Page 116 of Sinister

“Sin, stop!” I gasp. When he keeps fumbling with my panties without pausing, I push him away abruptly and start straightening my clothes. “What the—” I gasp and massage my neck and chest area; they feel sore from all the sucking and biting.

I will probably have golf ball–sized hickeys tomorrow.

“What the fuck are we doing?” I cry out in exasperation, the ‘we’ alluding to two pairs: Sin and me, and me and my own body. All four of us have a lot to learn about self-restraint.

He stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise that I wanted all the delicious frotting to stop.

“Petra, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to . . .” He’s stuffing his shirt back into his pants and trying to pat down his hair into place.

I shake my head, more as an effort to gather my thoughts than to dispel his doubts.

“I’m fine, I just . . . we can’t do this. I can’t do this. I need time, Sin.”

“I don’t understand, Petra,” Sin says, his voice softer now, but there’s outright hunger in his eyes as he reaches for me. “I thought you wanted me to . . . I thought you were enjoying it.”

“And I was, I’m not denying that,” I reply in a flustered, trembling tone. Because Lord knows it had felt good.

At the same time, I have just been to a friend’s funeral. My emotions and physical sensations are all over the place. The stuffy atmosphere of the mausoleum has started dampening my spirits, and the thought of being watched by dead people is rather unnerving.

Besides all these abstract considerations is the very real weight of the you-know-who floating in its warm, dreamy cocoon inside me. My life is much too complicated at the moment for me to be cavorting around cemeteries with devastatingly handsome guys.

“It’s just too much too soon for me. I’m a bit of a mess right now, Sin, and I need to focus on getting my shit together.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes visibly harden, as do the lines of his face. There are subtly perceptible changes in his body language as well.

Again, he seems to be undergoing some subtle metamorphosis, as the pleasant, swooning lover from a few seconds before is suddenly replaced by a frowning guy who looms over me.

Nah, I’m not doing this, I mentally decide.

That is all the courage I need to take a step toward the exit, even though the rain outside has picked up again and is now pouring down in broad sheets rippling in the wind.

He doesn’t really step aside to make space for me, so I clear my throat and say, “I need to go,” in a louder voice that’s also supposed to remind him I can always call out for help.

“Very well, Petra,” he responds in a strikingly curt tone. “If that’s what you really want. But before you go, there’s something else we must talk about.”

I freeze, somehow knowing what’s coming next. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel my throat tighten.

“Sin, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“I saw the video, too, Petra,” Sin continues, as if he hasn’t heard me. “The one from the ball. Is it true? Are you pregnant?”

Okay, okay, calm down, my inner voice says, trying her best to maintain my—our—composure.

“It’s not yours, Sin,” I blurt out, my voice trembling. “The baby . . . it’s not yours.”

Why did I say that?

I will think about the reasons later because right now, some hidden impulse runs strong and sure over my tongue and locks it before I can take back the words.

His face falls instantly, and his eyes cloud over with confusion and pain.

“What? Petra, what do you mean?”

“It’s getting late, Sin. I have to go,” I respond in the brusquest tone I can muster. And while he’s still reeling back in shock, I take advantage of his disoriented state to slip past his arms and run out into the rain.

The cold water feels like so many needles poking against my skin, but I don’t care. All I want is to get away, so I start pushing against the hefty wind and hurrying toward the exit gate where the car would be waiting for me.

“Petra! Petra, wait, please!” Sin’s voice calls after me, desperate and pleading, but I don’t turn back.