Sinners Condemned : Chapter 28

liar and a cheat but so is Raphael. He definitely didn’t count to ten before he rose to his feet and sliced through the crowd toward me.

Panic buzzing in my veins, I bolt through an unmarked door with no sense of direction. When it slams behind me, the thrum of the party fades, and the smell of damp earth assaults me. Another cave—great. Away from curious eyes, my brisk walk breaks into a clumsy run as I travel deeper into the darkness. This cave turns off into another, and then another, and then when I turn again and there’s no light in sight, I realize I’m a fucking idiot.

I guess because the unknown ahead of me is still less frightening than the known behind me.

Biting down the dread rock-climbing up my throat, I keep moving, distracting myself by mentally brushing up on my monologue.

I’ve had this speech locked in one of those boxes in my head for years, but I’ve never had to use it. Tried to with Martin O’Hare, but his hand found my throat before I could get it out.

I wonder where Raphael’s hands will go when he catches me.

On Thursday night, his hand flew to my throat, too. What I didn’t expect was for them to slip off me when I confessed my worst sin, and then for him to tuck me up in his car and tell me he’ll handle it. What does that even mean? Should I be worried or relieved?

A chill travels up my spine, and not just because it’s freezing in here. It’s even darker now, and I can’t even see my ragged puffs of condensation painting the blackness.

My fingers graze the craggy wall, following the curve into fucking tunnel, where I crash into something stone-like. Something with hot hands, a violent heartbeat, and no regard for my safety as it slams me against the wall.

If a million enemies had followed me into the cave network, I’d still know it was Raphael who’d found me. Because Christ, no other scent could light a fire between my thighs like the warm cocktail of cologne, mint, and danger that seeps out of this man’s pores. Even the bitter breeze of whiskey leaving his lips and grazing my throat doesn’t bother me; I’m too high off the weight of his body caging me in.

That word doesn’t exist under the cloak of this darkness, and when his hands start to roam, I know I don’t want it to. They fist the skirt of my dress and drag it up my thighs. If the urgency in his movements hadn’t made me so dizzy, I’d tell him to be careful, because I’d left the tag on this dress in the hopes of taking it back tomorrow.

“Nice dress,” he hisses, all silk-clad venom against the flickering pulse in my throat. “You steal it?”

His hands make contact with my bare hips, the fabric of my dress now draped around his forearms. Every inch of my body sings with anticipation, the icy chill whistling in the small gap between us reminding me that I shouldn’t feel this fucking hot in December.

“Not this one,” I grind out, my lips against his chest. “Bought it with my stripper money—”

A hard, hot slap connects with my ass cheek, and my yelp of surprise soaks into the expensive fabric of his shirt. “What did I say about stripping for other men, Penelope?” he says, his rough tone at odds with the slow, soothing circles his palm now makes on my stinging ass.

“I don’t need to strip for other men. I’ve got this one client who overpays for lap dances in his car.”

Another slap. This one so loud the impact echoes off the dripping ceiling. My moan rises up after it, like steam in a hot sauna. Before I can suck in another breath, his hips push me further into the wall, something hard and throbbing in the middle of them.

A void opens up in my lower stomach and begs to be filled with friction. I don’t have to give him the satisfaction of grinding myself against him like I did in his car, because both his hands slide round to my ass and cup my cheeks as he pulls me against his erection.

It nestles perfectly between my thighs, and I’m too delirious from the weight of it to come up with another sarcastic retort.

His lips brush the crown of my head. “You said you were going straight. Martin not teach you anything?”

“I am. I mean, I have—”

Another slap on my ass. This one is so violent that it lurches me forward, so my clit tingles on his bulge.

All I can hear is buzzing in my ears when he speaks again. “There’s only one little brat on this Coast who’d teach Rory to card count.”

Sparks run from the warmth of his fingertips down to my pussy as they trail along the thin band of my thong. When they connect under my navel, I stop breathing.

If he dipped those thick fingers lower, he’d realize my body doesn’t hate him as much as my brain does.

But he doesn’t. He only snaps the band with an irritated hiss and grabs my wrist. He tugs me into the darkness, and when I pull back, he tightens his hold on me.

“You won’t make it out of here on your own, Penelope.”

Yeah, not a chance. Ass stinging and heart thundering, I follow him blindly through the tunnels.

His heavy footsteps echo against the thick walls, and as the sound of the party grows louder, my body grows lighter with relief. That was a surprisingly easy punishment for the crime committed. Just like yesterday when he chased me into the forest and I confessed the reason I was really on the Coast, he let me off easy.

We burst through a door and it’s like we never left the club. Cheers rise up from the roulette table, drunken conversations float over cocktails at the bar. We’ve re-entered from a different door, and I can see the back of Rory’s curly hair on the other side of the room. I take one step toward her, but a tug on my wrist pulls me into a booth in the shadows.

I sigh. Clearly, Raphael hasn’t finished torturing me yet.

“Don’t move.”

He disappears, emerging shortly from the direction of the bar with two drinks in his hands. He holds the whiskey glass with the tips of his fingers and slams a passion fruit martini down in front of me.

I stare at it.

But there’s no time to dwell on it, not when his heavy hand brushes back the hem of my dress and clamps down on my knee. Despite every feminist bone in my body, I can’t help but squirm under the possessiveness behind his palm.

He pulls a deck of cards out his pocket. Turns over the top card.

“Higher or lower.”

My gaze slides to his profile. He’s staring straight ahead, his expression neutral, save for the telling tick of his jaw.

“I—”

He squeezes my knee. “Not in the mood, Penelope.”

