. The kind of conversation that danced between fame and failure and who we had been before it all got ruined.

Pierre brought up astrology, and that derailed everything in the best way.

“I never asked what you are, sunshine,” Nicholas said, handing me a s’more with marshmallow practically melting through the cracker. “My guess? Chaotic fire sign energy. Maybe Leo. You give Leo.”

Before I could answer, Liya held up her hand like she was calling a séance. “Wait. Let me guess. Bold. Stubborn. Disgustingly talented. A little unhinged?…?an Aquarius!”

I gasped and leaned forward. “Yes! God, you’re good at this. Are you psychic, or do I just scream delusional and detached?”

She laughed with a mouthful of chocolate, biting into the s’more.

“I love astrology. I could spend hours reading about stars and orbits and retrogrades. Everything’s a pattern if you look hard enough.”

I stared into the fire, wondering if that were true. Wondering what part of me still followed any kind of pattern.

Pierre cracked open a beer with his teeth and wiped the top with his hoodie sleeve.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, licking marshmallow off his thumb like he was on camera. “All right, star witch. Guess mine.”

Liya narrowed her eyes at him, chewing dramatically as if it gave her clarity.

“Hmm?… You’re loud . You love attention. You’re kind. You cry when people don’t clap loud enough. Leo.”

He gasped like she’d slapped him. “Excuse me, I have depth.”

“Sure,” she said, smirking. “Deep insecurity.”

Pierre choked on his beer, and I bit into my s’more, trying not to laugh as chocolate smeared across my mouth.

Nicholas turned to me, hand on his heart. “Sunshine, back me up. You’ve known me longer. What do you think?”

I tilted my head, dramatic and slow, eyeing him.

“You’re charming, theatrical, flirty to the point of being annoying, loyal when it suits you, and petty in a way that should honestly be studied.”

He grinned. “So?…”

I popped a piece of graham cracker into my mouth. “Libra sun, Gemini moon, Scorpio rising.”

Liya cackled. “Oh, that is filthy .”

He blinked. “That’s offensive.”

“That’s accurate,” I said, licking chocolate off my thumb. “You probably flirted with the doctor who delivered you.”

“I was told I held eye contact.”

Pierre snorted.

I leaned back on my hands, looking at the stars, the warmth of the fire tickling my legs. For a second, it was easy to forget the rest. The cameras. The headlines. The bruises no one could see.

Just this. Firelight and teasing and a sky that didn’t care who I was.

“I’m glad you were found innocent in the whole Luke Conrad thing,” Liya said, her voice lower now, her smile sad. “I knew him. We hosted SNL together once. He was an angel, but drugs were his favorite kind of hell.”

I didn’t answer right away. There was something sharp and shapeless in my throat, something that didn’t want to be swallowed.

The trial had lasted four months while I rotted in rehab, being detoxed from everything except grief.

The Conrad Family vs Superstar Scarlett Harper.

That was the headline.

My father, with his usual sleight of hand, conjured footage of Luke buying pills and powder from a dealer on Skid Row—same day, same city, hours before he died two feet from where I had passed out.

The doctors found every drug in the room swimming in his blood. No bruises. No restraint. No forced hands.

He’d taken them willingly.

That was the word they’d used. Willingly .

I was found not guilty.

The law let me go.

But my label still threw money at their wound. One million dollars to his parents. A quiet settlement. A polished ending to a story that was anything but clean.

And then his mother had written to me. A letter I still kept in a drawer I didn’t open.

She said she didn’t blame me.

Said she forgave me.

Said she hoped I’d heal.

I’d read it once. Sobbed until my lungs gave out. The doctors had doubled my morphine to keep me from choking on it.

“Thank you, Liya,” I said, voice low. “If you’re not surrounded by people who give a fuck about more than your paycheck, this industry will chew you up and spit you out before you know you’re bleeding.”

Nicholas raised his beer to the night. “Amen.”

The conversation drifted back to war stories.

Red carpets. Wardrobe malfunctions. Who’d pissed themselves mid-award show.

We argued about which city had the worst paparazzi—Liya swore it was LA, and I didn’t even bother to fight her on it.

She was right. They didn’t care if you were smiling or sobbing, just that the flash caught it.

Then the stories slowed. The fire burned lower. Someone put their bottle down.

