Page 2 of A Taste like Sin
In a sick way, there’s beauty in it all.
Down below, two men and a woman lie entwined, their pale limbs entangled. Hoarse groans allude to
their activity, but as far as I can tell, there’s been no penetration. Yet. A strange detail to notice with a
madman seated beside me.
Fully aware of him, I sense my inner thighs tense in a way that makes me stiffen and cross them
tighter.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “And I laid out my terms. It’s only fair that you get to specify yours.”
Like “dinner” here, again.
The first time he brought me to this taboo venue, the layout was admittedly different: a single couple
viewed through a sheet of glass. Tonight, shadowed balconies reveal the vague hints of other people
watching from across this wide atrium. At a glance, I count six booths in total, all with a bird’s-eye
view of the trio, their occupants rapt at attention.
“I will admit,” I whisper, “that when you mentioned sex, I wasn’t aware that you meant in the context
of…an orgy.” God, I can barely spit that word out. I breathe it instead, a gasp tinged by so many
connotations. Dirty. Disgusting. Debasing.
Least of all: My father wouldn’t approve.
The man who, as of two days ago, I considered to be my father, at least. Maybe that stubborn fact is
why I haven’t left yet? Why I can’t seem to take my eyes off the naked woman being pawed like a toy
doll between two different men, either.
Spite.
At least she’s enjoying her stint as a pawn.
“I won’t insist on anything you are not comfortable with,” Damien warns, a rather polite non-denial.
“You will have the final say in that matter when it comes to it. This is merely a diversion.”
“From the saga of Heyworth Thorne,” I snipe. “I know he’s been trying to contact me.” And I’ve
avoided every message, call, and text. Something tells me that Damien hasn’t strived to be as ignorant
as I have, however. “How many times has he called today? Let me guess, he apologized? Promised to
buy me a pony if I forgive him for protecting the identity of the man who made my life a living hell for
twenty years? Or perhaps a new dress?” The vitriol undercuts the sensual murmurs drifting from
below, and I have enough sense to feel some semblance of guilt. I’m ruining the show. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be ashamed of your anger, ” Damien growls, displaying his uncanny knack for sensing my
