34. Petra
PETRA
While I mull over these apprehensions, sounds of high wind fill the insides of the mausoleum, and birds ruffle their feathers over our heads, sheltering from the stormy gale by perching on the ledges near the ceiling.
“Petra, did you hear me? What are you thinking of?” Sin’s voice seems to be coming from some distant place.
I’m also trapped in another faraway place in the past, in that festively lit washroom at the fall ball . . . and the girl by the sink is wondering aloud if Sin has asked me to the dance out of pity.
“I don’t need more of your pity, Sin,” I almost hiss at him. “I don’t need your interest, charitable or genuine. I’m fine on my own.”
“You’re more than fine on your own, Petra, but that’s beside the point.
” Sin is speaking in a firmer tone, as if my delayed responses have given him the time to marshal his thoughts together.
“What I’m trying to say, and make you believe, is that I’ve never lied to you about my feelings.
That I’ve been entirely truthful from day one. ”
The rain has thinned to a drizzle now. Water droplets pool and stream over the stained-glass windows so that their reflections over the stone floor seem to be melting together into a colorful puddle.
Cobwebs hang in the corners, undisturbed by the elements altogether. It’s as if we have stepped outside of regular time into our own dusty nook in the fabric of reality.
“I find that hard to believe, for some reason,” I reply in a quiet voice.
Sin emits a low growl in frustration, and his eyes bore into mine as he steps ever so close. “Now you’re just enjoying me suffer, you lovely, maddening girl.”
Next, his eyes have dropped down to my lips, and I can see the desire beading in them.
“If you believe nothing else, Petra, believe this,” he whispers.
And then he pulls me in for a kiss.
The warmth of his lips against the chill of the mausoleum empties my mind on the spot, and my body responds almost on autopilot. I’m already leaning into his arms, letting them ring around my waist as I kiss him back, angling my head and parting my lips ever so slightly.
“Petra,” he croons as he moves down my neck, his lips tracing out soft lines from the back of my earlobes to the little dip at the base of my throat.
His hands are placed way low over my back, and in a swift movement, he shifts me against the wall, trapping me there with his whole body.
“Fuck, I want you so badly, Petra.” His voice is a velvet snarl as he nips and bites at my throat. Heat pools between my legs, and a breathy little moan escapes my lips every now and then.
In the next moment, he has cupped my ass and hoisted my legs around his waist. I clutch at his shoulders as he rubs against my moistened center through layers of clothing.
Now his hands are scrabbling at my clothes. Between fiery, lip-swelling kisses, Sin pauses to suck at the exposed skin under my blouse.
My eyes almost roll back from the sensation.
Over the past weeks, my body has been wrecked most miserably by the unexpected influx of hormones, and it finally feels good to have its incessant needs met.
Great, maybe you should have another baby with this guy, a dry observation, presumably from my annoying inner voice, throws an entire bucketful of water on the fledgling flames in my body.
“Sin, stop!” I gasp. When he keeps fumbling with my panties without pausing, I push him away abruptly and start straightening my clothes. “What the—” I gasp and massage my neck and chest area; they feel sore from all the sucking and biting.
I will probably have golf ball–sized hickeys tomorrow.
“What the fuck are we doing?” I cry out in exasperation, the ‘we’ alluding to two pairs: Sin and me, and me and my own body. All four of us have a lot to learn about self-restraint.
He stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise that I wanted all the delicious frotting to stop.
“Petra, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to . . .” He’s stuffing his shirt back into his pants and trying to pat down his hair into place.
I shake my head, more as an effort to gather my thoughts than to dispel his doubts.
“I’m fine, I just . . . we can’t do this. I can’t do this. I need time, Sin.”
“I don’t understand, Petra,” Sin says, his voice softer now, but there’s outright hunger in his eyes as he reaches for me. “I thought you wanted me to . . . I thought you were enjoying it.”
“And I was, I’m not denying that,” I reply in a flustered, trembling tone. Because Lord knows it had felt good.
At the same time, I have just been to a friend’s funeral. My emotions and physical sensations are all over the place. The stuffy atmosphere of the mausoleum has started dampening my spirits, and the thought of being watched by dead people is rather unnerving.
Besides all these abstract considerations is the very real weight of the you-know-who floating in its warm, dreamy cocoon inside me. My life is much too complicated at the moment for me to be cavorting around cemeteries with devastatingly handsome guys.
“It’s just too much too soon for me. I’m a bit of a mess right now, Sin, and I need to focus on getting my shit together.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes visibly harden, as do the lines of his face. There are subtly perceptible changes in his body language as well.
Again, he seems to be undergoing some subtle metamorphosis, as the pleasant, swooning lover from a few seconds before is suddenly replaced by a frowning guy who looms over me.
Nah, I’m not doing this, I mentally decide.
That is all the courage I need to take a step toward the exit, even though the rain outside has picked up again and is now pouring down in broad sheets rippling in the wind.
He doesn’t really step aside to make space for me, so I clear my throat and say, “I need to go,” in a louder voice that’s also supposed to remind him I can always call out for help.
“Very well, Petra,” he responds in a strikingly curt tone. “If that’s what you really want. But before you go, there’s something else we must talk about.”
I freeze, somehow knowing what’s coming next. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel my throat tighten.
“Sin, I don’t want to do this right now.”
“I saw the video, too, Petra,” Sin continues, as if he hasn’t heard me. “The one from the ball. Is it true? Are you pregnant?”
Okay, okay, calm down, my inner voice says, trying her best to maintain my—our—composure.
“It’s not yours, Sin,” I blurt out, my voice trembling. “The baby . . . it’s not yours.”
Why did I say that?
I will think about the reasons later because right now, some hidden impulse runs strong and sure over my tongue and locks it before I can take back the words.
His face falls instantly, and his eyes cloud over with confusion and pain.
“What? Petra, what do you mean?”
“It’s getting late, Sin. I have to go,” I respond in the brusquest tone I can muster. And while he’s still reeling back in shock, I take advantage of his disoriented state to slip past his arms and run out into the rain.
The cold water feels like so many needles poking against my skin, but I don’t care. All I want is to get away, so I start pushing against the hefty wind and hurrying toward the exit gate where the car would be waiting for me.
“Petra! Petra, wait, please!” Sin’s voice calls after me, desperate and pleading, but I don’t turn back.
I run directly into the pebbling curtain of water that covers everything in sight.