I suck in a steadying breath. I know exactly what he’s doing, because Nico did it with me, and I did it with Rory. It’s how you practice card counting as a beginner. You go through the deck, guessing whether the next card will be a high or low value number. By keeping a running count of what’s been dealt, the odds of guessing correctly grow significantly higher the closer you get to the bottom of the deck.

I’m the best at this game, but by the way Raphael is gripping my thigh, maybe I don’t want to be.

I glare down at the three of clubs. Statistically speaking, the answer is obvious. “Higher.”

The walls of my stomach tense as his hand slides a few inches up my thigh. Okay, I haven’t played version before. I look up at him, but still, his expression conveys he could be waiting for a bus.

The of another card hitting the table. Four of spades.

I sigh. Flick my gaze to the rocky ceiling. “Higher,” I whisper.

Jack of spades.

My fingers curl over the edge of the booth as the cold buckle of his watch glides up the outside of my thigh, and the soft pad of his thumb trails the inside.

Heart stuttering, I look around the room desperately. The festive glow of the party doesn’t touch our corner of the cave, and I have no doubt party-goers don’t even know we’re here, let alone how close Raphael’s thumb is to the gusset of my thong.

Jack of spades, okay. Fuck. Logically, I should say lower, but the ache of anticipation in my clit has other ideas.

“Higher.”

Raphael’s eyes slide sideways, lighting with something uncouth, and he turns over another card.

Queen of hearts.

He lets out a sardonic breath. “You have got to be shitting me.”

As he hooks his thumb over the gusset of my panties, our gazes clash. By the darkness that clouds his irises, I know he can feel what’s been brewing between my thighs since his hands lifted the hemline of my dress in the cave.

His knuckle presses into my slickness, then, gripping my inner thigh, he extends his thumb so it slides under the lace and carves a maddeningly slow path between my folds.

He stops dangerously close to my clit.

We stare at each other. I couldn’t breathe even if I wanted to. The noise of the party fades as my eyes convey the desperation I can’t conceal any longer. His soften with something that raises the goosebumps along my arms.

A flash of green and citrine and then I gasp as his thumb presses against my clit, and his free hand finds purchase in the base of my hair. He yanks my head back, presses his lips to my neck, and growls his next question against my throat.

“How did you learn to card count?”

“I didn’t. You already know this, I’m lucky—”

My protest is cut off by a blaze of pleasure igniting in my core.

Raphael’s thumb moves in fast, unrelenting circles, and white spots dance behind my eyelids.

“You’re not lucky, Penelope. Not to me. Ever since you turned up on this Coast I’ve been the unluckiest person in the world. I’m losing everything I’ve worked for, and it’s all because of you.”

Shock overriding my lust, I grip his hair and yank his head back, until his lips brush against mine. I grin against his mouth. “So you believe in luck. Is that why you hate me?”

He laughs bitterly, and I drink every inch of hot breath like it’s a lifeline. “I’m as superstitious as the day is long, Penelope. Didn’t used to be. Don’t want to be, either. Because nobody trusts a CEO or an underboss who avoids walking under ladders, or raps their knuckles against the nearest wooden surface when any ill-intended thought slips from their mouth. It’s ironic, really. I’ve built my entire fortune on games of chance and statistical probability. I’ve never made a decision based on emotion, and then you fucking come along, and I’m suddenly killing business partners because they look at you wrong. You know, I’m starting to think that fucking gypsy was right.”

“What gypsy—?”

A hot, thick finger slides into my entrance and all thoughts, including those of superstitions and gypsies, leave my head. Christ. He pushes deeper, in and out, in and out, like he’s committing the walls of my pussy to memory. My forehead presses against his, our breath intertwining. His gaze drops to my lips and he groans.

“What, you wanna kiss me or something?” I say, my sarcasm tinged with hope.

“Or something,” he mutters back, flicking my clit for my insolence.

My spine buckles under the electric shock, and I hook my finger over his collar pin to keep me close to him.

“Then why don’t you?”

He laughs. “I’d never give you the satisfaction, Penelope.”

Pride flares up in my chest like a nasty rash. “Yeah, well I wouldn’t kiss you either.”

“No?”

“Nah. I don’t like the taste of whiskey.”

He releases my hair, slides his hand down my back, and pulls me toward him by my ass, so his fingers can reach deeper inside of me. I cry out, squirming at the building pressure. Fuck, is this what foreplay is? Because if it is, how does any girl last until penetration?

“Bet you you’ll kiss me first.”

I laugh, delirium blurring my vision. “Bet you a million dollars my lips would touch yours first.”

Another flick on my clit. Another step closer to the edge. When he plunges back into my entrance, it’s with two fingers this time. My tunnel burns with my dark satisfaction as it stretches to accommodate him.

“You don’t have a million dollars,” he says, sounding bored.

“Doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to lose.”

His laugh is so soft against my mouth that in my mindless state, I’m tempted to take out a bank loan then and there. Instead, I throw my head back out of the way of temptation and ride his fingers.

Sparks crackle and pop in my lower core, dimming my vision and spreading a heady lust throughout my veins. When Raphael speaks, I barely hear him over the ringing in my ears.

“You’re a bad girl, Penelope.”

“Yes,” I gasp.

“And you know what happens to bad girls?”

I’m so close to an orgasm I can fucking taste it.

But then Raphael snatches it away, his fingers leaving my panties with a light of elastic.

Bewildered, my gaze falls from the ceiling to his, just as his damp hand comes to my jaw. He tracks his movement in dark fascination as he spreads my juices over my bottom lip.

“They don’t get to come.”

And then as if we’d sat down for a business meeting, he rises to his feet. Smooths down his slacks and swipes a thumb over his collar pin before strolling into the crowd. He leaves me with a thumping clit, a frustrated heart, and a new hatred for men with large hands and silky voices.