Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

I give a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know. But that’s why I wanted the tattoo. To show them, the world, that I own the title. They can’t insult me if I don’t take it as an insult. I wanted to take the power back.”

He comes closer to me and I inhale sharply as his fingers brush the hair off my back and trace over the snowflakes with the gentlest touch. I can’t help but close my eyes, giving into it, my neck arching back slightly.

Another click.

This time, I don’t mind.

“I hope you realize the strength in it. In what you have. In what you are.”

I open my eyes and watch as he comes around to the front of me, his back to the windows, the camera aimed at my body.

“I rarely see the strength,” I admit, my limbs tensing before the lens. “As I said the other day, it would be nice to turn the world off. To have nothing bother me. To let everything go.”

“What do you think I’m trying to get you to do?” He eyes me over the camera and I’m struck by the intimacy of his gaze.

“You think taking my photo in my bra and underwear is a way to make me let go?” I let out a decidedly unsexy snort laugh.

Click, click, click.

Oh for the love of...

Now I’m hoping that I still get to keep the camera because these photos have to be the absolute worst.

“You’re halfway there,” he says. “I’ll bring you the rest of the way.”

I can only stare at him. Blink. Blink.

A grave look comes over his face. He gestures to the seat of the chair. “Slide back into it. Ass on the seat, legs over here.”

Okay, now he’s directing me. I do as he says, sitting in the seat with my legs hooked over one arm and my back against the other. Somehow this makes me more comfortable. Maybe he knows that.

But then he walks off into the bedroom and disappears.

At least it gives me a moment to get my bearings.

Which actually isn’t the best because the more I think about what I’m doing—I mean we haven’t even kissed yet—the more nuts I feel.

That feeling peaks when Vicente comes back out of the bedroom holding a tie loosely gathered in one hand.

He stops by my head. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” I stare up at him.

“Trust me.”

“Why do you have a tie?”

“You’ll see. Close your eyes.”

But I don’t. Not right away. My eyes lock with his as my heart spins faster and faster. His expression says to trust him.

I probably shouldn’t.

I close my eyes.





Chapter Nine





Violet




The soft satiny finish of the tie is laid across my eyes. I try not to flinch. And fail. My nerves are all over the place.

Vicente just blindfolded me with his tie.

So much for fucking dinner plans.

I swallow anxiously as he knots it around the back of my head.

“Keep it on, try not to move much,” he murmurs as he steps away. His voice sounds extra rich in the dark, his light accent making everything inside me dance.

The camera clicks away. I can’t tell where the lens is aimed. I can’t tell how close the shot is. I don’t know what he sees.

“How do you feel?” he asks me.

“Um…weird.” My throat feels parched.

“Good weird?”

“I don’t know.” I try to swallow. “Maybe?”

“What is your mind doing?”

“It’s going a mile a minute,” I admit.

Are the photos flattering?

Thank god I’m not hunched over anymore.

Where is he looking?

What is he going to do next?

Are we going to make the dinner reservation?

Is this tie his, and if so, does he have a suit? Is that what he’s wearing tonight?

Vicente would look amazing in a suit.

Vicente looks amazing in everything.

Vicente is taking pictures of me while I’m half-naked and blindfolded, just laid out on his hotel chair like a piece of art, the city of San Francisco oblivious to all that’s going on.

“Can you shut off that world?” he asks gently. I feel him move down toward my waist. “Can you make it go away?”

I shake my head and stop when the tie begins to slide. “No. I can’t.”

It’s why I’ve always sucked at yoga.

That, and I prefer to punch things instead of stretch.

Click, click, click.

The camera fires, followed by the sound of it being placed on the glass coffee table.

Everything is heightened now. The sound of his breath. The whoosh of hot blood in my head. The dull roar of the city traffic below.

His fingers brush against my stomach.

My breath hitches.

He doesn’t say anything.

He moves his fingers just below the curve of my belly until it runs along the band of my underwear.

Oh my god.

His finger teases along the underside of it. So simple, not even touching anything but a slice of skin, and yet it’s terrifyingly intimate.

Everything in me tenses. My teeth grind together. I’ve never felt so on edge. Never felt so in the moment.

The moment.

It’s wrapping around me and holding me in place.

“That’s it,” he says roughly. “Just be.” His voice trails off as his other hand moves to my hips and his fingers curl under the satin edges.

He starts to pull my underwear down. I lift up my hips without him asking.

All at once the moment starts to lose hold of me, the voices come back in my head, the worries, the guilt, the shame.

I hope I didn’t fuck up my bikini trim.

I hope he didn’t expect me completely hairless.

I hope my thighs look okay.

I hope he likes what he sees.

I hope my…

My thoughts fail me as my underwear hangs from one foot and his hands go between my thighs, parting them.

Oh god.

Oh my god.

His thumbs press into my inner thighs, his fingers on the outside, a firm hold on both legs. He stands between my parted knees.

Every single part of me is on the razor edge of anticipation, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to do something.

What does he want from me?

He murmurs something in Spanish, something that makes his voice go all throaty, like it’s choking with lust.

My heart tries to climb out between my ribs.

The world slows its spin.

It’s like all the planets are fixed to this place, a new orbit.

It’s pretty obvious what he wants from me.