[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin Read online

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  I’m not sure which rattles me more—the way his voice deepens on the word anything or the way his eyes gleam when he says need.

  “No,” I say cheerfully. “I’m good. Please finish your lunch.” And get out of here as fast as you can.

  He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to bend to my silent wishes, however. Though I gobble down the rest of my food—in hunger and in anxiety—he continues to take his time. And in spite of my best efforts, I continue to find my gaze drawn back to him. It’s as if my eyes can’t get enough of him. As if they’re afraid he’ll disappear from my life again if I blink.

  What a stupid notion.

  Just when I’ve convinced myself that I’m the biggest glutton for punishment that ever existed, he glances over, his eyes connecting with mine.

  My stomach seizes. I want to look away, but I can’t. His gaze holds a promise that I’m afraid to believe.

  “It’s rude to stare,” I say shortly.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  I don’t have a response to that, but thankfully, he looks away. He sets his food on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling.

  “You haven’t fixed that crack yet,” he murmurs.

  My ears burn as the memories come flooding back. The first time he noticed and commented on the crack in my ceiling was the night we first made love. The night he took my virginity.

  He’s thinking of that night, too. I can tell by the look in his eyes when he turns back toward me.

  “Your hair’s shorter,” he says softly. “I didn’t notice that last night.”

  It’s one of the many small changes I’ve made since we were together, and the fact that he’s noticed it pleases me more than it should.

  I shrug. “This is easier.”

  “Your bedspread is the same, though.”

  The fact that he remembers that is a little more unsettling.

  “It’s just a bedspread,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I don’t need to buy a new one every year.”

  He settles back further against the pillow, but his gaze is still on me. “Your eyes are just as sad.”

  “This is just how my eyes look,” I say, feeling pricklier by the second. “Don’t try to read anything into it.”

  “No, that’s not just how they look,” he returns softly. “I’ve seen them glow.”

  What the hell is he saying? I don’t get the chance to ask him. He reaches over and brushes his fingers along the side of my neck.

  “I still don’t know why it was me,” he murmurs.

  He means why I, back when I was a twenty-four-year-old virgin, chose to give myself to him. Why he was the first person I loved, the first person I trusted with my body and my soul. It doesn’t matter how many times I said it back then—it looks like even now, he doesn’t see or understand the truth.

  And in spite of my determination to keep my distance from him, I need to show him. To do anything else would be impossible.

  “Because you understood,” I hear myself whisper. “You shouldn’t have been able to, but you did. You saw who I was. What I needed.” And I loved you for it.

  His fingers freeze on my neck. His eyes are as deep and as vibrant as the ocean. “You were always a puzzle to me. As passionate as they come, quick to laugh and quick to anger, and at the same time so determined to bury your deepest, truest emotions way down inside.” His thumb slides in a soft, slow arc against the front of my throat.

  “I don’t have to share everything with the world.” I already seem to share way more than I’d like.

  “No.” There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “But you can’t hide your emotions, Ash. Never completely. It’s not in your nature. They shine out of you. Gleam through the cracks. Dance in your eyes and affect every move of your body. You fight them, but they find their way out.”

  My eyes are stinging again, and even though there aren’t any tears, if he’s telling the truth, then I guess it doesn’t matter whether my eyes are dry or wet or anywhere in between—either way, he can guess exactly how I’m feeling. I don’t like it. It makes me feel too bare.

  But he doesn’t seem to expect me to answer him.

  “That night,” he says, “you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. You were nervous, but that was drowned by everything else. You were just…” He shakes his head slightly and moves his hand again, letting his fingers glide up into my hair. “You were so alive. Your eyes were so bright. Your skin felt like it was vibrating beneath my touch. Everything about you just… My God, I’ve never felt anything like that. You caught me up in it, too.”

  If I was confused and terrified before, that’s nothing next to what I feel now. I’m trembling, but whether or not that’s the vibration he remembers I can’t be sure. He’s touching me the way he did that night—hesitantly, as if worried he might scare me. Or as if he’s worried he’ll disrupt the energy pulsing between us, the spell of emotions that he describes.

  And he’s right. I felt a hundred things that night: nerves, of course—how could I not?—but also the thrill of knowing that I was finally getting to experience something so intimate. It was, for lack of a better word, joyous. And surprising. And wonderful. And terrifying. And bittersweet—as experiences tend to be when they change you forever. And I remember it more vividly than almost any other day in my entire life.

  His fingers brushed against my throat, trailing slowly down until they met the curve of my breast. I was having trouble breathing, and my chest was rising and falling too quickly, but he seemed to find that fascinating. Beautiful, even.

  His lips touched my jaw. My neck. The hollow above my collarbone. And his hand continued to move down my body, skimming over my nipple through the fabric of my dress, dancing across a stomach that was full of butterflies. His mouth paused right over my heart.

  “Are you sure?” he murmured, his lips vibrating against my skin.

  “Yes.” In that moment, I trusted him completely.

  He tried to go slowly, gently. He slid my dress up my legs, glided his fingers across my thighs. His mouth continued caressing my skin, and little by little, he eased his way back up my body until his lips met mine again.

