Page 16 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

He must sense my sudden confusion because he adds, “This conversation is a mess, and it’s making me nervous. We need to relax. We should drink.”

I don’t disagree, but also, has the conversation beenthat bad? A little forced, maybe, but I haven’t been rude or overly distracted. At least, I don’t think I have. I’m second-guessing myself all over again.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got a great view. You won’t miss a thing.”

6

GIBSON

Christian puts me on edge, and I can’t explain it any better than that. I don’t know whether to try and impress him with my knowledge of Italy or sit back and shut the fuck up so he can take it in on his own. For some reason, I’m afraid of screwing up this trip forhim, when I’m the one he’s supposed to be impressing.

And I am impressed. The flight was good—productive. I have full confidence in his ability to adequately play the role of my assistant for the next few days, but beneath it all, there’s an unease inside me that won’t quit. Rome, for me, is typically a reprieve from my life at Gramercy Place—both of the lives I lead there. Neither one of which I feel entirely like myself in, but the truth is, I’ve lost the plot. Outside of business dealings, I’m mostly driftwood, going wherever the waves of Marianne’s whims take me, a servant of my schedule and obligations.

As I mentioned to Christian outside, my need for a drink is likely related to my inability to relax and allow myself to unwind. I think I am trying to impress him, and there’s no need for that. Rome is impressive enough without my babbling on about random historical facts I happen to know.

Our bags are already in my top floor suite. I rarely allow the use of my Italian residence to anyone, so it’s been untouched since my last trip, other than staff who’ve cleaned, put fresh linens on the beds, and stocked the kitchen. There are three bedrooms, and I show Christian to one with a view and a private terrace.

He takes a look around the ample space, his gaze skimming past the Baroque-style headboard and other furniture. The room has an en suite and television, a writing area, and a reading nook. My room is similar.

The third bedroom isn’t as well-appointed, and serves another purpose entirely.

Christian walks to the veranda doors, opens them, and steps outside. “Holy shit. I can see St. Peter’s.”

“Take your time,” I tell him. “I’m going to freshen up, and if you’d like, I’ll have drinks and food in the living room.”

“Thank you,” he says over his shoulder, and I leave him to it.

I message Marianne when I arrive in my own bedroom to let her know we landed safely. I send a similar message to my Italian partners. After a shower and a change of clothes, I pour myself my first drink—whiskey neat. The first sip burns my throat, and I let my shoulders drop. I allow a deeper breath as I, too, stare down at the historic piazza.

A new message pops up on my phone.

Carlo

Looking forward to the gift of your presence tonight in the dungeon. Ciao, Carlo.

Carlo. The Dungeon.

Prigione Sotteranea is the name of the club here. It translates to underground prison. I wouldn’t call the club in New York a kink club—it’s more of a sex club where some of my clients occasionally experiment with kink. The dungeon is different, though it didn’t start out that way. Again, I was trying to create a safeplace for people to explore their needs and desires. Within a year, the BDSM lifers made a home of it.

In terms of cultural differences, The Dungeon features a great deal more nudity—more exhibitionism. The BDSM takes place out in the open for the most part. Of course, there are private rooms, but the patrons are a bunch of show-offs. I don’t hate it. At all.

I could spank an ass tonight, provided I don’t get too drunk.

When my glass is empty, I refill it and go to the kitchen to see what’s in the fridge. As I’ve come to expect, there’s a large, wrapped charcuterie board loaded with Italian meats, hard and soft cheeses, jams, bread, olives, nuts, and fruit.

I unwrap it and set it on the table between the two facing sofas in the living area. The floor to ceiling windows offer an unparalleled view, and another set of doors lead to the large terrace overlooking the Four Corners fountain. I went through a lot to obtain this old palace and convert it into a hotel, but it was worth every penny, every phone call, every bribe.

Christian appears in the doorway as I’m walking back to the kitchen. “Do you drink?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m not picky.”

“Then you can have what I’m having.” I pour us two glasses and hand one over to him as he passes me on the way to one of the sofas.

“I can’t get over this view.”

“Would you like to take this outside?” He’s changed clothes, too. A skin-tight black tank and black joggers accentuate his slender figure and his height. His legs are long, ending in a narrow but perky ass. He’s broad through the shoulders and has a pleasing taper to his waist.

Christian’s hair is blonde and straight, cut long on top and shorter on the sides. It brushes his cheekbones without getting in his eyes, his center part holding for now. He’s handsome in an unconventional way with a distinct, blunt-tipped nose and fulllips. His eyes are deeply set—ocean blue under dark brows. He’s not rugged, nor is he soft. In my experience, he’s always been easy-going, but he has a resting bitch face, which makes him appear somewhat sour. When he smiles, though, it blinds.

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