Page 22 of Sinner
Chapter 12
Caterina
The library smellsof aging paper and dust, but I barely notice as I scan each row of shelves, my heart hammering against my ribs. The evening crowd is sparse—a few students hunched over laptops, an elderly man browsing periodicals. None of them matters. Only him.
I spot Nico near the classics section, pretending to examine a volume of Dante. Even in his casual clothes—dark jeans and a gray sweater—he carries himself with the same quiet dignity he possesses at the altar. My body responds instantly, a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the overheated building.
He looks up, those piercing blue eyes finding mine across the room. The world narrows to just us.
I approach slowly, conscious of maintaining an appropriate distance. “Father,” I say, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Then, softer: “I found that book on Italian architecture we discussed. It’s in the reference section upstairs.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Lead the way, Miss Benetti.”
We climb the stairs side by side, not speaking, not touching, though every nerve in my body strains toward him. The secondfloor is dimmer, the fluorescent lights flickering unevenly across rows of dusty reference materials that few people ever consult anymore.
I weave through the towering stacks until we reach the farthest corner, a secluded nook concealed behind the shelves of encyclopedias. The moment we’re hidden from view, my carefully maintained composure crumbles like fragile glass.
“Nico,” I whisper, and then I’m enveloped in his embrace, my body surrendering completely against his warmth.
His mouth descends upon mine with an insatiable hunger. He tastes of rich, dark coffee intertwined with the crispness of mint, and the rough texture of his beard grazes my skin with an electrifying sensation. I clutch desperately at the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer, drawing him in with an urgency that can never be fully satiated.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, and his lips brush against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. “All day. Every minute.”
I arch into him, yielding to the magnetic pull of his presence, as his hands glide sensuously down my back, finally resting to cup my hips with a possessive tenderness. “Neither could I,” I breathe, lost in the intoxicating closeness of him.
Nico presses me against the shelves, books digging into my spine, but I don’t care. All I care about is the heat of him, the solid weight of his body against mine. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open them, moaning softly as he deepens the kiss.
“Shh,” he whispers, though he’s smiling. “We’re in a library, remember?”
“Then stop making me want to scream,” I tease, rolling my hips against his.
He groans, low in his throat, and captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one large hand. The other traces my collarbone, dips lower to cup my breast through my dress.
“We can’t,” he says, even as his thumb brushes over my nipple, making me gasp. “Not here.”
I lean forward, nipping at his bottom lip. “My apartment is four blocks away. Empty. Private.”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating. “Cat?—”
“I need you,” I whisper, all pretense gone. “I need to feel you inside me. Please, Nico. I can’t take this anymore.”
He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. I can feel his conflict, the war between desire and duty. But I also feel the evidence of his desire pressed hard against my stomach.
“Your family?—”
“Isn’t watching me tonight.” I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “Three hours, Nico. That’s all I’m asking for. Three hours where it’s just us.”
He closes his eyes, and for a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then he kisses me again, softer this time, but with no less heat.
“Three hours,” he agrees, his voice rough.
We straighten our clothes, check that the coast is clear, and then descend the stairs separately. I leave first, the cool night air a shock against my flushed skin. I walk quickly, knowing he follows at a discreet distance.
My apartment building is old but well-maintained, with an art deco façade and a doorman who nods respectfully as I enter. “Evening, Miss Benetti.”
“Good evening, Carlos.” I smile, hoping he doesn’t notice my trembling hands or flushed cheeks. “I’m expecting a guest shortly—Father Moretti from St. Francis’s. We’re discussing the charity auction for next month.”
Carlos nods again. “I’ll send him right up when he arrives.”