Silence folded around us like warm linen. Only the waves kept speaking. Soft, steady, dragging themselves across the shore.

Liya hummed, a slow sound that immediately set off alarms in my head. Her eyes flicked behind me.

“God, Scarlett, I don’t know how you do it.”

I frowned, wiping my fingers on the edge of the towel. “Do what?”

Nicholas chuckled, cocking his chin toward the beach. “Turn around.”

I looked over my shoulder, eyes squinting into the dark until the moon caught him in pieces. A slow reveal. Shadow, then body. Then him.

Théo.

Oh, God .

He moved up the sand, sweat running down his skin in thick, glistening lines. His tank was soaked, clinging to his chest, sticking to every inch of hard muscle. His arms were massive, tense, veined, shoulders glinting under the moonlight. Veins pumped down to his wrists.

His breathing was shallow, tight, his chest rising with a rough rhythm that made something tighten between my legs.

His thighs strained under the shorts. The waistband dipped low, wet fabric pulling against the lines of his hips. Sweat pearled down his neck, disappearing beneath that fucking gold chain stretched over his collarbones.

His mouth was parted, jaw tight, face unreadable. His hair was damp, dark curls sticking to his forehead, around his ears, wild and perfect.

The sight punched me straight in the lungs.

I turned back quickly, heart hammering, throat tight. I grabbed my lemonade and chugged it like it could cool the burn crawling up my spine.

“Jesus Christ,” Liya whispered, fanning herself. “I cannot believe that man is real. He looks like a walking fuck fantasy.”

Pierre, quiet almost all damn night, suddenly came alive. “I’d pay money for him to ride my face.”

Nicholas burst out laughing.

I said nothing.

My teeth were deep in my cheek. The taste of metal hit my tongue.

My chest tightened with the kind of jealousy that begged for blood.

“Liya, tell him to come sit with us,” Nicholas said, focused on his marshmallows like this wasn’t warfare. “Could be your chance to flirt with him a bit.”

I shot daggers at him, but he didn’t look up. Too busy laughing to notice the way I was seconds from snapping the stick in half and jamming it through his neck.

I opened my mouth, ready to say this was a bad idea. That Théo didn’t like games or attention or noise.

But nothing came out. Because the second he jogged past us, Liya stood.

He was soaked, the tank top plastered to his chest. Sweat dripped off him like his body was begging to be bitten. Every inch of him looked hard, dangerous, and oh, so fuckable.

His chest was still rising too fast, his breathing rough.

“Would you like to join us?” Liya asked, gesturing toward the empty spot on her towel. “We’re playing a drinking game.”

“Yes, LeRoy, please do,” Nicholas added, biting into a cracker. “I’ve got so many questions.”

He handed me a s’more.

I ripped it from his fingers and shoved it in my mouth, burning the roof instantly.

Grabbing the nearest bottle, I chugged it, the water sliding down my throat as fast as the heat spread through my chest.

He was going to say no.He always did.

This wasn’t his thing—fun, crowds, strangers, attention.

“Sure.”

I almost choked.

He sat. Right fucking there. Between Liya and Pierre.

He grabbed his own bottle of water, twisting the cap and drinking, his eyes on me the whole time.

Liya giggled, her legs tucked beneath her, licking chocolate off her thumb.

Pierre leaned closer, looking at him like dessert.

Nicholas finally settled next to me and nudged my knee with his.

“Let’s play Never Have I Ever. If you have, you drink. If you haven’t?…?well, too bad.”

I didn’t hear the rest.

I was too busy staring at Théo’s shoulders, watching the drops of sweat sliding down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

Every single cell in my body screamed mine .

“Okay,” Pierre said, grinning as he leaned back on his elbows. “Never have I ever had sex on the beach.”

They all laughed before lifting their drinks and knocking them back.

Théo’s gaze flicked toward me for half a second, then dropped to the fire.

Liya nudged him with her knee, brows lifted. “Wait. You’ve never?”

He shook his head once. Barely.

Nicholas snorted into his beer. “You’re not missing much. Sand in your ass crack, your mouth, under your balls, it’s a fucking exfoliation nightmare.”

Pierre cackled, pointing at his eye. “I got sand in my eye once. Mid-thrust. Had to go to the ER.”

They kept laughing.

I didn’t.

I watched Théo’s hand wrap tighter around the bottle, knuckles pale, veins rising.