Page 57 of Make Me A Sinner
I huff in annoyance.
“What I said is way more flattering than calling itthe best blowjob of my life,” he chuckles, planting a kiss on my neck.
“Yeah, whatever. It’s not like you’ve been around that long—you’re not exactly eighty.”
He takes a pause, then grunts low, almost to himself. “No... not eighty...”
twenty-eight
-Serena-
I think it was early morning when we finally got to bed, so it makes perfect sense that I didn’t wake up until the afternoon. I know Set got up earlier. But I just couldn’t bring myself to follow.
Still, it’s almost 4 p.m. and my stomach’s telling me I skipped both breakfast and lunch. So it kind of forces me to find my way into the kitchen, where Eight-Ball is impatiently waiting for me by his food bowl—which is empty, of course. I’m pretty sure Set fed him when he got up, but Eight-Ball is sort of a compulsive eater. He asks for food at every opportunity, banking on the hope that I don’t know when Set feeds him, and vice versa.
Still, I can’t resist him. I open a can of tuna. That’s his favorite, and even before I finish peeling back the lid, he jumps on the counter to inspect what I’m doing, making sure the fish goes into the right bowl—his.
I don’t know where Set is. I have a vague feeling we’re supposed to be doing something today. I’m so confused lately with everything going on that days are blurring into one another.
I just decide to throw on someNetflix and chillbefore figuring out what to do with the rest of the day—or where Set even is. I could just call or text him, but I need a few moments to breathe before I get sucked into whatever insane plan he’s cooked up this time. And of course, that’s exactly what happens, because twenty minutes later, he walks in carrying two cloth bags.
I stare at him, confused for a second, trying to figure out what I’m missing.
“You didn’t forget about the party, did you?” he asks, tossing the bags on the couch and totally busting me because I know he can’t tell I had no clue what he’s talking about until he said it.
I need to get my shit together. I’m all over the place these days.
“You forgot,” he notices, and instantly a worried expression shifts the lines on his face. “Hey, it’s okay.” He comes and crouches in front of me. “You’ll get used to it. Things will start falling into place, you’ll see.” He brushes his thumb across my lips, then helps me off the couch. “Come on, we’ve got to get ready. This isn’t something I can skip.” He walks me to my bedroom. “Do your makeup or whatever—thenI’llcome and dress you.”
“Haven’t we gotten over the part where I can’t do anything by myself? I thought you were done punishing me.”
“I’m not sure I ever want to go back to the part where you can do things by yourself. I wanna be with you all the time,” he whispers, helping me sit at my makeup table. “Near you,” he murmurs, brushing my hair off one shoulder and leaning in so his lips can find their way to my ear, “Inside you.”
I swallow the knot in my throat as he backs away and leaves the room.
Fuck, I’m sweating. That’s definitely gonna screw with my make up. I need a shower first.
I could’ve just gone to the beauty salon downstairs, but I never know what to ask for, and every time they do something to me,I end up hating it—because I pretty much want the same thing done to my hair almost every time.
I just use a hair waver to make loose curls, and give myself some evening glam makeup. I used to be obsessed with makeup, I liked learning the styles and every application step. So pulling off a perfect Hollywood look is no problem for me.
“I’m ready,” I announce to Set after I check myself in the mirror, fully pleased with what I see. And judging by the look on his face when he walks in, so is he.
“Wow, we might just stay in after all,” he smiles as he moves toward me, his gaze telling me it won’t take much for him to change his mind about the party.
He’s wearing a stunning black designer tux, making him look like a dark Prince Charming of the Underworld. And if the damn piercing wasn’t still giving me trouble, he’d be right—we’d stayin. But this is how he wanted things—so we’re going to the party.
“Did you bring me the dress?” I ask, trying to change the subject, as I eye the garment bag he’s carrying. I can see there’s a black dress there, and since he’s already dressed, I don’t think it’s for him.
“Yeah, I grabbed this for you on my way in,” he says, unzipping the bag and pulling out a skin-tight, over the knee bodycon dress with a thigh-high slit.
By the looks of it, I can’t wear a bra—or even panties. Not sure if telling him that is a good idea, so I just get up from the chair, grab the dress, and head to the bathroom to change.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, and I know exactly why he’s asking this question. He’s expecting to dress me, but there’s no way I can let that happen right now. So I make a run to the bathroom, and before he can follow, I throw off my robe and yank the dress over my head. Not that I’m actually managing to put it on. There are strings everywhere, and they’re getting tangled in my freshly done hair. Fuck.
Set pushes the door open behind me, and I can’t help laughing when I see how worked up he is about me walking out on him. “Fine, put this on me,” I mutter, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Something’s wrapped around me, but you can’t really tell it's a dress. At least it covers my piercing—so he won’t get any new ideas.
“I’ll save the best for later, so don’t worry—we’re still going to that party,“ he says, trailing a finger down my spine, as he starts fixing the mess of strings at the back of my dress. I straighten it a little, and he helps me free my hand from one of the tangled cords in the back until it actually starts to look like a dress. But it’s still not enough for him. Now he’s got to run those damn hands all over my body over and over again, over every curve and every fold of the dress, like he’s tailoring the damn thing to perfection. I know he’s not really fixing anything. He’s just messing with my head, ravaging my body, and whatever’s left of my sanity while he’s at it.
