My breath stutters. Heat blooms down my neck, and I grip the edge of the counter, the ghost of his touch skating over my skin. All my life, sin was something to fear. Something to repent for, to bury beneath hymns and apologies.
But with Trey...
If this is sin, then let me be a sinner.
The way he touched me—like he was learning every curve of my body. The way he held me after, like I was someone worthy, and he’d die before breaking me.
If this is sin, then I’ll burn for him.
I don’t want to muddy my thoughts with memories, with words that slice through me—whispers that I’m vile, a beast in my father’s eyes. Not now. Not when, for the first time, I finally know what it feels like to bewanted. Not used. Not punished.
Worshipped.
Maybe it’s blasphemy—loving this, lovinghim. But I can’t help the stupid smile that keeps spreading across my face.
I smile at my reflection—soft, secret, full of him—and whisper to the girl staring back at me,
“Guess we’re both a little damned now.”
I step out of the bathroom and cross to the walk-in wardrobe. The scent of him lingers even here—clean soap, leather, his signature cologne that makes my knees weak, and something darkerthat’s purely Trey. My fingers trail along the rail of clothes, some he’d picked out for me. Soft fabrics, neutral tones, things thatfitme, not the shapeless modesty my father demanded. I flick through hangers until my fingers stop on a cream knit sweater, the kind that slips off one shoulder, and a pair of faded blue jeans. L.A. might be November, but the sun still bites during the day. I slide the jeans up my thighs, the material not what I’ve been used to. I’ve never worn denim. But the jeans are soft and cling to my legs, giving me a shape I’ve never seen before. A shape that feels…like a new me.
I smooth my palms over the fabric, catching sight of myself in the mirror—a girl learning her own edges for the first time.
My gaze drifts to the jewelry on the dresser, delicate gold chains and tiny diamond studs that sparkle against the morning light. I reach out, then hesitate. They’re beautiful, but expensive looking. I pull my hand back, shaking my head. I’m not ready for that yet.
The sweater comes next—light and soft against my skin, slipping off one shoulder just enough to make me blush.
He’s waiting for me in the studio.
And God help me, I can’t get there fast enough.
The floor feels cool beneath my bare feet as I make my way down the hall. The morning air carries a faint hum—distant, low, almost melodic. By the time I reach the steps, I realize it’s music. His music.
The soft strum of a guitar drifts through the house, weaving around the quiet, tender and raw all at once. I pause halfway down, just to listen. Trey plays like he feels—nothing restrained, everything bleeding through his fingertips. The memory of hishands on me, steady and certain, tangles with the sound, and my chest tightens.
When I reach the studio door, it’s open just a crack. Sunlight spills through the window inside, dust dancing in the beam like a snow flurry in winter. Trey sits on a chair, back turned, a cigarette resting in the ashtray beside him, guitar balanced on his thigh. His hair’s a mess, still damp at the ends, and there’s an ink smudge near his wrist where he’s been jotting something down. He looks soalivein his element—like this is where he belongs, where he breathes best.
I linger in the doorway, watching him. The way his shoulders move with each chord, the soft tilt of his head as he hums something low under his breath. It’s rough and unfinished, but it’s beautiful.
Then, as if he senses me there, he glances over his shoulder. Those green eyes find mine, and the world narrows to that single look—slow, knowing, pulling me right back under.
A slow smile curves his lips.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Baker.”
The words hit low in my stomach, heat curling through me all over again.
I step inside, barefoot, heartbeat steady and wild all at once. “Morning,” I whisper, because anything louder might break the moment.
He sets the guitar down and leans back in his chair, that sinful smile growing wider.
“Took you long enough.”
“I had to look good for my husband,” I tease, brushing a curl behind my ear. He hums, eyes dragging over me like a caress. Herises from the stool as I step closer, the faint rasp of fabric the only sound between us. He looks me up and down.
“Forgot socks?” He queries. Trey is in grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, a backwards cap pulled over messy hair, still damp from his shower. He’s shirtless—the morning light spilling through the window, painting gold across the ink on his chest and the hard lines of his stomach. He shouldn’t look real like this. Barefoot, half-awake, dangerous and soft all at once.
“So have you.” I smile. He hooks a finger through one of my belt loops and tugs me gently closer. My heart races.
