Page 121 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“You know what I mean.”

I don’t, though. I’m far too entrenched in what I want him to mean.

He lifts his head. His cheeks are pale, drained of all color, and his eyes are still feverishly bright and bloodshot from crying. Those eyes…they may as well be a battering ram aimed at my chest for all the damage they do. “Do you want me to stay or not?”

“I asked.”

“You drive me nuts, you know?”

“Yes,” I say. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“Fine, I’ll stay here if this is your safe space.”

“I should pop you in the mouth.”

“I do not consent to that,” he murmurs, scooting up in the bed to put his arms around me and rest his head on my chest. When he slings his leg over my lap, my dick reacts. His favorite cuddling position invariably leads to sex, and I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the feel of his soft cock on my thigh. It never stays soft long.

He takes a longer sip of water, hands me the bottle to set down, and settles against me. My fingertips skim his side as my heart thuds beneath his cheek. Remembering to breathe is a challenge.

“Wait—you have a house in The Hamptons, don’t you?” he asks.

“Mmhm.”

“Would you rather stay there?”

“I think Marianne’s planning to be there, so no. I told her I was staying here.”

“You lied?” he asks.

I shrug.

His hand moves up my neck and gives me goosebumps. “Why lie?” he asks. “Would she not be okay with this?”

“It isn’t that. It’s a matter of privacy. I don’t need her input on my personal life. She might assume too much if I told her about this.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” I fumble for the right words. “Like…it’s something…else.”

Christian cradles my jaw, tilting my face downward to look at him. “Do you know what I want?” he asks.

I nod.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Our mouths meet in a long, full kiss that really does feel like somethingelse.

34

CHRISTIAN

Larry’s house in Bridgehampton was where he lived full time before he and Jeremy hooked up through a dating app. They now spend their workweeks at Jeremy’s place in The Bowery but most weekends out here.

“This is nice,” Gibson says as he pulls his car into the long driveway, surrounded in part by woods and gas lamps.

“I’m guessing not as nice as yours.”

“My place is in Sag Harbor.”

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