Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I purse my lips sympathetically, putting my free hand on his chest. He’s about two inches shorter, so I try to come off as unassuming as I can. “Don’t be, James. We’re enjoying some wine and music. And I like you. I think we’re going to have a fabulous time together.”
He must take my mention of a “fabulous time” as code for sex, because he flushes and brings his wineglass to his mouth, taking two long gulps for fortification. I internally wince, knowing that’s not going to feel good soon. William told me one sip would work its magic, and it would happen quickly.
Because of that, I take James’ hand and suggest, “How about we retire to your room? We’d be more comfortable there, I’m sure.”
“Oh… okay,” he mumbles, his cheeks going even more red. His palm turns clammy as he leads me down a hall to the master suite.
I see the Renoir on the wall as soon as we enter, but I quickly avert my gaze when he gives a nervous sweep of his arm. “A bit overdone, right?”
It’s definitely ostentatious. He left the cold, contemporary design of the rest of the house behind. In here, it’s all heavy, ornate woods and thick velvet curtains with gold tassels. But the Renoir fits in this room. It’s a small painting of a young girl sitting on a riverbank, no more than ten-by-ten inches total. However, the gilded gold frame is at least five inches wider, and there’s special up-lighting below the artwork to enhance the colors and brush strokes of such a masterpiece.
“You know I’m far too old for you,” James blurts out, then drops his eyes to the floor.
I feel sorry for him and his loneliness. In this moment, I hate myself. I step close to him, which causes his head to lift. Once I take the wineglass from his hand, I set both down on a side table against the wall.
“You’re not too old for me, James,” I assure him softly. I take his hands, making him physically wrap them around my waist. Leaning in, I brush my lips against his. “And I like mature men.”
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes going to my mouth. “And sweet.”
No, I’m not, James. Don’t you get my name is Sin for a reason?
He rises to give me a deeper kiss, and I brace for it. I hate this part, not only for leading him on, but also because he’s the last person in the world I want to kiss.
An image of Saint pops into my brain, and I try to banish it. He has no business here, but ever since my dream last night, it’s been hard to not think about him.
Just before James’ lips touch mine, he gives a tiny groan, his hands falling away from my waist.
“James?” I inquire, knitting my eyebrows in concern. “Are you okay?”
Sweat pops out on his forehead. “I’m not sure. I feel a little funny.”
“Your face is pale,” I say with an almost motherly tone, putting my hand to his clammy cheek. “Can I get you—”
James doubles over at the waist. He clutches his stomach, a loud moan of pain emanating from him.
“James,” I exclaim loudly, squatting so I can get a good look at him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m going to be sick,” he groans, then runs for his bathroom. He doesn’t even make it to the toilet. Instead, he bends over his sink and starts retching. Red wine and the nibbles we had at the party come up.
I’m not disgusted in the slightest. In full work mode right now, I watch dispassionately while he heaves, all while rubbing his back.
When it seems to have passed, he straightens and apologetically meets my eyes in the mirror. “I’m so sorry, Melanie.”
That was the fake name I’d given. For a moment, I’d forgotten. “It’s fine. Maybe it was the shrimp you had. I didn’t have any of that as I’m allergic, but—”
James groans again. He bends over, retching and heaving, but nothing comes up. His arms wrap around his stomach. It’s clear he’s in pain. William said there would be discomfort, but it was necessary to the plan.
Several seconds pass before James stops hurling. I take a washcloth from the vanity, run it under cold water, and place it on the nape of his neck. He sighs in relief, moving a hand there to hold it.
“Think you can make it to your bed?” I ask. “I’ll move a rubbish bin there for you.”
“Yes, thank you,” he whispers, his expression sheepish with apology. “I just—”
Once again, he bends over and moans, tears leaking out of his eyes. “Oh, bloody hell… something is seriously wrong.”
“That’s it,” I say with quick efficiency, my take-charge attitude lost on him as he’s in so much agony right now. He clutches onto the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror. “I’m calling 1-1-2.”