[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin

by Ember Casey

  The interviewer brings up the fact that Dante attended the Cataclysm: Earth premiere without a date and asks him about his love life.

  “I’m currently single,” his response goes. “But I wouldn’t say I’m available.”

  The questions go on from there.

  INTERVIEWER: Does that mean there’s someone in your life?

  DANTE: There is someone. And before you ask—no, she isn’t anyone famous.

  INTERVIEWER: But you consider yourself single?

  DANTE: Not by my own choice.

  “Miss?” the woman behind me in line says.

  I glance up. The line has moved forward, and it’s my turn to put my groceries on the belt.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t paying attention.” The magazine is still in my hand. I should put it back, but I can’t. I need to read the rest of the article.

  So I throw the glossy weekly on top of the rest of my things. It’s been years since I bought an issue of Celebrity Spark, but there’s no helping it. My mind won’t rest until I read the rest of Dante’s interview.

  I grab the magazine out of my bag as soon as I get to my car and pick up right where I left off.

  INTERVIEWER: How could anyone turn down Dante Fontaine?

  DANTE: That’s between her and me. But I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve made some mistakes. This life I lead—I’m blessed to be where I am, but I confess that it makes it hard to have a real relationship.

  INTERVIEWER: Does that mean you’d give up your career for the right person?

  DANTE: I can’t imagine giving up this life. But I’d do everything in my power to protect the right person from the harder parts of it.

  The interview wraps up quickly after that. I read the whole thing twice more before forcing myself to start my car and drive home.

  You don’t know that he’s talking about you, I tell myself. He doesn’t give any details about this girl except the fact that she isn’t famous.

  The other side of my brain is quick to respond: But who else could he mean?

  A general “girl,” maybe. The hypothetical “right person” who would come along one day and convert him from his bachelor ways.

  But it didn’t sound like he was talking about a hypothetical person.

  I argue with myself the entire way home. By the time I get inside my house, I’m ready for a huge glass of wine. And moments later, as I’m pouring that glass, the real question finally finds its way to the front of my brain: If he is talking about me, what do I do now?

  He hasn’t contacted me, but maybe he’s just waiting for me to contact him. I am the one who chased him off, after all. But do I want to contact him? Are the words in this interview enough to convince me that he’s aware of the issues that lie between us—and that he’s willing to try and fix them?

  But as my wine disappears, the anger starts to trickle in. Is this really how he means to go about addressing our issues—by talking about them in a tabloid interview to a stranger? To the public? And what if I’d never seen this magazine? If this is his idea of “protecting” me from his other life, he’s doing a poor job of it. He might not have gone into all of the gory details, but he’s aired out our dirty laundry for anyone to see. I can’t imagine Celebrity Spark—or any other celebrity news outlet—is just going to let this story die away.

  On the other hand, that traitorous voice in my head says as I drain the rest of my wine, he’s bringing you into this other side of his life. Isn’t that what you always wanted? For him to stop separating the two where you were concerned?

  And it’s that thought that has me reaching for my phone and pulling up Dante’s number.

  I don’t call him. Historically, I’ve never been particularly good at stopping to think before I speak, and I’m so worked up right now that I know I’ll only end up putting my foot in my mouth if I’m not careful. But texting will give me the chance to look over my words before he sees them.

  Still, it takes me a very long time to get my initial message exactly right. I write and erase several texts before I finally send him one that’s short and casually indifferent:

  I saw your interview.

  And then I quickly pour myself another glass of wine. I’m prepared for a long evening of drinking and chastising myself, but no sooner have I set the bottle down again than my cell beeps with an incoming text. I hold my breath as I pull up Dante’s response:

  I was hoping you would.

  Nothing more. Nothing to give me any clues as to how to proceed from here. It takes me a moment to come up with my next message.

  And what did you hope would happen now?

  There. The ball is in his court. I sit back and nurse my wine as I wait for his next text to roll in, which it does fairly quickly:

  You know what I want, Ashlyn.

  I don’t know how to answer that one. I do know what he wants—on the surface, anyway—but I’m not sure what I want. Or at least, I’m not sure I want it badly enough to drag myself through hell for it.

  His next text comes in while I’m thinking.

  Can I see you?

  If he’d been a bully about it—if he’d just told me he was coming over, or otherwise ordered me to talk to him—I might have been annoyed enough to refuse him. But he’s asking me, and as much as I want to be strong, to tell him off, I can’t.

  ME: Now?

  DANTE: If you’d like. I can come to you, or you can come to my place, if you’d prefer.

  I’ve had a healthy amount of wine, which means I probably shouldn’t be driving. It also means I don’t think about my answer nearly as long as I should. My fingers move across the screen:

  You can come here.

  Please, God, don’t let this be a mistake.

  * * *

  He actually rings the bell this time.

  I limp to the door, running my fingers over my hair as I go over what I’ve decided I need to say to him. This time, I won’t let emotions get in the way.

