Page 12 of Trained In Sin

Seb

I check my watch and smile, before looking out of the window of my town car. I've switched things up today. Not at all driven by Saphy's ability to recognise my other vehicles.

Both of my gifts have arrived already. Dave, the security guard who works at Hartwell, had a ‘sudden’ win on the horses and has gone on a last minute cruise.

How fortunate that I had a security guard in my employ who was able to take his place.

One quick call to the agency Hartwell uses and he was in the door.

Naturally, he’s been reporting back to me and told me about Saphy keeping the book but throwing out the flowers.

Revealing my hand early may have been a mistake.

I made it deliberately obvious I'd been in her home, but I know she must've had doubts.

To confirm I had been, this early, was risky.

But I hadn't got to where I am in life without risk.

Which is exactly why I'd planned my next gesture with precision.

"On the left, just up the street from the building," I tell my driver.

I've not brought Matthew with me this time.

I know he'll attempt to dissuade me. Matthew is perhaps the closest thing to a friend, but he has a streak of morality that isn't needed for what I want to do. My driver does as instructed.

"Wait for four minutes. Drive away. Then be here to collect me in half an hour," I say, watching as he nods in the internal mirror.

I pull out my leather gloves and slip them on.

This is the first time I'll be using them for anything other than violence.

I leave the car, and carefully keeping my head down, I walk toward Saphy's building.

I already had tech check for CCTV in the area when I visited her the other day, and there is none.

The thought irritates me. The thought of Saphy being somewhere so insecure, so easily accessible.

It has its advantages to me, sure. But that also means others can get to her too.

I slowly walk around the building, until I reach the window I know is hers.

Pulling the pen knife out of my pocket, I have the window open within seconds and quietly hoist myself into her front room.

I breathe in. It smells so wonderfully of her.

The scent of her strengthens my resolve.

This woman is mine. I slowly walk around her room, running my hands along the top of her sofa.

The small details tell me more than I'd ever imagined.

The cushions arranged meticulously. I see she's put them back since I moved them the other day.

The small but precise arrangement of candles and a framed photo on her coffee table.

Arranged perfectly to make the space seem homely, without cluttering.

I pick the frame up and look at the photo, and I start to feel that familiar anger bubble up in me.

It's a photo of her and Damon, on the beach.

They're both smiling, his arm around her waist, her head tilted toward him with that genuine happiness I've not yet been allowed to witness.

The kind of unguarded joy she's never shown me.

She's wearing a simple white dress that the wind has caught, and her hair is loose, natural.

Beautiful. He looks so fucking ordinary standing next to her.

Generic polo shirt, khaki shorts, the kind of forgettable face that belongs in a crowd.

What does she see in him? What does he offer that I can't provide a thousand times over?

I open the back of the frame and slide the photo out, ripping it in half. The side with Damon in, I slide into my pocket to pass to Matthew. The side with Saphy in, I gently replace before setting the frame back on the table .

Moving through her space, I'm struck by how much it reveals about her.

The books on her shelves are organised by author, not just genre, which is further evidence of a methodical mind that craves order.

Classics mixed with contemporary novels, some worn with re-reading, others pristine. She has taste, intelligence.

This is the real Saphy, not the guarded woman I met at Pulse or the nervous professional from her office. This is her private self, the version she shares with no one except, my jaw tightens, Damon.

I move to her kitchen, opening cupboards with practiced silence. Even here, there's order: matching plates, glasses arranged by size, spices alphabetised. Her current lifestyle doesn't reflect the luxury she deserves.

The bedroom calls to me, and I follow that pull despite knowing it's dangerous territory.

Her bed is perfectly made, pillows arranged with hotel precision.

The bedside table holds the Jane Eyre I'd seen before, my inspiration for today's gift, along with a small lamp, a glass of water, and a notebook.

I flip it open, finding lists written in her careful handwriting.

Grocery items, work tasks, random thoughts and observations.

Nothing personal enough to be truly invasive, but intimate nonetheless.

I sit on her bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and for a moment I just absorb the reality of being in her most private space. Her scent lingers everywhere, that subtle perfume mixed with something uniquely her. It's intoxicating in a way that threatens my carefully maintained control.

In a moment of complete madness, I reach for her pillow and press it to my face, breathing deeply.

The smell of her shampoo, her skin, the faint trace of sleep, it hits me like a drug making me hard in an instant.

I lean back against her headboard, the pillow clutched against my chest, and let myself imagine what it would be like if she were here.

My eyes drift closed, and suddenly she is here. Straddling my lap, her dark hair falling like a curtain around us, skin flushed and warm beneath my hands. There’s both fear and desire in her eyes, no hesitation. They match my own, raw and desperate.

"I've been thinking about you," she whispers against my ear, her voice breathless. "About this. About us."

