Chapter 8
S inclair pulled me into his arms, and I had to simply let him, as if I were a limp rag doll, because I felt like I could barely move.
He was warm and smelled good up close.
For now, I tried to push the enormity of what had just happened out of my mind, because it was already done.
Hadn’t I wanted this?
Oh, yes…and, this close to him again, I wanted so much more.
Grateful that my animal desires eclipsed my noisy brain, I focused on how strong he felt against my body.
His chest was nothing but pure muscle, unforgiving and yet smooth beneath my fingers.
“How do you feel?” he asked as my finger swirled on his nipple.
“I can’t even describe it. Right now, I feel like I could melt into your bed.”
He chuckled, his hand moving over my back.
As it made its way to the curve, I wanted him to keep going—to cup my ass, to sneak his fingers between my legs.
How was I feeling so desirous again already?
And yet I was. It had to be because of him.
He had this effect on me.
But, rather than question it, I kissed his chest.
And I decided to admit it.
“I want you inside me. I want to know what that feels like.” Kissing up his chest, I began moving touching my lips to his neck, his chin—and his stubble prickled at me as if warning me.
But I pressed on.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“More than.” I kissed him hard on the lips then, and he returned it with force, as if this had been the moment he’d been waiting for.
Then he rolled me on my back and kissed my neck, my nipples, licked and lapped until I was arching my back, practically begging him to tear me in half.
I needed him—and it was as if my body was telling me it had been waiting my whole life for him.
For Sinclair.
Maybe it had.
His legs were between mine, but it was his fingers that touched me there, heating me up all over again.
Then he sat up, pulling open a drawer in the nightstand beside the bed.
I almost asked what he was doing when I saw the answer in the form of a little square packet.
I might have been a virgin, but I knew what that was and felt immense gratitude.
I hadn’t even stopped to think how vulnerable I’d been at that moment.
Instead, I’d been completely thoughtless.
What the hell would I have done if I’d gotten pregnant?
But his lips back on mine after he put the condom on pulled me from my self-criticism.
Again, he maneuvered his fingers between my legs and stroked my slit, but this time, he slid a finger inside as if testing the waters before swimming.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice coarse.
“Yes.”
Closing my eyes, I readied myself.
Once more, his lips touched mine and I opened them to invite him inside, envisioning every part of me unfurling itself for him like a summer flower.
At first, his manhood entering me felt slightly uncomfortable—but as it progressed, the pain increased, and I pictured my walls spreading apart, pushing back, inviting him in.
But there was resistance…
as if my own body were betraying me.
Like earlier, an unbidden noise escaped my mouth, but it was not a sound of pleasure.
His voice was soft. “Are you all right?”
“Mm-hmm.” This wasn’t true, but I thought back to that middle grade sex ed class.
I knew there was a hymen inside me that needed to be broken—that was the medieval way of determining if a new wife was truly a virgin.
It was the blood that came after from the tearing of that thin membrane—and possibly the sensation of breaking through—that told them.
And so I knew this was something I had to do.
Afterward, it wouldn’t hurt as much…
because there wouldn’t be anything left to break.
And I was giving to Sinclair the one thing I could never give to anyone else.
But I was fooling myself.
I wasn’t just giving him my virginity or my body.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was also handing him the keys to my heart.
And as he broke through that wall, my fingernails digging into his back, he possessed every little part of me.
I just didn’t know it yet.
Sinclair had been as gentle as could be under the circumstances.
We took a short shower afterward and then he’d put me in one of his white cotton t-shirts.
And then we curled up in bed next to each other.
The last time I’d glanced at his clock, it had been somewhere around eleven—and I wished I could sleep, but the throbbing pain between my legs and my excited brain were making it difficult.
Fortunately, Sinclair didn’t seem to mind.
He pulled me into his arms and held me close under that black silky sheet, his hand again lazily stroking my back.
This time, though, my girl parts decided they could wait a day or so before asking for seconds.
Because there was a soft light flowing out from the bathroom, I looked around his bedroom without moving my head—and I spotted the book on the dresser.
“Have you started reading it?”
“What?” Although his voice didn’t sound sleepy, he might have been getting close.
“ Snow Falling on Cedars . It’s on your dresser.”
