Page 6 of Lessons in Sin

He whispers my name over and over again, the soft words like a prayer and follows me into oblivion.

Chapter 4

I shield my eyes against the sun, the light blinding in the aftermath of alcohol. Groaning, I roll over and bury my head into sheets that smell like sex and definitely not like the stale dorm rooms that were in desperate need of airing out. Sheets that smell like him, like summer rain and whisky, an intoxicating mix that makes my core clench with need.

Flashes of the night before come back to me in fragmented waves - our eyes meeting in a crowded club, my body pressed against his, the rush of pleasure.

Opening an eye, I look to the side and a breathless sigh escapes me. He really is attractive. Attractive in a ‘let me worship at his feet’ sort of way. I turn onto my side, letting the mattress cushion me as I stare at Tristan not unlike a stalker. In sleep, his features are softened, so different to the domineering man I’d met last night. Here I can see the contours of his face that were hidden in the shadows of the night - a slight dip in the bridge of his nose, the scattering of freckles on his cheeks, his full lips framed by a dark, neatly trimmed beard that did nothing to hide the sharp jaw that lay beneath - perfection.

I feel my pussy clench at the thought of exactly what those lips can do, the pleasure they can bring. I reach out, desperately wanting to run my hands through his hair, but then the time on his bedside-table clock blinks at me and my heart drops out of my chest.

‘Shit!’ I yelp, throwing the covers away from me as if they were the ones who made me forget that I’m supposed to be meeting my new dance instructor in thirty-fucking-minutes. The dance teacher whose studio is at least ten minutes away from here, probably longer.

Stumbling, I head towards the ensuite I’d spotted last night, a quick shower desperately needed to scrub away the grime from the night before. I cannot turn up to my first dance lesson smelling like a brewery, makeup smudged down my face like a two cents whore. That’s not really the look or the first impression I’m going for.

Tristan, groggy from sleep, follows me into the ensuite, a sleepy yawn stretching his face. ‘What’s wrong?’ Concern colours his voice. ‘Are you okay?’

I strip off his shirt, the one I’d mindlessly slipped on last night before drifting off to sleep and turn to look at him. ‘Can I shower here? Do you mind?’ Without waiting for an answer, I pluck his toothbrush out of the holder and jump into the shower. ‘I also need to borrow some clothes if you have any.’

Leaning against the doorway, he raises his eyebrows at me, an amused smile ghosting his lips. ‘Make yourself feel at home why don’t you.’

‘Oh, I will.’ I say while rubbing in the shampoo suds with one hand and brushing my teeth with the other. Multitasking at its finest if you ask me.

He shakes his head. ’Why are you in such a rush?’

I rinse the shampoo from my hair, soap suds stinging my eyes. ‘I have a meeting. And if I miss it? Yea, I will be absolutely, positively fucked. And not like a pleasurable, orgasm bringing fuck, but a life is ruined kind of fucked. You get me?’

‘You know if you stay …’ he begins, rounding the glass of the open shower, a feral look in his eyes. ‘… I can give you that ‘pleasurable, orgasm bringing fuck’ you’re talking about.’

Part of me wants to say fuck dance and get back in bed and have this god of a man wring massive amounts of pleasure out of me. But If I miss this meeting, I know for a fact that I’ll never get another meeting with Andre – it took me months to get this one.

I point an accusing finger at him. ’Stop right there! I will not let you use your sex voodoo on me right now.’

’Sex voodoo?’

‘Yes! Sex voodoo! What other explanation is there for …’ a wave a hand to him, ‘—all of this?’

‘I’m sure sex voodoo is the only possibility.’ He deadpans.

‘I’m glad you agree.’ I slide around him, grabbing a towel off the rack as I go.

He runs an appraising eye over my body before I cover it up. Fuck I need to leave, and quickly. Otherwise, I’m going to give in and let that man do everything his eyes promise.

’Tristan!’

‘What?’ He growls, sex and desire dripping from his words like syrup, sticky and sweet and so fucking tempting.

’Stop it with the sex voodoo! I need clothes!’

He steps back and I take a grateful breath of air, ignoring the damp feeling between my thighs, damp that has nothing to do with the shower I just took.

He brushes against me before disappearing.

The bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and just how much he affects me.

After towel drying my hair and throwing it up into a messy bun, I make my way back into the bedroom. Tristan enters at the same time holding a shirt of his along with a pair of yoga pants - women’s yoga pants. Jealousy drops into my stomach like a stone, but I push it away, I have no right to be jealous, and I’m certainly not going to let him think I am. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he says nothing, a glint in his eyes daring me to ask just exactly who they belong to.

Stubbornly, I ignore it. ‘Nice pants.’

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