Page 145 of Sinful Desires
The conversation drifted back to war stories. Red carpets. Wardrobe malfunctions. Who’d pissed themselves mid-award show. We argued about which city had the worst paparazzi—Liya swore it was LA, and I didn’t even bother to fight her on it. She was right. They didn’t care if you were smiling or sobbing, just that the flash caught it.
Then the stories slowed. The fire burned lower. Someone put their bottle down.
Silence folded around us like warm linen. Only the waves kept speaking. Soft, steady, dragging themselves across the shore.
Liya hummed, a slow sound that immediately set off alarms in my head. Her eyes flicked behind me.
“God, Scarlett, I don’t know how you do it.”
I frowned, wiping my fingers on the edge of the towel. “Do what?”
Nicholas chuckled, cocking his chin toward the beach. “Turn around.”
I looked over my shoulder, eyes squinting into the dark until the moon caught him in pieces. A slow reveal. Shadow, then body. Then him.
Théo.
Oh, God.
He moved up the sand, sweat running down his skin in thick, glistening lines. His tank was soaked, clinging to his chest, sticking to every inch of hard muscle. His arms were massive, tense, veined, shoulders glinting under the moonlight. Veins pumped down to his wrists.
His breathing was shallow, tight, his chest rising with a rough rhythm that made something tighten between my legs.
His thighs strained under the shorts. The waistband dipped low, wet fabric pulling against the lines of his hips. Sweat pearled down his neck, disappearing beneath that fucking gold chain stretched over his collarbones.
His mouth was parted, jaw tight, face unreadable. His hair was damp, dark curls sticking to his forehead, around his ears, wild and perfect.
The sight punched me straight in the lungs.
I turned back quickly, heart hammering, throat tight. I grabbed my lemonade and chugged it like it could cool the burn crawling up my spine.
“Jesus Christ,” Liya whispered, fanning herself. “I cannot believe that man is real. He looks like a walking fuck fantasy.”
Pierre, quiet almost all damn night, suddenly came alive. “I’d pay money for him to ride my face.”
Nicholas burst out laughing.
I said nothing.
My teeth were deep in my cheek. The taste of metal hit my tongue.
My chest tightened with the kind of jealousy that begged for blood.
“Liya, tell him to come sit with us,” Nicholas said, focused on his marshmallows like this wasn’t warfare. “Could be your chance to flirt with him a bit.”
I shot daggers at him, but he didn’t look up. Too busy laughing to notice the way I was seconds from snapping the stick in half and jamming it through his neck.
I opened my mouth, ready to say this was a bad idea. That Théo didn’t like games or attention or noise.
But nothing came out. Because the second he jogged past us, Liya stood.
He was soaked, the tank top plastered to his chest. Sweat dripped off him like his body was begging to be bitten. Every inch of him looked hard, dangerous, and oh,sofuckable.
His chest was still rising too fast, his breathing rough.
“Would you like to join us?” Liya asked, gesturing toward the empty spot on her towel. “We’re playing a drinking game.”
“Yes, LeRoy, please do,” Nicholas added, biting into a cracker. “I’ve gotsomany questions.”