“No, not really. I’m sorry. I’ve reread the first couple of paragraphs a couple of times—but then my daily reading beckons me.”
“Once you get through the first chapter—”
“I know. You said that. I plan to settle down with it when we get our first good snowstorm on a weekend. I’ll curl up with it in front of the fireplace in the study.”
“You don’t have to read it.”
“I want to, Lise. I promised.”
I ran my hand along his firm shoulder and upper arm.
“What’s this tattoo?” I asked, wanting to know anything about him he’d be willing to share.
“Oh, that stupid thing. It’s a lion, the mascot for Columbia.” The college he attended—I remembered.
It had been one of the first things we’d talked about, before we discovered each other’s real identity.
“I and three other boys had had a long weekend of drinking and wound up talking each other into it. It was an act of rebellion against our uptight parents.”
“Do you regret it?”
Opening his eyes, he grinned.
“Not a damn bit.” Then he moved his hand to my arm, running a finger along it.
“Besides, my father never found out about it. So much for being rebellious. What difference does it make if the people you’re rebelling against have no idea?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
I’d never rebelled against my father…
because he was all I’d ever had in this world.
Rebelling against him would have been like cutting off one of my hands.
Moving his head as if to capture my eyes, he seemed to sense my thoughts—and hoped to keep them light.
“What about you? Why no tattoos? Not that I’m complaining.”
Besides the fact that I couldn’t afford them…
there was yet another reason.
The crowd didn’t accept me, so why would I follow them?
“Everybody has one.”
“Exactly. And everyone your age seems to have a dozen—”
“What do you mean everyone my age ? You’re not that much older.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“How old are you, Annalise?” The way he said my full first name sent a rumble through my body…
because his question suddenly felt like a command—and I was compelled to obey.
Still… “Do you really want to know?”
The smile was fading from his face, even though he didn’t seem angry.
“I asked.”
“I’m nineteen.”
He let out a quick breath as if I’d punched him.
“Christ.”
“Why?”
“You’re…barely legal.”
Now I felt a bit of a sting.
“I’m an adult. Fully legal. I’m old enough to make my own decisions—and to know what I want,” I spat, hoping my vehemence convinced him more than it convinced myself.
He continued to frown, so I asked, “How old are you ?” I’d guessed late twenties or early thirties, but his hesitance made me wonder.
“I’m thirty.”
It was my turn to let out a breath, but this one felt like relief.
“You’re not that much older.”
“I’m—”
“Not old enough to be my dad, not under any circumstances. So it’s fine. I don’t understand why it wouldn’t be.”
He was quiet for a bit before he spoke again.
“Regardless, it’s done.”
Although he held me again, something seemed to have shifted, and my mind took it all in.
Even though it still hurt between my legs, I was glad I’d done this, happy I’d given myself to Sinclair.
But my heart felt like it was being squeezed—because the feeling didn’t seem to be mutual, not now.
He’d promised me earlier that he could make me feel like a queen whenever I wanted, except in this moment it seemed as if he were withdrawing that offer.
Then I thought about my dad…
not just what he’d think if he knew I was sleeping with the enemy, but how he’d react if he knew I’d given this man my flower, my innocence.
And part of me was now a woman.
But then Sinclair asked, “How do you feel?”
Was he asking about my body…
or my heart? “What do you mean?”
“Are you sore? Does it still hurt?”
I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want him to feel guilty about what had happened between us.
It was something I’d wanted—and I would have had to go through it at some point.
I was grateful it was someone I chose…
grateful that it was Sinclair.
“A little. But I’m sure I’ll feel better by morning.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I’m sorry that hurt you.”
“It’s fine.”
“I just wonder if you’d been with someone your age—”
“Stop that. It would have hurt, no matter the age of my…lover.” That word sounded so weird coming out of my mouth, and I wondered if it was even what I’d wanted to say.
His eyes were hiding so much, and it pained me that he was hung up on such a minor detail.
After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t known there was some distance between our ages before we’d done this.
So I decided to take a different tack.
“What was your first time like?”
At that, he chuckled.
