[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin

by Ember Casey

  I sit up.

  “Not yet,” Dante says, his arm sliding around my waist. “I’m not done with you.”

  He pulls me back down, right against his chest. I sink back, melting against the familiar, heady scent of his skin. God help me.

  His lips are at my neck. His fingers drift down between my legs, down to where I’m still wet with the evidence of our ecstasy.

  My stomach clenches.

  “This is wrong,” I say, jerking out of his grip and sitting up again. This time, I manage to avoid his arm as I slip off the table and grab desperately for my clothes.

  Dante sits up behind me. “This isn’t wrong, Ash.”

  “We shouldn’t have done it.” I find my shirt and tug it over my head. Now that I’ve managed to find a little strength, a little bit of self-control, I refuse to look at him. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll fall right back into his arms.

  “What are you talking about?” He’s right behind me, his breath on my neck. A quiver moves down my spine, and it takes all of my effort to ignore the fresh wave of desire that sweeps through me.

  I grab my jeans, still refusing to face him. “This. We shouldn’t have let it go so far.”

  “On the contrary. I think we’re just getting started.” His fingers brush my lower back. “I told you, Ash—this time I’m not letting you go.”

  “You have to!” I snap, spinning on him. “You have to let me go.”

  One look in his eyes gives me the answer, but I cut him off before he can say a word.

  “We didn’t use protection,” I say.

  “Is that what this is about?” His jaw is tight, but his eyes still shine with something that makes my insides go weak. “Ash, I’m clean. And I always use a condom. Always before now, I mean.”

  Considering our past, I resign myself to believing him—we always used condoms when we dated before.

  “You used to be on the pill,” he continues. “Has that changed?” Suddenly his fingers are against my cheek, his touch as light as air. “If something happens, you can rest assured that I’ll—”

  “It’s not just that,” I say. “And yes, I’m on the pill.” How do I put what I’m feeling into words? How do I explain this to him in a way he’ll understand?

  He’s still naked. That and the way he’s touching me make it hard to concentrate, make it hard to push down my body’s reaction and focus on the uncertainty in my heart.

  “I can’t do this again,” I say. “Any of this.” My jeans are buttoned, so I pull away from him and reach down for my apron. “I need to get back to work. I just want to forget this ever happened.”

  But he steps in front of me again. “You begged me to keep going.”

  The look in his eyes makes me feel sick to my stomach—guilt and confusion swirl in the depths of his gaze, though they don’t drown out the brightness of his desire, or his determination. Shame rises in my chest.

  “I didn’t mean… of course I wanted you to… I wanted to…” My skin feels hot again. God, I didn’t mean to make him feel like he’s taken advantage of me in some way. “But it was a moment of weakness. One I don’t think we should repeat.”

  “Do you actually mean that? Or are you just running away again?”

  Anger flares in my chest. “I’m not running away. I’m protecting myself!”

  For a moment, he just stares at me. His eyes—no longer gleaming, but hard and inscrutable—pierce me. His face doesn’t betray a hint of emotion as he bends down and grabs his clothes.

  He dresses in silence. My chest is heaving, and I’m torn between anger and regret, between fear and a deep longing that I’m not sure I want to name. This is why we can’t be together. I can’t live like this. I can’t put my heart and soul through this again when I know our situation is hopeless. I feel like I should say something to him, but I can’t find the words.

  Only when he’s dressed does he turn back to me.

  “I’ll have my assistant call you about the cake,” he says.

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  * * *

  For days afterward, I’m in a daze.

  I don’t feel like myself. My head throbs. My heart feels tired. My body… my body feels different. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex that I feel as if I’ve reawakened parts of myself, stirred long-dormant nerves back to life. My skin is more sensitive than usual, and there’s a tender feeling between my legs that reminds me too much of the soreness I felt the day after he took my virginity. The marks left by his mouth and nails linger on me for even longer—and in spite of everything, I find myself reliving the passionate nips of his teeth every time I catch sight of those bruises in my bathroom mirror.

  I’m hopeless.

  The worst part is that every time my cell rings, every time the bell on the door of the bakery jingles, my heart leaps as if I expect him to be there. And when it isn’t him, I’m flooded with an unsettling mixture of disappointment and relief.

  Serves me right. I got what I wanted, didn’t I? He seems content to leave me alone, and now I need to get on with my life.

  But why did I have to sleep with him? Why did I have to submit even once to the small part of me that refused to let him go? If I hadn’t let him kiss me again, if I hadn’t melted into his arms and made love to him, this would be easier. But I’m weak.

  I don’t tell Jack what happened between Dante and me. He wouldn’t understand. I’m not sure anyone would.

  Instead, I try to remind myself of those last few weeks Dante and I spent as a couple. Of all the reasons I ended things and told myself I was better off without him.

  It had started as a small but nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, the end of us. At that point in our relationship, we were spending nearly every night in each other’s arms. We couldn’t get enough of each other, and in many ways it felt like we’d created our own little pocket of heaven. By day, I was a film student. By night, I was Dante Fontaine’s lover. It was a thrilling, incredibly sensual experience.