  But when I open the door and see him there, all of the words fall out of my brain.

  He doesn’t say anything. His hands come up, one on either side of my face, and the ends of his fingers thread through my hair. He looks down at me almost as if he’s afraid he’s imagining things, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear right before his eyes. The emotion in that gaze makes me forget my carefully prepared speech.

  For a long moment we just stand there, staring at each other. And then I finally find my voice.

  “You can come in,” I say.

  He seems almost hesitant to withdraw his fingers from my hair, but after a moment he does and follows me inside, right into the small living room next to the kitchen.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” I ask. “To eat?”

  “I’ve already had dinner, but thank you.”

  His comment is a reminder of how late it is—nearly eleven, according to the clock on the wall—and somehow that makes this conversation seem that much heavier. This is a conversation to have during daylight, not right when most couples are engaging in the very thing I’m trying very hard not to think about right now. I need to remember why I texted him in the first place. Remember the article.

  “You shouldn’t have said those things in the interview,” I blurt.

  His eyebrows rise. “No?”

  God, why does he have to look so attractive right now? He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and casual pants, and his hair is a little disheveled—in fact, it looks a lot like it does when he rolls out of bed first thing in the morning. But I don’t want to think of him in bed. I need to stay focused.

  “Do you really think that’s the best way to deal with this?” I ask him. “To talk about it with some gossip magazine rather than with me?”

  He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Would you have let me talk about it with you? You seemed pretty adamant that you never wanted to see me again. I suspected that the only way I’d get you to listen would be to go about it indirectly.”

  “A
nd what if I didn’t see the magazine?”

  “Then I would have tried something else. I know one of the reporters at Celebrity Spark. I’m sure she would have been happy to print as many interviews as I wanted to give.” He steps closer. “And if that didn’t work, I’d have exhausted my other options. Sent a statement to all the celebrity gossip blogs. Commissioned a TV commercial. Hell, I’d have made an entire movie if I’d thought it would get you to listen.”

  I close my eyes. This is too much. “We still should have talked about it in person.”

  He takes another step closer. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “And how do you propose we deal with our problems?”

  “We want each other. The way I see it, there is no problem.”

  I open my eyes. He’s right in front of me now.

  “Is that what you really believe?” I ask him. If he doesn’t understand why I walked away back then, we have no chance.

  There’s a slight furrow in his forehead. “You want to take this public.”

  “Not—not right now. And that’s not the issue.” I’m suddenly feeling flustered and extremely self-conscious. “I just want to know that you won’t hide it. That you’ll give it the chance to become something real.” I suck in a breath and rush on. “If this is just about sex for you, then I beg you to walk away. If this is just a diversion, or if you know this won’t go anywhere, then don’t put me through it. I don’t think I could survive it a second time. And if you’re going to spend the whole time dating other women—even if it’s fake—then I want to end this now. I can’t do fake, even if I’m on this end of the arrangement.”

  Now that I’ve gotten all of that out, I feel a little lightheaded. And terrified. But at the same time, I’m relieved. I’ve said it. There’s no taking it back now. Either we move past this or I learn once and for all that it’s time to let go.

  Dante raises a hand as if to touch me, but his fingers pause just shy of my face.

  “This is real for me,” he says. “It was always real. And I know this is going to sound like an excuse, but that’s why I wanted to keep everything between us. It was ours. It couldn’t be spoiled by the media or public commentary. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, Ash—real couples torn apart by the spotlight. I couldn’t watch it happen to us. This belonged to us. I didn’t want to share it with the rest of the world.” Now he touches me, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “It was never about hiding you. But it was heartless to ask that of you.”

  “And now?” I whisper.

  “I’ll shout it from the rooftops if you like. Talk about it to any and every magazine. Take you to any red carpet event you like.” He twines his fingers in my hair. “I’m warning you, though—the minute we go public, everything will change for you. The eyes of the entire country—of the world—will be on your every move. There’s no going back.”

  Is that what I want? To have our relationship in the public eye while we’re still figuring out whether we work as a couple? To have gossip sites and random people pick us apart or comment on whether I’m pretty enough or skinny enough for Dante?

  “We don’t have to go public immediately,” I say. “I just want to know that there’s a future for us. That you think we might… I mean, that if we stay together, we’ll give this a real chance.”

  “We will.” He pulls me closer to him. “I never got over you. I tried. I told myself you were better off without me. That I should give you the chance to find someone who could give you everything you deserved. But I couldn’t forget you.”

  “I couldn’t forget you, either,” I say softly.

  He smiles. “I thought you would have been scooped up by someone else immediately. When you told me you were in love with that Jack fellow…”

  My cheeks burn. “I actually have a confession to make about that.” If I don’t confess this now, I never will. “Jack—he’s just my friend. He’s only ever been a friend.”

  “He seemed more than friendly at my party.”

