Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

by Karina Halle

“Top of the Mark,” I tell her gleefully.

  “Nice,” she says flatly. “Anyway, I suppose I should let you both go on your way.” She pokes me in the arm. “If you don’t text me tonight, I’m showing up at your door. Got it?”

  I wait until she has walked away and is out of sight before I turn to Vicente. “Sorry about that. She can be a bit abrasive.”

  “I like her,” he says. He nods to the hill. “Shall we?”

  I look behind me at the bar, wondering if it makes me sound silly to suggest getting a drink. I don’t want him to think he makes me nervous.

  “I have champagne chilling in the room,” he says.

  My brows shoot up. What?

  It’s like he already knows me on another level.

  He watches me, an amused smirk coming across his lips. “Don’t worry. We can go to the bar if you want. I just figured you might want to be somewhere a little more comfortable to have a drink before dinner. Somewhere where we can control the lights, the music, the scene. Somewhere you can feel in control.”

  He knows the right things to say, that’s for sure, because the longer I’m around him, the more I feel control slipping out of my fingers.

  We head up the hill, my cheek still tingling from where he kissed me while we talk about the weather (it’s supposed to get hot and sunny tomorrow, which often happens in the fall) and the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival in Golden Gate Park over the weekend.

  “I’m not a fan of country music,” he says as we approach the hotel, “but I would love to take you.”

  “My brother Ben is coming up with some of his friends,” I tell him. “We could all go. And they don’t just play country or bluegrass, there’s a range of different music. A billionaire puts it on every year and it’s free for everyone and anyone.”

  “You want me to meet your brother? Sure.”

  I realize that Vicente must think I’m using Ben as a buffer, but I’m not. There’s no need for that, especially as I’m going up to his hotel room right now.

  Once I’m in the hotel and we’re going up the gilded elevator, I’m nervous again. I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror as we stepped inside and it’s burned into my brain. My face staring back at me, white and clear. Not quite fearful, just…alive.

  “Here we are,” Vicente says as we stop outside his room. He swipes the keycard and holds the door open for me.

  It’s like stepping into someone’s apartment. I’ve been in houses smaller than this suite.

  There’s a huge marble kitchen with stainless steel appliances, a dining room, living area, two bathrooms, and two bedrooms. While I wander about taking it all in (how the hell does he afford this?), Vicente pops open the champagne. He wasn’t kidding about that either.

  The most stunning thing about the whole suite is the floor-to-ceiling windows with the city and bay laid out at their feet. The fog is lighter today, and we’re mostly below it, giving us a full view.

  I could study it for hours. In fact, I barely notice that I’ve perched on the edge of a plush armchair, one hand against the glass, both afraid to get closer and wanting to feel more.

  Vicente stands beside me. “Quite the view,” he says.

  But when I manage to tear my eyes away, he’s staring at me, holding out a glass of champagne.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, taking a small sip. It’s hard not to chug the whole thing, but as much as I want to relax I also feel like I should stay on my toes.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a favor?” he says as he walks back to the kitchen to grab the champagne bottle.

  “No,” I tell him, my heart thudding loudly in my ears.

  He brings the champagne over to me and sets it at my feet. “Do you mind if I take your picture?”

  I frown. “Like, now?”

  “Yes. Now. Just…like this.” He waves his hand in the air, gesturing to me, to the city. “But without the jacket. I want to see your tattoos.”

  My throat feels thick. I try to swallow another sip of champagne. “Why?” I manage to say.

  “Because you inspire me,” he says before turning around and going through his camera bag on the coffee table. I watch as he pulls out a brand-new Nikon, the kind of camera I’ve been saving up for.

  He notices my envious gaze because he raises it up. “Tell you what. You let me take your pictures, you keep the pictures and the camera.”

  “What?” Now I’m doubly confused.

  “It’s only fair,” he says, flicking it on and going through the settings.

  I chew on my lip for a moment before guzzling back half the glass of champagne. “But why do you want to take my picture if you’re going to give the pictures to me anyway?”

  “Because I want to show you what I see. You said that’s why you love photography, because you can expose the light in all the darkness. I want to do that with you. I want you to see the beauty that you can’t. See what you look like through my eyes.”

  Damn Vicente. Just, damn.

  I don’t even know what to say. This man is getting under my skin like no one has before. So I grab the champagne and pour another glass because I think I’m going to need it.

  “I don’t need the camera,” I say softly, the bubbles from the glass tickling my nose.

  “It’s yours, whether you take it or not,” he says, walking over to the light dimmer switch so the room is filled with a soft rose glow that seems to stretch out into the endless grey of the city.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just take off your jacket,” he says, coming closer. “Or I can take it off for you…”

  “I can manage.” I put down the glass of champagne and slip my jacket off, tossing it onto the chair cushion behind me.

  He makes a sound of disappointment as his eyes rake over me.

  “What?” I ask.

  He’s shaking his head slightly. “You had to wear a dress that covers everything.”

  “We’re going to a fancy restaurant,” I explain. “I didn’t want my tattoos to be on display. Not that I have many on my arms.”

  He’s watching me carefully, his eyes gleaming dark in the low light. He lifts the camera up to his face, and suddenly I feel his gaze magnified through the lens.

  But he doesn’t take a picture. There’s no click. He’s just observing, bringing the focus in and out, the lens in and out.

  Oh god. I’ve never felt so on display before and I’m fully-clothed. I feel like he’s reading me, sorting through the layers, trying to reach the bottom. He doesn’t realize he won’t like what he finds.