“Mortifying—but only because of the circumstances. I was in high school, home for the summer, and my dad had me taking tennis lessons. I’d never been much good at it. I didn’t hate it but thought I was better at golf. Anyway…the instructor was probably in her early twenties.” He went quiet for a minute and I looked up, scanning his eyes.
They were far away, as if trying to remember all the details.
“The week before I had to return to school, we wound up having sex in her car. She didn’t know it was my first time until after …and let’s just say I didn’t perform up to expectations.”
“Did it hurt you at all?”
“Just psychologically. But I got over it.”
Had he?
I’d found that humiliation and shame were like an albatross, hanging on you wherever you went.
In Winchester. Not here.
Even though many of my behaviors from dealing with those emotions were ingrained…
I didn’t feel shame here, not like back at home.
Here, I was almost a different person.
I’d become angry, defiant—and passionate in every sense of the word.
And, even though I was almost like a prisoner, somehow I was also free.
But I wasn’t going to say any of that.
“And I’ll get over this.” I began tracing a pattern on his chest again, a figure-eight just above his pecs.
“Can I ask you something?”
Removing his hand from my back, he brushed my hair away from my face.
“Of course.” With a grin, he added, “That doesn’t mean I’ll answer it.”
I returned my eyes to my finger, feeling shy and silly.
“I don’t want to call you Mr. W. anymore.”
“Thank fuck for that.”
I smiled, shaking my head.
“And I’ve grown to like the name Sinclair, but it seems so…formal.”
“I suppose you say that because you prefer to be called Lise instead of your full name Annalise. Does that sound right?”
“Maybe.”
“Sinclair is my name. You can call me that.”
“But what if I called you Cory instead?” Finally, I made eye contact with him again, hoping to gauge his reaction.
But I couldn’t read him.
“Cory…doesn’t sound like me.” I took that as a no, but he was still pondering, so I returned to tracing the figure eight on his chest, as if a tiny ice skater was practicing.
“Edna told me once that my mother used to call me that.”
What little I’d read of what I now considered her pregnancy journal had suggested that.
“But you don’t remember?”
“I was a baby when she died. I don’t remember her at all. Edna’s the closest thing I ever had to a mother.” Although I didn’t speak, I flattened my hand, now stroking his chest with my palm, as if that could soothe any pain he might feel from her loss.
“If I said yes,” he said, his voice soft as he placed a finger under my chin, urging me to make eye contact, “you mustn’t ever call me that outside this room.”
I suspected I knew the reason but I still wanted to ask.
“Why not?”
“Outside this room, you are my employee and you need to show respect. Calling me by a nickname that no one else has ever heard would not only make others question our relationship but might also cause them to lose respect for me—and I will not tolerate that.”
I wasn’t about to say it aloud, but my mind screamed MORE RULES!
And the defiant imp inside me wanted to rebel almost immediately.
But then I focused on something else he’d said…
something I needed to clarify.
So much I needed to clarify.
First things first. “So this…us. This is secret?”
“It must be. We’ve crossed a line, Lise—and it would be foolish to broadcast that.”
“You said relationship .” Now I touched his cheek, those little prickles of stubble rubbing against my hand, reminding me of how my chin was also slightly sore, easy to ignore when there was a stronger pain below.
His eyes softened, as if he’d been a savage beast, and all it took was a loving touch to soothe his ire.
“This isn’t a one-time thing?”
Then I saw something cross his eyes, pained, as if he’d been stabbed.
“Do you want it to be?”
“No.” I shook my head and, impulsively, kissed him gently on the lips.
“I don’t either. But we have to keep this to ourselves.”
That idea didn’t bother me.
I would have felt ashamed if anyone knew what we’d done here tonight—not just if my father had found out, but Edna, Gregory, Henry…
all the people I knew here.
It might have seemed to them as if I were sleeping with the master of the mansion to earn favors.
I didn’t want to have to insist to people that Sinclair had offered me the chance to attend college before we’d become involved with each other.
But…we’d kissed before that, hadn’t we?
We’d both been attracted to one another, thinking about each other in inappropriate ways long before we’d actually consummated.
Did that count?
I wasn’t about to broach that subject.
“Okay.” And my heart opened wide.
“As long as I can have you here and call you whatever I want, I can keep all this to myself.”