Page 4 of The Sinner’s Desire (The Sinner’s Touch #1)

The Next Day

“So . . . he said yes?” my best friend asks.

“When you say it like that, Martina, I feel like I’m two years old. Ethan didn’t need to let me go. I just needed his support.”

“Lilly, be real. I’ve got four brothers, and I’m the baby. To them, we’ll always be little kids.”

We’re on our way to a classmate’s party—which I’m sort of treating as a farewell, even though barely anyone knows I’m leaving.

Truth is, I don’t have many friends. Martina was kind of a “gift” from Ethan.

“You can’t really compare your life to mine,” I say. “Your mom let you be free to explore. Isabel is the best mother in the world, by the way. Do you even realize how lucky you are?”

“Oh, I do. She’s amazing. But believe me, every male member of my family—and their friends—spy on me. You think it’s a coincidence that your brother Ethan and my brother Rafe introduced us? They killed two birds with one stone. When we’re together, they can cut the number of bodyguards in half.”

I start laughing because I can totally picture our brothers coming up with that kind of plan.

“I’m serious, Lilly. There’s a car following us right now, you know. Or are you na?ve enough to think it’s just the driver and the bodyguard up front?”

I glance at the rearview mirror and catch my Paris driver staring at me. He quickly looks away, embarrassed—and I think she’s right. Our brothers give us the illusion of freedom, but we’re always being watched.

“I’m going to Boston to claim my freedom.”

“More like whisper it,” she teases.

“You’re insane, Martina Oviedo.”

“I’m honest, sister Lilly ,” she says, batting her lashes like the drama queen she is.

“You’re insane and annoying. You know perfectly well I was never a nun.”

“Barely. You almost lived there forever. And you’re still a virgin.”

“Says the expert.”

“In my imagination, I’m a total freak,” she grins. I think I even hear the security guy up front stifle a laugh.

“Shhh, you crazy. They heard you.”

“Lilly, just because we’re not having sex doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it.”

Martina and I exchange looks, a kind of silent competition for the most awkward smile, both clearly thinking the same thing: How do we get out of this trainwreck without drawing attention?

Everyone’s drunk. Loud. Gropey. The only thing I can think about is saying goodbye to the girl who invited me and bolting out the door.

When we arrived, it looked like a normal party—at least, as normal as the frat parties I’ve seen in movies. I’ve never actually been to one.

Martina has, and at first, she even looked like she was having fun.

Half an hour in, what was funny became annoying.

People bumping into us, guys reeking of beer trying to drag us onto the dance floor .

. . and then, to top it off, someone suggested a “truth or dare” game.

You get picked to answer a super personal question, and if you refuse, you’re punished.

Usually by taking a shot or kissing someone.

It was easy for Martina. She’s engaged to an actual prince, so being off-limits gave her a free pass.

Me? I used the excuse that I’d never played and would just watch a few rounds.

At first, I’ll admit, it was kind of funny. But then they decided to switch to strip poker—which sealed the deal. We were leaving.

“I have to pee first,” she says as we slip out of the main room.

The hallway’s packed. Honestly, the whole apartment reeks of alcohol.

Sure, I didn’t love spending my entire teenage life in a convent school, but this? This is way over the line for me.

“We should’ve gone to Café Constant for dinner instead, Lilly. By now we’d be full, laughing, and—bonus—nowhere near a bunch of drunk idiots.”

“I think we were born old, Martina.”

“Well, there’s a bright side: I got plot ideas for like three new books from this mess of a party.” Martina writes romance novels—and she’s good. She uses a pen name so her family and her fiancé’s family won’t find out, since her books are full of steamy scenes.

“Dark romance plots, you mean? Because we’ve seen everything but love tonight.”

“Please, I can turn any lemon into lemonade. I’m starting a whole series about douchebag frat boys—based on tonight’s cast of characters.”

“ Fallen frat boys?” I smirk.

“Would so work as a title,” she laughs.

“Who’s going to use the bathroom first?” I ask when we reach what looks like a powder room.

“Oh, come on, Lilly. This shy pee thing of yours is ridiculous. But since you’re the modest one, guess you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

Martina has barely shut the door when a guy who looks like a literal wall of muscle walks up to me.

I force a weak smile even though I’d rather disappear—because I know who he is: the host’s brother, Bastien.

A womanizing rugby player who invited me to “see his room” after about five minutes of conversation earlier.

“Hey, Lillyana,” he says. His French accent would be cute if it wasn’t soaked in whiskey breath.

“Hey,” I mutter, glancing behind me, silently begging Martina to come out.

“So . . . you finally decided to take me up on that offer?”

“What?”

“To check out my room. Why else would you come down this hallway?”

“My friend’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh, that’s adorable. Look, you don’t have to play coy. I know you’re into me too.”

“I’m really not. Back off.” I push at his chest as he leans down, trying to kiss me, but it’s useless. He doesn’t even budge. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist.

“Let her go, you giant!” Martina bursts out of the bathroom, yelling.

“Two of you? No problem. I can handle it.” He’s totally wasted, but that doesn’t excuse being a total jerk.

“Let me go.”

“You heard her,” Martina snaps. “Let go of my friend or you’ll regret it.”

For a second, I wonder if she’s drunk too. There’s no way we’re fighting off a guy that size.

“Martina, go get help,” I plead as he starts kissing my neck.

She vanishes for a moment, then reappears and says, “No need for help. Duck, Lilly. I’m gonna save you.”

I can’t believe I listen—but I duck anyway.

I hear a hiss, like aerosol spraying, and Bastien lets go, cursing up a storm.

“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“What did you do?” I ask, still dazed.

“I sprayed shaving cream in his face. Pretty sure it got in his eyes.”

“Oh my God, you’re insane.”

“No. I’m good at improvising.”