Page 111 of Two Sides of Sin

I dropped her bags onto the floor, the heavy thud grounding us in the reality of the room. I closed the distance between us in three long strides, stopping right behind her. I reached out, my hands settling firmly and possessively on her hips as I looked over her head at the endless forest.

“No, baby girl,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a dark, devoted rumble as I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. “It’s ours.”

The suffocating dread that had been sitting on my chest since this morning was finally beginning to dissipate, replaced by the warm, golden glow of the kitchen lighting and the miracle of having her under my roof.

I stood at the massive marble island, a cast-iron skillet hissing over the gas as I seared two steaks. The smell of melting butter, crushed garlic, and fresh rosemary filled the air. It was a mundane domestic and painfully human ritual—cooking. But it grounded me.

Sage was wandering the open concept living space behind me, a half empty glass of expensive red wine dangling loosely from her fingers. She had kicked off her shoes, her bare feet padding softly against the polished hardwood floor as she explored the fortress I had built for her.

“Oh my god,”

I looked over my shoulder. She was standing in the corner of the room near the massive bookshelves, staring down at the vintage, solid walnut turntable resting on a custom credenza. Next to it was a meticulously organised crate of vinyl.

“You have a record player,” she breathed, her eyes lighting up as she ran her free hand reverently over the smooth wood of the casing. “Julian, I love these. I’m obsessed with anything nostalgic and vintage.”

I smiled, turning the heat up on the stove slightly. “Go ahead. Put something on.”

She set her wine glass down, her fingers immediately dropping into the crate. “It just sounds so much more authentic this way,” she murmured, flipping through the worn cardboard sleeves. “Digital music is too clean. On vinyl, you can actually hear the imperfections. You can feel the soul in the room.”

She slid a record from its sleeve, carefully placing the black vinyl onto the platter. She lifted the tonearm with delicate precision and set the needle into the groove.

A soft, static crackle filled the massive room.

And then, the slow, hauntingly melancholic piano chords of Billie Holiday’s —I’ll Be Seeing You drifted through the high end speakers.

I’ll be seeing you —In all the old familiar places —That this heart of mine embraces —All day through…

The spatula in my hand snapped cleanly in two, beneath my sudden crushing grip.

I froze, the air vanishing from my lungs. It was like getting hit by a freight train made of pure memory.

It was our song.

Decades ago, in another life, in a parlour room smelling of velvet and fire, June used to play this exact record.

I slowly turned around.

Sage was walking back to the kitchen, unaware of the century old ghosts swirling in the room. She was swaying slightly to the slow, jazzy beat, a soft, beautiful smile curving her lips. The amber light caught the dark waves of her hair, and for a terrifying, heart-stopping second, the past and the present collided.

She stopped in front of me, looking up through her dark lashes.

“Is this okay?” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the music.

“Perfect,” I murmured, my voice a thick, gravelly rasp.

I tossed the broken pieces of the spatula onto the cutting board and reached for her.

My massive hands swallowing her waist, and with effortless strength, I hoisted her off the ground and set her down on the cool marble of the kitchen island. Sage gasped softly at the sudden elevation, her hands instantly flying to my shoulders to steady herself.

I stepped right between her thighs, crowding into her space, letting her feel the heavy reality of my body pressing against hers.

“Julian,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as I trailed the back of my knuckles down the soft column of her throat.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” I swore against her skin.

I tilted her chin up and brought my mouth down on hers. There was no hesitation this time. The sexual tension that had been fizzling between us all day finally came to a head. She tasted like red wine and salvation.

Sage let out a soft, desperate moan, her fingers tangling tightly in the short hair at the nape of my neck as she pulled me closer, her legs wrapping around my hips to anchor me to her.