The Sinner's Club [18+] Complete

chapter twenty-eight.

I AM RESTLESS.

Working at the diner, playing with Elodie in the afternoons, writing college papers at night—none of it distracts me from what's to come.

I re-read the text I received from Nathaniel at least a dozen times over the course of the next four days.

Nathaniel: 7pm Saturday. I'll send you my address.

That's it. That's all he gave me.

And now I'm a wreck of nerves and indecision. Maybe I should have taken Reaper up on his offer to run far, far away.

Late Friday night, I lie in bed and toss and turn. The digital clock tells me it's well past midnight and Elodie always wakes up early on Saturdays, but I can't sleep.

My thoughts churn, my stomach tied in knots, until I can't take it anymore. I reach for my phone and, without thinking, call Nathaniel's number.

It rings and rings, long enough that I'm sure he's not going to pick up.

But then, "Wren?"

I stay silent, frozen at the sound of his voice, at the pounding music in the background. He must be at the club.

"Wren? What is it? What's wrong?" The music fades as he moves somewhere quieter. His office, maybe.

"N–nothing," I stammer. "I just..."

The crackling silence between us only makes my anxiety worse. "Wren," he repeats, almost like a warning.

"I need to know," I breathe out, clutching the phone like it is a lifeline. "I need to know what you want."

A long pause follows my request. "What I want?"

"Yes."

I hear the creaking sound of his desk chair; he must be sitting down. "I thought I made it quite clear what I wanted."

I shake my head, though I know he can't see me. "I mean..."

"You mean what I'm going to do to you tomorrow night."

My mouth goes dry, my knees locking together beneath the sheets.

"Why?" His tone is mocking now, back to that taunting cadence he has mastered so perfectly. "Are you afraid, little bird? Scared I might push you too far?" His voice drops lower. "Scared I might hurt you?"

I lift the duvet over my head, cocooning myself in absolute darkness. It feels safer under here, like no one can judge me for the depraved things I secretly desire.

"Will you?" The question is barely a whisper from my lips.

"Is that what you want?" He counters. "Do you want me to tie you up and make you beg? Do you want me to hit you until you're red and aching? Do you want me to control you, force you to your knees, fuck you until you can't take it anymore?"

My chest rises and falls rapidly, tension curling low in my stomach, my thighs rubbing together.

"Tell me you're not wet just thinking about it and I promise I'll be gentle," he challenges. When I don't reply, he says, "Go on, check for me. Touch yourself and see if you're wet from thinking about me fucking you rough."

As though I'm possessed, my hand begins to move on its own. It slides down my stomach inch by inch, slotting beneath the waistband of my pajama shorts, then moving down till my finger sinks into the soaked heat of my pussy.

A small sound leaves my mouth as my back arches off the mattress.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "Say it, Wren."

"N–no." I can't, I won't.

"How many times do I have to teach you to never say no to me?" He demands. "Say it."

I rub my finger over my clit in a small circle and hardly bite back a moan. "I'm wet thinking about it," I choke out.

"Thinking about what?" He pushes.

"About–about you fucking me rough."

A long, heady breath leaves him. "You have no fucking clue what you do to me, little bird."

"What do I do to you?"

There's a drawn out moment where I think he might have hung up. My finger stops moving and I wait with furrowed brows.

"You make me want things I've never wanted," comes his quiet reply. There is some shifting on his end, like he's moving. "I'll see you tomorrow at seven. Don't be late."

And the line disconnects.

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I don't usually get car sick, but tonight is an exception.

The taxi driver casts a glance in the rearview mirror at me, probably hoping I don't puke all over his car.

I'm trembling and pale and lit up with anticipation as we turn onto Nathaniel's street. He lives in the nicest suburb in the city—every house we pass has a tennis court and swimming pool. This is the kind of area where wealthy CEOs and investors and surgeons live. The kind of area I have never really set foot in.

At the end of a cul de sac, the taxi driver slows the car to a stop. I pay him and force myself out. Standing on the sidewalk, I stare up at Nathaniel's house.

It is a modern mansion. Cutting glass and neat, straight lines. Tall trees crowd in around it, providing privacy.

"You can do this," I murmur to myself, like a soothing lullaby. "You can do this."

I put one foot in front of the other, walking up the long driveway and regretting my choice to wear heels.

I should have worn sneakers and jeans and the ugliest top I could find. I should have come as unappealing as humanly possible, but instead I am wearing my nicest coat over a skin-tight dress, with my hair out and mascara coating my lashes.

On the front stoop, I stare at the door, as though I can open it with my mind. Most of the house's facade is white, but the door is a dark, espresso wood, with frosted glass slits along it and a rectangular, metal doorknob.

I smooth down my hair and muster my courage, trying to pretend that I feel more fear than excitement.

But maybe it is time to admit the truth to myself; sleeping with Nathaniel is less of an obligation and more of a reward. Something I've wanted, yearned for even. Certainly something I've thought about, time and time again.

I raise my hand and knock hard.

I am a sinner for wanting this, ready to sign over my soul. And if Nathaniel is the devil, eager and willing to collect, then I'm pretty sure I'm about to walk into the jaws of hell.

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