  And that was when neither of us could hold back any longer.

  Passion took over then, pure desire replacing my anxiety. He might have tried to be careful, to be slow and gentle, but we burned too brightly for that. There could be no slowly, no gently between us. I needed him, needed him more than I’d ever needed anything else in my entire life. And I urged him on, caught up in that vibrant fire.

  The memory leaves me shivering.

  In many ways, I think Dante thought that me losing my virginity to him was a bigger deal than I did—and I guess I can’t blame him, considering there aren’t many people who are virgins at twenty-four without one or more very serious reasons. And maybe I did have a very serious reason, deep down, but at the time it felt like a series of not-so-serious reasons had led me to that point. In high school, I wasn’t ready. Then when I was nineteen and my parents died, boys were the last thing on my mind—I just wanted to retreat into myself. When I finally crawled back out of that hole, I just became too busy—I’d decided I’d follow in my parents’ footsteps and pursue a career in the movie industry, and then I was busy working my ass off to get into the prestigious film school where they met.

  The same school where I ended up meeting Dante.

  There were boys along the way. Some dates. A few heavy makeout sessions. But I never really wanted anything more than that until Dante. Then I knew anything less would never be enough. He undid me, little by little, day by day, so that I hardly noticed it happening until it was too late.

  And I feel it happening again now.

  “I don’t want to talk about that night,” I say. “The past is the past. I’m surprised you even remember any of that.”

  A little fro
wn appears between his brows. “I haven’t forgotten a moment of that night, Ash. I never will.”

  I snort a laugh. “I guess you’re more sentimental than I thought.”

  My words are more barbed than I intend, but I can’t seem to help myself. What right does he have to sit here and act like that night meant something to him, when he was the one who was willing to throw all of this away?

  Dante is very still. But his eyes are bright with some unnamed emotion, and his fingers are still tangled in my hair.

  “I know what you must think of me,” he says.

  “I don’t think you do.” If he did, then why is he here? Why can’t he just let me get on with my life?

  His hand tightens, his fingers curling firmly—though not painfully—against my scalp. His expression has hardened, but there’s a fire in the depths of his gaze that makes me nervous.

  “I’ve told you,” he says. “You can’t hide your emotions from me, Ash. I hurt you, and that’s something you might never forgive me for, but you still want me.”

  “I do not—”

  “You do. I know you. And I know it’s been a few years, but I haven’t forgotten a thing.” He leans closer. “I haven’t forgotten the way your eyes widen when you’re aroused. Or the way you can never seem to catch your breath when you’re overwhelmed.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Or the way you suck in your cheeks when you’re trying to fight back your emotions. You’re feeling something very strong right now.”

  “I am. Hatred.”

  “You don’t hate me. You might be pissed at me, but you don’t hate me. You can’t. For the same reason that I can’t forget you.”

  “You’re crazy,” I say, a little too breathlessly.

  “Maybe.” His thumb stills. “But I don’t think so. I think you want me. As much now as you ever did.”

  “I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend I love very much.”

  “And if you looked at him with half the emotion I see in your face right now, I might believe you.”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach. He knows. That excuse was my last line of defense, the one thing I could hold up between us. Now I’m vulnerable.

  “You’re a bastard,” I say. “And you have no right to come in here and talk like this. Jack is my boyfriend. I love him. I don’t care whether or not you believe it. This is not open for discussion.” I smack his hand away from my face. “I think you should leave.”

  He sits back. “You still need someone to help you here until Jack bothers to show up.”

  “I’ll manage. I want you out of my house. Now.”

  He stands, but he looks more exasperated than concerned. “This isn’t over, Ash.”

  “It’s been over for three years. But for some reason, I’m the only one who can accept that. Go back to Emilia.”

  Something flickers across his expression, but it’s gone before I have a chance to read it.

  “I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you like this,” he says, his face unreadable.

  “You’re not going to get anywhere with me at all.”

  He doesn’t argue. He gathers up his food and—thank God—walks toward the door. But he pauses at the doorway and looks back at me.

  “You can lie to yourself all you want, but this isn’t over,” he says, and the intensity in his eyes belies his calm tone. “We both know it. And no matter how hard either of us tries to convince ourselves otherwise, it will never be over.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It will never be over.

  The words haunt me. Torment me. Two days later, when I’m bent over a birthday cake in my bakery, they still bounce around in my head, still make my stomach twist and my breath quicken and my heart stutter.

  Because he’s right, isn’t he?

  It’s been three years. Three years should be more than enough time to get over someone, even the guy who took your virginity. Even the first—and only—guy you’ve ever loved. Three years should be more than enough time to get on with your life—assuming you’re a normal, well-adjusted person.

  I chew on my lip as I apply a scalloped band of frosting along the top edge of the cake. I’m perched on a stool today—a necessary adjustment, considering my ankle—and it feels unnatural. Normally I can lose myself in my work—hands-on vocations are wonderful for such things—but today I can’t seem to find my zone. I suppose I should be grateful that it was my left wrist, not my right, that was hurt—that would have restricted me even more, and I’m having a hard enough time operating as normal.

