Page 60 of Sin & Secrets

And as we both lie there, breathing in the insanity of our own ecstasy, I try not to imagine how it would feel to do this for the rest of my miserable existence.

16

CASSANDRA

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you,” I whisper across Rocco’s chest in the aftermath.

His lack of response is an answer in and of itself.

I trace over the lines of his tattoos, wondering if I should commit them to memory. How many more times will he let me lay next to him like this? How many women have wondered the same thing?

He said it himself: nothing serious could ever happen between us. Yet that foolish hope that maybe I could be the exception lingers.

I don’t even know if that’s whatIwant, yet the distance between us already feels painful even though he’s right there.

He gets up slowly, untangling me from his side as he does.

“I must return to work.”

“Right.” I try not to sound bitter.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Cas.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

Begrudgingly, I do. The soft expression on his handsome face is almost unbearable. “This doesn’t need to happen again.”

But God, do I want it to, though. I don’t want to stop, ever. And that’s perhaps the most terrifying truth of it all.

“It’s just physical, right?” I repeat his words back to him.

“Right.”

Still, we lay in silence for another moment before he leaves.

I try to fall back to sleep, but it cruelly evades me. Instead, I shift myself up and glance around his room which is illuminated by the gray of early morning light.

I am a little surprised by how little there is to examine, though. His bed is larger than mine, and the empty space where he was lying is almost cavernous. But aside from the bed, there’s nothing much in the room.

Two doors lead off into what I assume must be the same matching en-suite and walk-in closet as my room. The only real thing of note is the huge painting that looms on the wall opposite me.

Curious, I rise to take a closer look. I don’t know a lot about paintings, but after our discussion last night, it wouldn’t surprise me if Rocco had kept back something insanely rare for himself.

It seems to be made from some kind of oil-based paint, that much I can decipher, at least. Although there’s no real structure represented at all on the canvas, the abstract merging of line and color is intriguing.

In fact, the longer I stare at it, the more I think I might see figures hidden within the brush strokes. But as I blink, they seem to disappear once more.

The signature at the bottom is not one I recognize. Nor does it come up when I search for it on my phone.

With a sigh, I move on. Begrudgingly, I take myself back to my bedroom.

If Donatella noticed anything last night, she doesn’t comment on it when she knocks on my door several hours later.

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