Page 115 of Sinister

He shakes wet hair off his face with a decidedly attractive flick of his hand. A shadow of frustration falls over his face, but his voice remains steady.

“Look, I know it sounds corny, but it’s God’s honest truth. That girl in the bathroom . . . she was lying. I swear to you, Petra. I’m not this cool fuckboy you think I am. I only have eyes for you.”

“Well, I-I don’t know what to believe anymore, Sin,” I shoot back, just as a clap of thunder roars over the windblown trees, and for a moment, a flash of light falls over Sin’s face.

What do I see in it that makes me falter and stand rooted to my spot?

His face is contorted with some anguish I can’t make out. But whatever I do see makes my heart tighten.

He steps closer. “How can you say that, Petra? What about all the time we spent together? Did you think I was faking then?”

He can’t mean what he’s saying. He’s just trying to derail my thoughts with all the romanticism of our storm-struck isolation.

34

PETRA

While I mull over these apprehensions, sounds of high wind fill the insides of the mausoleum, and birds ruffle their feathers over our heads, sheltering from the stormy gale by perching on the ledges near the ceiling.

“Petra, did you hear me? What are you thinking of?” Sin’s voice seems to be coming from some distant place.

I’m also trapped in another faraway place in the past, in that festively lit washroom at the fall ball . . . and the girl by the sink is wondering aloud if Sin has asked me to the dance out of pity.

“I don’t need more of your pity, Sin,” I almost hiss at him. “I don’t need your interest, charitable or genuine. I’m fine on my own.”

“You’re more than fine on your own, Petra, but that’s beside the point.” Sin is speaking in a firmer tone, as if my delayed responses have given him the time to marshal his thoughts together. “What I’m trying to say, and make you believe, is that I’ve never lied to you about my feelings. That I’ve been entirely truthful from day one.”

The rain has thinned to a drizzle now. Water droplets pool and stream over the stained-glass windows so that their reflections over the stone floor seem to be melting together into a colorful puddle.

Cobwebs hang in the corners, undisturbed by the elements altogether. It’s as if we have stepped outside of regular time into our own dusty nook in the fabric of reality.

“I find that hard to believe, for some reason,” I reply in a quiet voice.

Sin emits a low growl in frustration, and his eyes bore into mine as he steps ever so close. “Now you’re just enjoying me suffer, you lovely, maddening girl.”

Next, his eyes have dropped down to my lips, and I can see the desire beading in them.

“If you believe nothing else, Petra, believe this,” he whispers.

And then he pulls me in for a kiss.

The warmth of his lips against the chill of the mausoleum empties my mind on the spot, and my body responds almost on autopilot. I’m already leaning into his arms, letting them ring around my waist as I kiss him back, angling my head and parting my lips ever so slightly.

“Petra,” he croons as he moves down my neck, his lips tracing out soft lines from the back of my earlobes to the little dip at the base of my throat.

His hands are placed way low over my back, and in a swift movement, he shifts me against the wall, trapping me there with his whole body.

“Fuck, I want you so badly, Petra.” His voice is a velvet snarl as he nips and bites at my throat. Heat pools between my legs, and a breathy little moan escapes my lips every now and then.

In the next moment, he has cupped my ass and hoisted my legs around his waist. I clutch at his shoulders as he rubs against my moistened center through layers of clothing.

Now his hands are scrabbling at my clothes. Between fiery, lip-swelling kisses, Sin pauses to suck at the exposed skin under my blouse.

My eyes almost roll back from the sensation.

Over the past weeks, my body has been wrecked most miserably by the unexpected influx of hormones, and it finally feels good to have its incessant needs met.

Great, maybe you should have another baby with this guy, a dry observation, presumably from my annoying inner voice, throws an entire bucketful of water on the fledgling flames in my body.