  We never went out together. There were no public appearances, no paparazzi chasing us, no fanfare of any kind. We existed in our own little world, and it was only the small things that reminded me of who he was—passing mentions of his brothers or parents or manager, for example, or those rare occasions where we had to schedule our plans around events he needed to attend. When we were together, he was just Dante—the exquisite lover and brilliant writer. Sometimes I’d wake up to find his side of the bed empty, then look over and see him sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, scribbling in his notebook as the rays of dawn filtered in through the window. Often I’d just lie there, still groggy with sleep, and watch his pen move across the page. Watch his eyebrows move with his thoughts. Watch his lips mouth the words as he tried to work out a bit of dialogue. Often on those mornings he was wearing nothing more than his boxer briefs and his pair of dark-rimmed glasses. He looked so normal, so unlike the perfect picture of a man who appeared on the covers of the magazines in the supermarket. And he was mine.

  The cracks that formed between us were small at first—another night of lovemaking canceled for a business commitment, a distance over breakfast. He rarely talked about the celebrity side of his life with me. At the beginning of our relationship, I appreciated this separation—relationships are hard enough without public scrutiny—but as the weeks crept into months, I began to wonder why he was so determined to keep the two apart. I felt like I only knew half of him. When I wandered past the tabloids in the grocery store or came across his photos online, the man who looked back at me was a stranger.

  Several times, I suggested we go out for dinner, or out and about town. He always dodged the issue, usually by telling me he’d rather spend the evening in bed—and more often than not, it didn’t take much convincing before I was in his arms.

  But I couldn’t ignore his other half forever.

  We were lying in bed together when it happened. Our skin was still sticky with sweat, still heated from our exertions. M
y cheek was pressed against his chest, his hand stroking my back. His heart beat steadily beneath my ear.

  “I have something I need to ask you,” he said.

  The seriousness of his tone made me instantly nervous.

  “What?” I asked without lifting my head.

  His hand stilled on my back, his fingers pausing right at the base of my spine. “Luca’s movie comes out in two weeks. I’m expected to be at the premiere.”

  I raised my head, propping my chin on his chest so I could look up at his face. “What’s your question?” My heartbeat quickened in anticipation, and my head filled with images—of me on Dante’s arm on the red carpet, of the photographers’ lights flashing, of our picture on the covers of all the magazines at the checkout line. It was a terrifying, sobering vision of the future—but at the same time, I was willing to embrace it all to be with him.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been seen in public with a woman,” he said, tilting his chin down to look at me. “The gossip sites are beginning to create all sorts of rumors.”

  I’d seen them—wild speculations linking him with a number of actresses, and a few suggesting that he was hiding some big secret like an illness. Most theories were completely idiotic, but I imagined even the most ridiculous of rumors took their toll. It made me even more determined to be there for him.

  But his next words left me cold.

  “My manager has arranged for me to bring Becca Brighton,” he said.

  “Who’s that?” My voice was a whisper.

  “She’s no one. I mean, she’s another client of my manager’s. An up-and-coming actress and model.” His hand pressed against my back. “This is purely a business arrangement, Ash. But I wanted to be upfront about it with you.”

  “How is taking a model on a date a business arrangement?” I hated myself for sounding so jealous—and for being stupid enough to believe even for a moment that he might ask me to go with him.

  “Public appearances are part of my job,” he said. “I treat them like another aspect of my business, and that means taking ownership of my public persona and crafting it to suit the needs of that business.”

  I pulled out of his arms and sat up. “And… and that business has no need for someone like me?” I sounded absolutely pathetic, I knew, but in that moment all the cracks that had been forming between us suddenly joined and spread into a huge chasm.

  In an instant, he was sitting up beside me, his arm sliding around me again. “That world has nothing to do with us.”

  “How can you say that?” I pushed his arm away. “This is who you are. And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.” I was suddenly too worked up to stay in the bed, so I slid off the mattress and started gathering my clothes. “Why are you hiding me?”

  “I assure you, that isn’t my intention.”

  “Then what is your intention? To keep sleeping with me while you go on public dates with models?” I grabbed my dress from the floor and pulled it over my head. Why had I let this go on for so long? I should have known the first time he refused to go out in public with me that something was off. But I ignored my gut because I was so infatuated with him.

  “This isn’t going to be a regular thing,” he said, sliding to the edge of the bed. “And it may look like a date, but I assure you it won’t be. It’s much more like an acting job—I’ll be playing a role, nothing more.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay.” I was fully dressed again, but it didn’t leave me feeling any less vulnerable.

  He stood and walked over to where I was, stopping only a foot away from me.

  “I’m telling you this because I wanted to be honest with you,” he said, raising his hand to my hair.

  “You’re missing the point.” I swiped his hand away again. “In what universe is it okay to date one person publicly and another privately?”

  “In this business—”

  “I don’t care about this business!” I said, fighting back the lump in my throat.

