Page 72 of Sinister

“Then you are considering it,” he says, voice light.

I don’t reply. Still frozen in the moment, captive to my thoughts and a hidden desire that makes me want to embrace this madness.

“Tick tock, Petra. Just one kiss. It won’t hurt you. You’re not losing anything.”

I swallow hard. My gaze drifts to his mouth, then back to his eyes. I don’t know what’s come over me. One kiss. Just one.

I lick my lips, nervous.

“One kiss,” I repeat, barely a whisper. It’s madness that I’m even considering it. Madness that I’m here at all. And yet, despite everything I know is wrong about this, about him, I can’t bring myself to walk away.

Not just because he’s not part of my congregation. Not just because he’s technically still a stranger. It’s more than that. He’s a contradiction in every possible way—charming and infuriating, magnetic and mysterious. Nothing he does makes logical sense, and yet, there’s always a strange reasoning behind it.

He speaks with conviction. He’s eloquent, persuasive, and I’ve never been more confused by someone in my life.

I should be running. I should never have eavesdropped; I should have never left my house, without my veil of all things.

Yet, here I am.

Slowly, I lift my hands and rest them on his shoulders. I meet his gaze, my voice trembling. “One kiss,” I say again. “Just one.”

“Just one, Petra,” he echoes.

I press my lips together and draw in a deep breath. Leaning in, I close my eyes and gently purse my lips.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t pull me in.

He leaves everything up to me.

So I do it.

I press my lips against his. His mouth is soft, warmer than I expected. A small sigh escapes me as I move my mouth, barely brushing over his, testing, unsure. It’s strange—but not unpleasant. There’s something oddly comforting in the contact. Something I hadn’t anticipated.

Just as I begin to pull away—thinking, perhaps foolishly, that I’ve done my Christian duty—his hands suddenly grip my waist.

A gasp escapes me.

He uses it. Seizes it.

And in that moment, he takes full possession of the kiss.

His mouth parts against mine, his tongue gently tracing the seam of my lips, seeking entry. I clutch the fabric of his shirt in both fists, trying to anchor myself, trying to stay grounded, but it’s useless. A flood of unfamiliar sensations crashes through me, overwhelming and raw.

His grip tightens.

“Open up for me,” he breathes against my mouth.

“What—?” I try to ask, but before the words leave me, his tongue slips past my lips, stealing my breath and any sense of control.

The tip of his tongue brushes mine, coaxing it into a slow, deliberate rhythm—seductive, consuming. My knees weaken. A shudder runs through me. He kisses me like he’s starving. Like he’s trying to drink me in. And I don’t know how to explain the way I feel, because I’ve never felt anything like it before.

He deepens the kiss, and suddenly there is no distinction between where I end and he begins. My breath becomes his breath. My thoughts scatter.

His teeth graze my lower lip before he returns to me again, this time more urgently. Faster. Deeper. He holds me so tightly I couldn’t pull away if I wanted to.

But . . . do I want to?

What is this madness? What is he doing to me?