Page 27 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“You don’t like it,” he says.

“It’s not that.” The vibe is cool down here. Kinky, but respectful, and even relatively tame, considering.

“Will you be visiting St. Peter’s tomorrow morning?” he asks.

I nod. “If that’s okay with your schedule.”

“It’s fine. Like I said, I wouldn’t mind coming along. I’ll give you plenty of space.”

It’s something I imagined doing on my own, but I’ve also never been in another country besides Canada, and I’m sure St. Peter’s is big enough for the two of us. “Sure,” I say. “And I’ll look forward to the private night tour of the Sistine Chapel, too.”

“Right, I need to get on that. Let’s go back up. I should get some food and rest, too.”

“I don’t want to cut your night short.” He got all dressed up.

“Please—if I can’t sleep, I’ll come back down.”

Interesting to know.

He swipes the bottle of whiskey from the table, and we make our way back up what has to be thousands of stairs. By the time he’s unlocking the stairwell to the penthouse, my legs are shaking. I’m light-headed and out of breath. “Jesus,” I mutter halfway up the narrow staircase, leaning heavily on the rail as I try to will my legs to work for a few more steps.

He puts an arm around my waist. “Almost there. You gonna make it?”

“Didn’t realize how out of shape I am.” At the same time, I’m speaking, I register how close he is in the narrow space, the strength of his forearm across my lower back—bracing me in case I fall backwards. It’s a strength I want to rest on. Lean my head on and close my eyes—something warm and solid and sure, something to take the ache away.

“Mmm.” I feel the hum coming from his chest because I suddenly realize my hand is there, pressed to his breastbone. My forehead has also found a place to be, and somehow that spot is against his. It’s not full frontal—notthatintimate, but I’m leaning against him, using him to hold me up, and he’s allowing it by bending to accommodate my sagging frame. “You okay?”

“Dizzy,” I tell him, my eyes closing.

“Deep breaths,” he says, and I follow his instruction like it’s a command.

“That’s it,” he murmurs while I try to catch my breath and get the blood flowing back to my brain.

I’d be embarrassed about all this, but I’m too drunk, and I don’t hate the feeling of being held up. I’ve always respected Gibson. Relied on him, to an extent. But it’s obvious I trust him, too—to keep me from falling, not judge me, get me to bed in one piece.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice an equally low hush that has mehypersensitive to all our points of contact and making me crave more.

I run my hand up his chest to rest on his shoulder, letting my forehead fall against the side of his neck where he smells like whiskey, fresh cut wood, and clean wool. He’s so comfortable. Big.

Fuck, I’m drunk…I need to retreat.

“Deep breaths,” he says again.

“You smell good,” I sigh with my exhalation.

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Christian, I…” He doesn’t finish his thought, but he doesn’t move a muscle, either.

I’m stuck inhaling him, forgetting we’re halfway up a barely lit stairwell in the center of Rome, a bed of my own to sleep in only a few yards away. Where I’m at is so deeply satisfying, I’ve lost the will to move.

“You what?” I ask, buying more time before he physically forces me up the stairs.

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better tonight.”

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