“God. Fucking. Dammit. You’re evil.” My fingers wrapped around his hand, slowly pulling it off where he was stroking it up and down my erection.
“Don’t you want to play?” he asked seductively. “I can make you come so quickly you’ll be all relaxed by the time we get there.”
“No.” I clung onto the last threads of my self-control. “Not this time. But once we’re done…”
“Spoilsport,” Sin huffed, wriggling in his seat to adjust himself.
At least we were both in the same predicament when we pulled up into Sin’s usual parking spot, tucked beneath a leaning streetlight and sandwiched between a beat-up hatchback and a Vespa missing one mirror. Sin killed the engine, and the silence left behind buzzed louder than the city around us.
My stomach twisted like someone had dropped a beehive into it. Wasps swarmed beneath my ribs, jittery with nerves that had crept up on me like shadows. I tried to play it cool, resting my palm on my knee like I wasn’t vibrating out of my skin.
The building across from us wasn’t much, not compared to what I was used to. Weathered brick, faded paintwork that flaked off in the wind. A few crooked flower boxes—half wilted, half thriving—clung to windows on the first floor. A slightly tattered Pride flag fluttered off a third-floor balcony, bold and unbothered, like it didn’t care what anyone thought.
It felt like a challenge. Or maybe a promise.
Sin nudged me with his shoulder, the small gesture grounding me. “You surethisis what you want?” he asked, his voice light but his eyes careful.
I stared at the building. My potential future. The doorway to a life I was about to claim as mine for the first time ever. I could still feel the burn of the cold marble floors of my house on my bare feet. The echo of my father’s voice in every room, even when he wasn’t there. I remembered how the walls felt like eyes, how every piece of furniture had been chosen by someone else. Everything was curated. Controlled. Cold.
My fingers clenched on my thigh. “It’s not what I want,” I said, my voice lower than I intended. “It’s what Ineed. I need…something real. Something that’s mine.”
Sin didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, firm and understanding. Then, in typical Sin fashion, he threw the car door open and jogged around to the front entrance like he was about to walk a red carpet.
“Welcome to your future, Mr. Astor,” he called dramatically, swinging the building’s front door open with a flourish, like he was the concierge of some five-star hotel.
I rolled my eyes but smiled. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I hadn’t set foot in the club in a week—neither of us had. I wasn’t going back. Sin had to, at least for now. But me? I was rewriting my script entirely.
And it was blank…
The realtor, Corryn, was already waiting in the narrow hallway. She had a clipboard, glossy nails, and a professional smile that faltered just slightly when she clocked me. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Astor,” she said, extending her hand with just a bit too much formality.
I winced.There it was.“That’s what people call my father,” I said, shaking her hand anyway. “Just Theo.”
Her smile softened. “Right. Of course. I’ll give you both some space. Holler if you have any questions.”
Sin led the way, stepping inside like he owned the place—or at least like he knew how to test-drive an apartment. I followed, but each footstep felt heavy, weighted with significance. Every creak of the hardwood was a declaration. Every white wall whispered possibility.
I took a breath.You’re allowed to want this.
The apartment was modest. Clean lines. Honest in its simplicity. Hardwood floors, pale walls with just enough imperfection to remind me it wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The kitchen was compact—sink, stove, some cupboards—but functional. Nothing about it screamed opulence. Which was, strangely, comforting.
I hovered near the entrance while Sin moved through the place like he was checking for ghosts—or maybe just making himself feel useful. He opened a closet, knocked on the walls likesomeone on the TV, and muttered things under his breath with a furrowed brow.
I couldn’t help it—I grinned. “You don’t actually know what you’re checking for, do you?”
He looked over his shoulder, mock-offended. “Shut up. I watched like… two episodes of that reno show. I’m basically an expert.”
His confidence was ridiculous. I loved it. He moved into the larger bedroom, and I followed, my nerves loosening a little as I watched him. He didn’t treat this like some massive, intimidating life change. He made it look…doable. Like we could just decide to live different lives and then go do it.
A second later, I heard him whoop from the other room. “This bathroom?” he called. “It’s basically a spa. Huge tub. Separate shower. You could host a damn pool party in here.”
I laughed. For real. The kind that cracked open your ribs and let air into all the places that had been suffocating. “That’s your measuring stick for livability? Bathtub size?”
“That and natural light,” he called back, appearing in the hallway again. “Oh—and no kitchen bleach required. That’s a goddamn miracle. Ask Claire about the state of ours when she first moved in.”
“I will… eventually.” I muttered and leaned against the doorframe, watching him move through the space like he belonged here. Likewebelonged here. My chest tightened with something warm and unfamiliar.
This didn’t feel like failure. It felt like the start of something. Not perfect. But real.
