Page 5 of His Sinner

She collapses at the edge of the tub, heaving as she comes down from her orgasm and sucks air into her oxygen-starved lungs. “Next time,” she pants. “I’m going to drown you in my pussy.”

I smirk. “And I eagerly anticipate it.”

When the month is over, my muse won’t fight to leave. She’ll be begging to stay.

CHAPTER THREE

BRIAR

In Saint’s bed, away from his prying eyes, I research how to become a literary agent.

Before I settled on a more practical career path, I wanted to work in book publishing. Then I realized New York is crazy expensive and everyone in publishing is criminally overworked and underpaid. Still, part of me can’t help entertaining the idea of interning twenty hours a week at a literary agency. I have no clue how I would balance an internship with my day job, but I haven’t been able to get the possibility out of my head since Saint suggested it. I would be a kick-ass agent, and I’d get to work with authors and books all day. I’d attend exclusive publishing events with other agents, editors, and authors. I’d get to travel to conventions and festivals and attend book signings. The right agency might even let me work fully remote in my pajamas.

If I can become an agent and make the right connections, I wouldn’t settle for anything less than the best for S.T. Nicholson’s books. After all the shit Saint has been through in his life, he at least deserves a successful career he’s worked hard for. Not to mention I want to fill up my S.T. Nicholson shelf with signed books.

My phone rings with a call from Trevor. I texted everyone letting them know I’d be off the grid during winter break on a solo writing retreat, so I’m not sure why he’s calling.

Mom was over the moon, texting in all caps with three exclamation points at the end of every sentence to let me know she’s happy I’m focusing on my passion again. Mack said she was insulted I didn’t invite her and that she better be invited on the next writing retreat.

And what are you going to do on a writing retreat?

What all the great writers do, obviously. Drink.

Since then, they’ve all been giving me space to concentrate and fully immerse myself in my writing. Until now.

When Trevor calls again, I sigh and swipe my thumb across the screen. Up until a few months ago, we were only work friends, but since I involved him in helping me prove Saint’s criminal activity, he’s almost like a real friend now. “Trevor, listen, I can’t talk. I’m on my writing retreat, remember? It’s supposed to be this zen, distraction-free time to fully immerse myself in my book.”

Not that Saint has been particularly helpful with the distraction-free part. Not when his hands drift around my body of their own accord while I’m writing. Not when he whispers seductive words in my ear when I’m mid-sentence. Certainly not when he was shoving my head underwater while he fucked me.

I still can’t believe he did. I can’t believe I let him. Or that I loved it so much. Who would’ve thought near-drowning would be the next kink I unlocked.

“Shit, sorry. I won’t keep you,” Trevor says quickly. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Great. Now I’m the jackass. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve had my phone off.”

“Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure.” His voice brightens. “I’m still looking into your stalker, so don’t worry. We’ll get this guy locked up. Sorry it’s taking so long. He’s sneakier than I thought he’d be.”

Trevor has no idea.

“Actually, you don’t have to keep looking anymore. I don’t want to press charges.”

Stunned silence as Trevor lets my words sink in. I bite my lip, second-guessing if maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that out loud. What possible sane explanation could I give him to justify why I no longer want to prove Saint has been stalking me and killing the men around me?

The next words out of Trevor's mouth are hesitant. “Briar, be honest with me, okay? Are you...falling in love with your stalker?”

“I’m not in love with him.” The words tumble out of my mouth reflexively, except...I’m not totally sure they’re true anymore.

Maybe I’m not in love with him yet, but I can’t deny anymore that I am falling.

Saint de Haas has done the impossible—not only has he made me admit to myself that I’m falling in love, but he’s made me start falling for my stalker. For a serial killer.

“Good. I’ve profiled guys like him. They’re master manipulators. But I know you’re smart enough not to fall for it.”

I’m close to telling him someone’s intelligence has nothing to do with how well they can be manipulated, but I bite my tongue. “Yeah, don’t worry about me.”

He laughs. “You’re my friend, Briar. I’ll always worry about you. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your writing retreat. See you next semester.”

“See you.”

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