  I let out a shaky breath and bring my attention back to the cityscape outside the large windows, trying to relax. “Is this all you want me to do? Just sit here?”

  He doesn’t answer me at first, just keeps watching. Like he’s waiting for something and I don’t know what it is.

  “How do you feel?” he asks. “Right now.”

  “Right now?” I repeat. My veins feel hot, warming my body from the inside. My cheeks have to be flushed red. “I feel…stupid.”

  “And?”

  “And? Well, I don’t know. I want to finish the champagne.”

  “Then finish it.” He comes closer, the lens still at the forefront. I’ve never felt such scrutiny before, never been the subject like this.

  I pick up the glass and drink the rest of it, holding it between my fingers, feeling the cold fragility of the stem. I try and concentrate on that feeling instead of everything else that’s going on.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Buzzed,” I admit. “Better. But I still don’t know why you’re not taking any photos.”

  “Because I don’t believe in wasting shots. I’m waiting.”

  “For what?” I ask thickly. He’s shooting on fucking digital.

  “To see you.”

  I rub my lips together nervously, watching as a low cloud skirts the top of the Transamerica Pyramid. “You don’t see me?”

  Again he doesn’t answer. He puts the
camera down gently and walks over to me until his thigh is pressed up against my arm.

  My breath stills in my throat. I slowly raise my head to look up at him, trying to steady myself so I don’t fall backward onto the armchair.

  He reaches down and carefully runs his fingers across my collarbone, soft like feathers, until his hand slips behind my neck. He holds it gently, firmly.

  I can barely breathe. Not because he’s choking me, but because the feel of his palm at my neck is rendering me incapable of anything. Any thought. I’m just here and he’s here, and I’m feeling everything sink into my skin.

  “There,” he murmurs, his voice so rich and low that it coats me from head to toe. “This is you. No thoughts. No inner world. No voices. Just you. Here with me. This is the you I want.”

  “You want?” The words leave my lips in a whisper.

  “Si,” he says. His hand goes up to the base of my ponytail and the other holds the back of my head still as he slips the elastic band off until my hair is cascading loose around my shoulders.

  I have to admit, I feel better with it down, like it’s armor.

  He then crouches until he’s just below me and reaches for the hem of my dress, slowly raising it above my leggings.

  “What are you…?” I start to ask but then realize there’s no point.

  “I want to see all of you,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine as he brings the hem of the dress to my waist.

  I should ask him what time dinner is. I should tell him things are getting out of hand. I should probably stop him.

  But I don’t want to.

  I want things to get out of hand.

  I’m scared to death of everything that’s happening.

  And I’ve never wanted it more.

  His hands slip under the dress, hitting my bare stomach, and I gasp. My skin is sensitive, feeling the warmth of his palm like a searing sun.

  He keeps his eyes on me as he moves them up, stopping just short of my breasts.

  “Lift up,” he whispers, tugging at the dress again.

  I take in a deep breath, a long pause, before briefly raising my hips off the arm of the chair as he pulls the dress up. I sit back down then raise my arms straight up.

  Vicente stands, lifting the dress up and over my head, over my arms until I’m sitting on the edge of the armchair in just my bra. I automatically lean over, trying to shield my stomach rolls from his eyes, even though my leggings are high-waisted.

  “These too,” he says, going for my boots now. He crouches down at my feet and unzips them, one by one. He does it all with such patience and ease, like he’s enjoying every second. “Don’t feel self-conscious in front of me. Let all of that go.”

  Easy for him to say. It’s been forever since I was half-naked with a man.

  “Trust me,” he whispers, pulling off the boots and setting them to the side. Large hands run up my calves, my thighs, until they settle around the waistband of my leggings. His fingers curl around it as he slowly pulls them down.

  I’m breathless as I watch him teasingly expose me to the room, to the city, to him. My skin erupts in goosebumps from head to toe, a contrast against my bra and underwear, gold silk trimmed in black lace.

  What am I doing?

  “Just like this,” he says, his voice still low and settling over me like velvet. He picks up his camera and peers through it.

  Finally, a click.

  I don’t even know what face I was making.

  “Just relax,” he says again. “Tell me about your tattoos.”

  Tattoos? I can barely remember them. I have to look down at my body to see them.

  “Uh, I just got this dinosaur. Thought he was pretty cute.”

  “Dinosaurs,” he muses gently.

  “I was pretty obsessed with them growing up.”

  “Mmmm. Tell me about the snowflakes,” he says. “On your shoulder. Do you think you’re an ice queen?”

  I give him a shaking smile, looking over my shoulder at the small ones that ink down my back.

  Click, click, click.

  I try my hardest to bury the self-doubt and I take a deep breath. “I was tired of being called a special snowflake for most of my life.”

  He lets out a small laugh but keeps shooting.

  “You don’t seem so cold to me, Violet.”

  “It’s not because I’m cold,” I tell him, staring off into the distance, hoping he’s getting my profile and not a double chin. “In America, we call someone a snowflake if they’re especially sensitive. Because snowflakes are seen as fragile and weak. And I’m, well, you know...”

  “Snow is rare in Mexico. I’ve only seen it in other countries.” This makes me wonder how many countries he’s been to. “To me, a snowflake is precious and beautiful. Not fragile, not weak. You have enough of them, you create an avalanche.” He pauses. “And besides, even if they’re delicate, even if you’re delicate, how is that an insult at all?”

  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 so
unds 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.