Her lips find that sensitive spot below my jaw, and I groan at the sensation.

She's so responsive arching into my touch as my hands map every curve.

When I grip her waist, possessive, claiming, she doesn't pull away.

Instead, she rocks against me, soft sounds escaping her throat that drive me to the edge of madness.

"Sebastian," she breathes, and hearing my name from her lips in this moment nearly undoes me completely.

I lose myself in the perfect give and take of bodies that know exactly what the other needs.

She's everything I've imagined and more.

Fierce, passionate, completely surrendered to what we could have together.

When she throws her head back, eyes closed in bliss, whispering my name like a prayer, I can't hold back anymore.

Reality crashes back as I climax with her pillow pressed against me. At some point I’ve taken my cock out of my trousers and for a moment, I'm suspended between the dream and the truth, between having her completely and having nothing at all.

Then I look down and see what I've done. The evidence of my complete loss of control staining her pillowcase.

Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? I strip the pillowcase off carefully, bundling it into my jacket pocket, mentally scolding myself. I need to get some control, I’m behaving like a teenaged boy for fuck sake.

I check my watch. Fifteen minutes have passed. I’m here because I want to know her, in a way she is refusing to let me. I want to see what she eats, what she watches, where she sits and sleeps and bathes. I want to know her.

I’m moving from the bedroom to the living room, when I hear the distinctive sound of keys at the front door.

Fuck.

I check my watch. She shouldn't be home for a while. She normally stops at the express shop on the way home.

The keys rattle again, closer now. I have perhaps thirty seconds before she's inside. The window is my only exit, but it's visible from the main room. If she comes straight in, she'll see me climbing out.

I move quickly but silently toward the bedroom window, praying it opens as easily as the front room's. The keys stop rattling. The front door opens.

"Hello?" Her voice carries through the flat, tentative and afraid. "Is someone here?"

I freeze. She knows. Somehow, she sensed something was wrong the moment she entered. Smart girl. Too smart for her own good.

Her footsteps move through the front room. I hear her checking locks, moving objects. Looking for signs of intrusion. The bedroom window slides open quietly, and I ease one leg through .

"I know someone's been here," she calls out, her voice stronger now. "I can feel it."

Another few seconds and I'm through, dropping silently to the small garden behind her building. I land in a crouch, immediately moving toward the street where my car should be waiting.

My car is waiting as instructed. I slide into the back seat, removing my gloves with steady hands.

"Back to Syren," I tell the driver.

As we pull away, I smile to myself. Each time I do this, I learn more and more about her.

My phone buzzes with a text from Matthew: "Wilson's been calling. Needs to meet tonight about the planning commission."

I ignore it. Business can wait. I know I’m pushing heavy boundaries here, driving Saphy to fear and uncertainty.

But fear and uncertainty are tools I understand. They create dependency, the need for protection, for someone strong enough to make the bad things go away. She doesn't realise it yet, but every moment of fear I create brings her closer to accepting what we both know is inevitable.

She'll fight it, of course. Her pride, her attachment to that mundane life she's built with Damon, her naive belief that she can simply refuse what I'm offering.

But everyone has a breaking point. Everyone can be brought to heel with the right combination of pressure and incentive. Doing this, helps me find that point.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a call from Gordon .

"Seb," he says when I answer, his voice strained. "We need to talk. Something's happened at Hartwell."

"What kind of something?"

"The riverside development project, they've moved the timeline up. Board meeting tomorrow to discuss acquisition parameters. They're fast tracking everything."

I lean forward, suddenly focused. "Why the rush?"

"Rumours about competing bids. Someone's been sniffing around the same properties we're targeting." Gordon pauses. "There's something else. Ms Jenkins. She's been assigned to the preliminary research team. She'll be in that meeting tomorrow."

The convergence is perfect. Business and personal interest aligning in ways I couldn't have orchestrated better myself.

"Gordon, I need you to make sure Ms. Jenkins understands the importance of that meeting. The need for absolute discretion about what's discussed."

"Seb, I can't…."

"You can and you will. Consider it part of for your continued employment." I end the call before he can protest further.

I wonder what she’s doing right now. She’ll know it was me in her home, invading her privacy. Perhaps she secretly wishes she could’ve seen me there.

She'll get her wish sooner than she thinks.

Tomorrow's meeting will provide the perfect opportunity to remind her that our worlds are more connected than she realises.

That fighting what we have is not only futile, but potentially costly to everything she's worked for.

I settle back into the leather seat, already planning my next move.

Tomorrows meeting will remind her that I hold more power over her professional life than she ever imagined.

Whether she accepts it willingly or not, Sapphire Jenkins is about to become a permanent part of my world. The only question is how much she'll fight the inevitable, and how much persuasion she'll require to see reason.

And Saphy is going to be the conquest of a lifetime.