Page 102 of Beautiful Sinners

Constantine’s cocksure smirk could outrival Hendrix’s. It also makes my clit tingle.

“What’s the basket for?” I ask.

He looks down as if suddenly reminded he was holding it. “Lunch date.”

A soft puff of air escapes my lips. “I’d love that.”

Constantine never ceases to amaze me. Behind his dark, dangerous exterior is a man who is romantic, sweet, and thoughtful.

“There’s a small butterfly garden in the back of the biology building.”

Excitement percolates. The small garden is gorgeous and would be the perfect spot for a picnic.

“I know where that is. I found it on one of my walks through campus when I first moved here.”

He hands me his guitar and takes my backpack, then grabs my free hand and leads me away from the quad.

“When did Aleksander give you this?”

His grip tightens when my feet trip over themselves. I should’ve known he would have noticed the backpack. Nothing gets past him.

“He dropped by the student union while I was waiting for Raquelle. He gave me my backpack and left.”

I don’t pontificate further, simply because there’s nothing more to say about the matter. That’s literally all that happened. I still don’t fully comprehend the rivalry between Tristan and Aleksander, other than it’s an instant dislike that stems back to when we were kids. There’s a deep hatred that exists between them, and hatred like that just doesn’t spring forth from the ether. Something big caused it. Something I’m not aware of. Something that made Aleksander go down the path of destruction he’s now traveling.

“Do you mind if I look through it?”

If any other man said that to a woman, she would think it’s because he didn’t trust her.

“Of course. There’s also something I want to show you, but it can wait,” I say.

Even if Cillian confirms the man I saw at the SU works for him, I’d like for the guys to see his face and know what he looks like.

Taking a shortcut around the library and past the front entrance of the two-story, red brick biology building, Constantine leads me through an arbor gate and into a small botanical garden enclosed within wrought iron fencing. Monarch butterflies flit among the pink cluster flowers growing at the tops of the stalks of marsh milkweed, gorging on nectar needed for their long migration to their overwintering habitats in Mexico.

Choosing a clear spot in the grass, Constantine sets down my backpack, then unpacks a soft, blue blanket from the picnic basket. He spreads it out over the ground and gestures for me to sit. Propping the guitar in my lap, I lightly strum the melody to Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” while I watch him carefully remove the stuff from my bag. He takes his time feeling around the pockets and the straps. Seeming satisfied that Aleksander didn’t plant anything, he puts everything back.

“Don’t use your laptop until I can run some software on it,” he says and scoots behind me, slotting me between the vee of his legs. Removing his ball cap, he rests his chin on my shoulder and watches as I pluck the chords. “I’m impressed with how well you play.”

“Even when I didn’t want to remember, I kept parts of you with me,” I tell him.

Taking ASL classes, learning how to play the guitar. Constantine was always there. Just like he and Hendrix kept parts of me in the images they had tattooed all over their bodies.

I’m engulfed in his warmth when his arms come around me. His fingers line up and cover mine on the fretboard. He does the same thing to my right hand, manipulating my thumb to strum different strings.

I laugh when our fingers fight against each other. “I feel like a marionette at the control of its puppeteer.”

“Stop trying to lead. Let me do it,” he says next to my ear. His breath caresses over my cheek and neck, and I shiver.

I force myself to relax and let him guide me as he presses my fingers into different chords.

“What do you think is going to happen now?” I ask, knowing he’ll understand what I’m referring to.

He lets loose a sigh. “I honestly don’t know. Clearly, Aleksander has the backing of Patrick and my father.”

“And Francesco?”

I lose his warmth when he pushes away from me and lies back on the blanket. I set the guitar to the side, and he repositions his long frame, so his head rests in my lap, those brown-black eyes looking up at me.

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