  My face gets even hotter. “Because he was doing me a favor. I told you he was my boyfriend to save face. He’s just my friend. In fact, he’s very much in love with his boyfriend.” I shake my head. “I know it was a stupid, childish thing to do, but I wasn’t ready to face you alone.”

  His fingers tighten in my hair. “So it was all a lie?”

  “You have every right to be angry. I know it was an idiotic thing to do. But I wanted to tell you the truth now, before this goes any further.”

  “Angry? Maybe I should be, but I’m mostly just relieved. I didn’t want to think I might still have competition.” He frowns. “What about the guy at the bar?”

  “A blind date. And it didn’t exactly end well, but I’m sure you could have guessed that already. There’s no one else.”

  He’s smiling again. “I wanted to make sure. You aren’t the sort of woman guys will let go of easily.”

  I blush to learn that he believes something like that, especially when it couldn’t be any further from the truth. “There’s no one else, I promise. There hasn’t been anyone else since you.”

  Now his eyes widen. “No one?”

  “I mean, I’ve been on a few dates. But I haven’t…” I can’t believe I’m confessing this. I can’t even finish the sentence.

  But I can see by the expression in his eyes that he’s connected the dots. “No one? You mean you haven’t—”

  “No. I haven’t.” My skin feels like it’s on fire. “And I’d rather not—”

  “No one?”

  “Yes, no one. Now can we change the subject?”

  But he drops his hand and steps back. “Absolutely no one?”

  “You don’t have to rub it in.” I’m not sure whether I want to laugh this off or cry. “It’s not a big deal. And it doesn’t matter for us.”

  “It matters to me.” He takes another step back. Runs his hand through his hair. He almost looks upset.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This means you haven’t experienced anyone else,” he says. “It means you have nothing to compare this to. You were a virgin when we met, and you haven’t been with anyone else… how do you know this is really what you want?”

  I’m starting to get annoyed with him. “I know. And I don’t need to be with anyone else to prove it to myself. Or to you.” I cross my arms. “I thought you didn’t want any competition.”

  “I also don’t want you to wake up one day and wonder what you’ve been missing.” He must see something on my face, though, because his expression softens a little. “Believe me, Ash. There’d be plenty of men who’d be eager for you to take a chance on them.”

  “If you don’t want to do this, just say so,” I tell him.

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then don’t insult me by suggesting I don’t know my own heart, or that I’m not smart enough to make my own decision about something like this.”

  He steps close to me again. “I would never intentionally suggest that you can’t make your own decisions. I know you too well for that.” And now he’s reaching out to me, sliding his hand along my waist. “And if I’m being completely honest, there is a certain appeal to knowing that I’ve experienced you in a way no other man has. I just want you to know exactly what you’re giving up.” His other arm comes around me. “Because I won’t share you, Ash.”

  “You sound even more confused than I do,” I say lightly. “One minute you’re upset that I haven’t been with anyone else, the next you’re acting all possessi—”

  I’m cut off by his lips coming down on mine.

  He’s kissed me so many times—and so recently—that I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. My body floods with warmth and sensation, and I suddenly can’t even remember what I was saying, what we were discussing, why we were talking at all when we could have been doing this.

  And I don’t care to remember.

  I surrender to the feelings completely, give myself over to him. My
arms wrap around him as he pushes me back, walking me toward the wall, trapping me against the ugly yellow wallpaper I couldn’t bear to change when I inherited this house. I crush my mouth against his, and my fingers dig into his lower back. We’re pressed together everywhere—faces, chests, hips, legs—but I can’t get close enough to him. Can’t taste him deeply enough.

  He pulls back slightly, and I try to yank him back to me. But he moves only far enough to reach between us and undo the buttons on my blouse. He practically tears the shirt off, and I nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to get my arm out of the sleeve. His shirt goes next. Then my bra. Then his belt.

  My fingers skim up over his back. It’s been less than two weeks since the last time I touched his bare skin—and God knows I spent many, many nights exploring his body when we were together before—but I still feel like I need to discover him again, to relearn this man inch by inch.

  His kisses are even better than I remember. How many women has he kissed since we were together? I find myself wondering as his hands close around my breasts. How many women has he touched like this?

  Dante seems to be pursuing a similar line of thought.

  “So no other man has touched you like this in all this time?” he asks against my lips. He catches one of my nipples between his forefinger and thumb and squeezes it until I gasp. And as he moves away from my lips and starts kissing me along my jaw, I realize that he actually expects me to answer.

  “I said I hadn’t had sex with anyone else,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I’ve been living like a nun.”

  He pauses, but he doesn’t move away. “So you’ve had someone make sure these delicate nipples of yours were getting enough attention?” He gives me another squeeze, then catches my other nipple in his grip. “Did he know how to make you whimper with just a twist of his fingers?” He hardly turns his fingers at all, and yet the motion draws a sound from my throat that could most definitely be called a whimper.