Page 323 of The Sinner: James

Smiling, he dips his gaze, examining my cleavage while musing over something.

He grips the zipper pull and plays with it for a few seconds, my skin melting under his touch before he finally slides it down an inch.

“It looks better this way,” he says.

I nod, my eyes rooted to his lips.

“Your cleavage...” he adds.

His words barely register with me.

“Okay,” I murmur.

With that, he gently pulls away from me, leaving me a trembling mess.

* * *

RAIN

The road takesus out of town, past royally lit homes and a dark patch of land and forest before leading us to our destination.

Sexton International, the Casino, and Entertainment Resort.

Once we find ourselves at the top of the hill, the place comes into view, flashing its spellbinding splendor.

Tens of thousands of square feet explode with light, illuminating the land like a cosmic blast.

Sleek, modern buildings made of glass, concrete, and steel rise behind luxurious fountains.

The area looks like a small city with restaurants, shopping centers, spas, and fitness centers––all flashing bright neon signs––next to clubs and hotels, the biggest one bearing the owner’s name.

Cars zoom in and out, the road now wider than I remember. Three years ago, this place was nothing but a block of darkness.

The memory of that night comes back to me with all the emotions––the fear, the pleasure, and the excitement.

Bits and pieces flash in front of my eyes. The night drive. Ed and Lex. And then him. Touching me for the first time. Taunting me for the first time. And also questioning my beliefs for the first time.

Everything that has happened to me since that night has proved him right.

I wasn’t better than anyone else, and not better than them for sure. And, sure as hell, not as good as I thought I was.

But there was one thing that I was right about.

Love is real.

And it does stand up against the passing of time.

And it does have the power to overcome obstacles.

But love, as I learned later on, takes different shapes and forms, and it’s not easy to figure out.

Love is a story that needs to be written.

A co-authored book.

A tale of good and bad, joy and hardship scribbled down with pain and blood.

You can never tell what kind of story yours is until you find the other person, the one you're co-writing it with.

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