  He didn’t say anything. His hand was still raised, and his fingers spread as if he meant to reach out to me again, but he maintained his distance. And in his eyes I saw those cracks, those chasms, and I knew he was just as aware of them as I was. It was too much—this had all meant too much to me, and now that it was crumbling I didn’t know what to do. The doubts were no longer just doubts. They were specters that floated in the air between us. And they required answers.

  “Why couldn’t it have been me?” I whispered at the ghosts.

  Something flickered in his eyes—something that made my heart hurt. He didn’t respond right away, and that only made it worse. Made the bigger, deeper question bubble out of my lips.

  “Will it ever be me?”

  Again the flash of something in his eyes, again the frown. “Ash…”

  The fact that he didn’t have a ready answer was answer enough.

  “I need time to think,” I said. “I’m going home.”

  “Ash, it’s late, and I think—”

  “Just let me go!”

  But I only made it as far as the door before I turned back to him.

  “If I asked you, would you cancel with her?” I asked.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple. This arrangement affects more than me, Ash. This industry is built on connections and appearances, and if I don’t—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” I said. His answer made everything plain: he had no plans of ever inviting me into that part of his life, no plans of ever letting me see his other half. “I can’t do this. Not if this is how it’s going to be. I’m only getting part of you.”

  “You’re getting all of me, Ash.”

  “No, I’m not. And it’s not enough. I can’t continue like this.” I don’t know where I found the strength to look him in the eye, but I did. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think if you just sleep on it, you’ll see—”

  “No. You are the one who isn’t seeing.” I searched his face, but I already knew the words I needed to say. “I can’t do this, Dante.”

  I didn’t wait for his response. I knew if I did my resolve would crumble. But the fact that he didn’t come after me told me everything.

  * * *

  The ache is still there now, after all this time. But so is the desire, so are all the intense emotions that drew me to Dante in the first place.

  He said he wasn’t going to let you walk away from him this time, I remind myself. But that doesn’t mean our problems are gone, or that Dante suddenly finds me worthy of inclusion in his public life. We have an intense physical connection, sure, but even the best sex in the world isn’t worth the heartache I know I’ll experience if I continue this madness.

  I’m a mess at work. I screw up recipes I’ve made a hundred times before. I forget a pan of muffins in the oven. I’m hardly functioning. Mama Pat starts to look at me like I’m insane. But it’s hard to work when I’m standing right where it happened—I can’t look at my workstation without remembering the way the metal felt against my back. I gave everything the scrubbing to end all scrubbings—this is still my place of business, after all—but I can’t clean away those vivid memories. Every time I speak with a client about a cake, my mind goes back to Dante’s tasting—to his lips on my skin, to the feeling of his weight on top of me, to the smell of his hair. I’m never going to get it out of my mind.

  It’s exactly eleven days after Dante and I had sex—not that I’m counting—when I get the text from Jack:

  The Devil Himself is officially on the studio’s shit list.

  Jack’s been crazy busy with work this week, so this message is out of the blue. But I’m not about to let him escape without giving me details.

  ME: What are you talking about? What happened?

  JACK: He’s canceled two appointments this week. TWO. And apparently he’s weeks behind on turning in this script he owes.

  ME: Oh.

  JACK: Rumor has it that he’s refusing to take
calls from his manager.

  ME: That’s weird.

  JACK: Yeah. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?

  ME: What makes you think it has something to do with me?

  JACK: He’s been acting weird, YOU have been acting weird… I thought there might be a connection.

  Part of me wants to tell Jack everything. But even though he’s my best friend, I’m not sure he’ll understand this. So I send him one more text:

  I’d be an idiot to have anything to do with him. But I’ve got to run and finish a cake. Dinner soon?

  I shove my phone in my pocket without waiting for his reply.

  I’m not sure what to make of this information about Dante. Even if he is acting strange, I doubt it has anything to do with me. It’s been eleven days, and he hasn’t tried to contact me once.

  But it doesn’t matter how many times I try to convince myself of his indifference—the lies come crumbling down the following night after work when I stop by the supermarket.

  I don’t normally read the tabloids. In fact, I’ve made a habit of actively avoiding them. But when you’re standing in line at the checkout, sometimes your eye wanders unintentionally to the glossy magazines displayed on every side of you. And today, my eye lands straight on a giant photo of Dante.

  He’s only on one cover—most of the other magazines boast pictures of Luca or Emilia, since their engagement is still hot news—but the photo of Dante on Celebrity Spark is a striking one. And the headline even more so: “Dante Confesses: Why He’s Still Single.”

  I suddenly feel like I’m going to vomit right here in the middle of the store.

  I shouldn’t read it. I know I shouldn’t. And yet my hand is reaching out, grabbing the issue from the rack. Flipping through the pages until I find the cover story. My heart is in my ears as my eyes skim over the words. Most of his answers are typical PR fluff—comments about Cataclysm: Earth and general good will towards his family—but then I get to the meat of the interview.