  It will never be over.

  It doesn’t make sense. The thing Dante and I had was never supposed to last. He’s rich, famous, talented, unbelievably attractive… and I’m the ordinary girl he wouldn’t even introduce to his family. He’s not allowed to come back to me now and act like I am the one in denial.

  I squeeze the bag in my hand a little too hard, causing a glob of frothy pink frosting to squirt onto the cake.

  “Are you all right?” Mama Pat asks from her workstation. She must think I’ve completely lost it.

  I force a smile. “Just got a cramp in my hand.”

  “Maybe you should take a break,” she says. “You’ve been pushing yourself very hard recently. And you’re nursing an injury.”

  “A sprained ankle shouldn’t keep me from baking,” I counter. “And I feel better when I’m keeping busy.”

  She nods, but I know she sees right through my bullshit. “Just be patient with yourself.”

  When she first heard about my injuries, Mama Pat tried to convince me to take a few days off, maybe even a week. She’s always telling me that I work too hard, keep too many hours. And it’s not that I don’t believe she and Karen and Jilly can’t manage things without me. But this bakery has been my entire life for these past few years, and I can’t imagine walking away from it, even for that long. I’m still building my business—my baby. It needs me. And I need it. I’d go crazy sitting at home all day with nothing to distract me from those words. It will never be over.

  Dante is off doing press for Cataclysm: Earth. It’s only an accident that I know that, but I was flipping through the TV last night and saw it on one of the entertainment channels. Part of me is relieved that he’s busy, but the other part… well, that part is better left unexamined.

  It will never be over…

  I drop the icing bag on the table. Even work isn’t enough to distract me today, which means I need to find another way to get myself past all of this madness. If I actually had a boyfriend, I’d suggest a weekend away together. Or something equally diverting…

  But maybe that’s it. Maybe this is just the kick in the pants I need to put myself out there again, to actually date for once in my life. Of course my relationship with Dante is going to seem like a big deal when it’s the only serious relationship I’ve ever had. I need to broaden my horizons a little. Explore some other options.

  Which is easier said than done, of course, especially since most of the men who walk into my bakery are married—or here to pick out their wedding cakes with their fiancées, which is more or less the same thing as far as I’m concerned.

  But I’m not completely without resources.

  “Mama Pat?” I say.

  “Hm?”

  “Is your neighbor still single?”

  Her face lights up. “You want to meet Dean?”

  “I… I was thinking I should put myself out there again. Do you think he’d be interested in going out?”

  “He’d be a fool not to.” She’s beaming widely now. “He’s such a gentleman. And he’s been working out a lot since he broke up with that girl a couple of months ago.” She winks at me. “You should see his pecs. My William never had pecs like that.”

  In spite of myself, I laugh, my cheeks reddening. My mom used to gush in great detail about the rock star Arron Rex—who, actually, was the flame of Dante’s mother Giovanna back in the seventies—and this is nearly as embarrassing. “That’s good to know. Think he’d be turned of
f by a girl with crutches?” I point at my ankle.

  “Not if he knows what’s good for him.” She’s still smiling from ear to ear. “In all seriousness, though—Dean is one of the good ones. But if he gives you trouble, you just let me know. I’ll take care of him.”

  Another laugh escapes my throat. “I know you will.”

  We work in silence for a few minutes. It feels as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Yes, this is exactly what I need.

  But after a little while, I can feel Mama Pat’s gaze, and when I look up, I find her studying me, a slight wrinkle between her dark brows.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. I hope she isn’t having second thoughts about this.

  But the look she gives me is one of concern. “Are you sure about this, honey? You never really talked about how things went at that party. Aside from the obvious, of course.” She nods toward my ankle.

  Mama Pat and my other employees only got the most general of explanations about my injuries, and though Jilly tried to wheedle more out of me, Mama Pat didn’t say a word—but it was obvious she knew there was much I wasn’t saying.

  “Of course I’m sure,” I tell her. “I need to get back out there at some point, don’t I?”

  Her smile returns, but there’s still a knowing look in her eye—the look of a woman who’s seen enough of life and relationships to guess what might lie beneath the surface of my words.

  “Yes, you do,” she says. “And if anyone can make you forget about a bad experience, Dean can.”

  * * *

  A week after my conversation with Mama Pat, I’m preparing for my first date in… well, way too long.

  I survey myself in the mirror. After much debate over what to wear, I settled on a flowy, emerald-green dress that matches my eyes. It has a sweetheart neckline that shows just the right amount of cleavage—and the scattering of freckles on my chest—and the skirt floats out away from my thighs. It’s a great dancing dress, the kind that twirls up around you when you spin, but I won’t be doing much dancing tonight. My ankle is still in a brace, but at least my doctor has told me I don’t need to use my crutches anymore. I’m wearing the only pair of ballet flats I own that fit over the brace. They aren’t especially cute, but they’ll do. And with some luck, Dean won’t be staring much at my feet.