Syllabus of sin (erotica collection)

BOOK ONE: TEN BREATHS BETWEEN The door clicked shut and the house went quiet, the way a held breath goes quiet. Isa stood at the top of the stairs with her phone in her hand, thumb hovering over the message she'd read eleven times: They're gone, you still painting? Ten minutes old. She'd been standing there for nine of them. Downstairs, the kitchen light was on. She could see it bleeding up the wall of the stairwell, that soft amber wash that meant someone was moving around down there in the dark of the rest of the house. She'd been alone with him before. A hundred times, a thousand, passing in hallways and trading looks across the dinner table while Elena talked about book club and David laughed at his own jokes. Alone with him was normal. Alone with him in an empty house was something else, and both of them knew it, and neither of them had said a word about it. She took the stairs slowly. Bare feet, cold tile at the bottom. The smell of last night's whiskey still hung in the air, gone sour and stale, and under it the clean, sharp thing that was just him—soap and something warmer, the smell of skin that had been under a hoodie all day. He was at the counter with his back to her, two glasses out, pouring red into both. Gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up past his forearms. She watched the muscles move across his shoulders when he tipped the bottle, that slow roll beneath the cotton, the evidence of all those summers hauling lumber for his uncle's crew. A body built by work instead of a gym. She'd drawn it from memory more times than she'd ever admit. Never in the sketchbook she showed anyone. "You're quiet," he said, without turning around. "You're pouring wine in your dad's kitchen." "He's got a case of it. He won't miss two glasses." He set the bottle down and turned. And there it was. Hazel eyes finding her across the tile like they'd been waiting for her to walk into frame. He didn't smile. That was the thing about Marcus. He didn't do the easy thing with his face. He just looked at her. Long enough that the fridge hummed, the clock over the stove ticked, and neither of them moved. Then he crossed the floor. Three steps. No hurry in them. The third put him close enough that she had to tip her chin up to keep his eyes. His hand came up and cupped her jaw, his calloused palm warm against her cheek. "Isa." "Yeah?" "Tell me to stop." She didn't. She couldn't have if she'd wanted to. And she didn't want to. He seemed to understand. His mouth came down on hers. The kiss was everything six months of looking and not touching had been waiting to become. Isa's fingers caught the front of his hoodie. Marcus pulled back for barely a second. "Still sure?" She nodded. He kissed her again. This time there was no hesitation. The wine sat forgotten on the counter. His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her closer, and Isa felt the last of her resistance disappear. She knew they should stop. She knew exactly what time it was. She knew Elena could call at any moment. None of it mattered. Marcus lifted her onto the edge of the counter, and she caught his shoulders. "Marcus." He stopped. His eyes searched hers. "Tell me." She looked at him for a long moment. "Don't stop." He kissed her again. The kitchen seemed to shrink around them. The clock kept ticking. Outside, the street remained quiet. For a while, there was nothing except the sound of their breathing and the quiet movements of two people who had spent too long pretending there was nothing between them. Then the world outside the kitchen began to matter again. Isa's phone buzzed upstairs. Neither moved. It buzzed a second time. Marcus rested his forehead against hers. "Elena?" "Probably." "She'll wonder where you are." Isa glanced toward the stairs. "They'll be back at nine." He looked toward the clock. 8:31. Neither of them spoke. Another buzz came from upstairs. This time Isa stepped away. She straightened her shirt and ran a hand through her hair. Marcus adjusted his hoodie. For a moment, they simply stood there, looking at each other. The wine remained untouched. "That was a bad idea," Isa said quietly. Marcus didn't answer. She looked at him. "Wasn't it?" His eyes stayed on hers. "Probably." That almost made her smile. Almost. She turned toward the stairs. At the first step, she stopped. Marcus was still standing beside the counter. She looked back. Neither spoke. Then Isa climbed the stairs. Behind her, the kitchen light remained on. The two glasses of wine were still untouched. And the clock kept moving toward nine.

The phone lit up again on the third stair. Elena's name, bright and patient in the dark of the hallway, and Isa's pulse jumped against Marcus's palm before she'd even moved. She shifted her weight to slide off the counter and his hand closed around her wrist not hard, just there, just enough. "Don't," he said. His thumb pressed the inside of her wrist, right where the blood was still running fast from everything they'd just done, and she could feel her own heartbeat shoving back against his skin like it wanted him to know. He wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at the counter, at the wine, at nothing. "Five minutes," he said. "Let it ring." She pulled her wrist free. Not rough just out of his grip, and she felt the loss of his thumb on her pulse like a door closing somewhere behind her ribs. She slid off the counter and her bare feet hit the linoleum and the cold went up through her soles and her ankles and her knees, sharp and clean, the first real thing