The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

After facing way too many hard truths about myself, I was done. While the getting was good, I fled to my room and locked the door right as the first hot tear fell onto my cheek. I flopped onto my bed fully dressed, and wondered why I changed my mind about Grant.

I could have told myself it was fear. Or inexperience. But I knew the truth, something no one else would ever know. Not even Nat. And if Rocco found out… I shivered. He couldn't.

I could keep it from them, but not from myself. As Grant led me out of the bar, I pictured someone else holding my hand. I imagined what it would be like if Sebastian St. Clair was the one taking me home, not Grant. Fantasized about what Sebastien would do to me, whether he would be gentle or rough, what he smelled like, what he tasted like, what his skin would feel like under my fingertips. And I knew, Grant was a poor substitute. He wasn't who I wanted. It didn't matter that I would never have Sebastian St. Clair, my mind knew the difference and rejected Grant flat out.

Eyelids heavy, I pictured Sebastien’s beautiful face. The bright blue eyes, the full lips, and that knowing look he gave me at the game. I closed my eyes and imagined his bedroom, and the hungry, urgent kisses he would rain down on my mouth and throat. I could almost feel the power contained in his muscular body and the way he harnessed it, in a fierce, take no prisoners attitude. I decided he would be aggressive and forceful. In my fantasies anyway. My body tingled as I pictured him throwing me down, pinning me to the mattress, and making me feel deliciously helpless as he kissed me.

I was just getting to the good part when my rational mind kicked and I realized what I was doing. I couldn't fantasize about Sebastian St. Clair. Nothing good would ever come of it, and even though none of it was real, I felt guilty doing it. Like I was betraying Rocco. What kind of sister wanted to get down and dirty with her brother’s worst enemy?

And because I’m warped, the idea turned me on that much more.

I had to stop torturing Rocco with my tendencies to engage in spontaneous and reckless activities. Like the time I hopped in a car with a couple classmates and we drove to New York City for the day and ended up staying the night in some fleabag motel outside Trenton, New Jersey. Oh, and maybe I forgot to call Rocco and tell him where I was. Or the time Nat and I blew off class to go skydiving on a whim. Boy, did Rocco blow his top over that one when I may have, sort of, accidentally, possibly on purpose, posted a video of it to my Instagram account where I knew he would see it.

God, I really am a sucky sister.

The image of Sebastian St. Clair popped back into my head and my cheeks burst into flames. No way. I refused to entertain fantasies of him. At least not while I lived with Rocco. Wait, what? No! Not even when I moved out. It was out of the question. The temperamental hockey player was off-limits.

I buried my face in my hands, so stressed I couldn't even enjoy an erotic fantasy about a hot guy. I hated to seem ungrateful. I was beyond blessed to have such a wonderful, caring brother and I knew it, but why did I have to be so messed up in the head? Why couldn't I do the one night stand thing with a regular guy without panicking like a freak?

Why did everything always have to be so freaking complicated?

Sebastian St. Clair’s face flashed through my mind again.

Ugh. Like I said, complicated.

Seb

“No man, I'm telling you, she was without a doubt the hottest chick I've seen in my life.”

“Who?” Evvy asked as he accepted a new beer from our server.

I took a long swig from my bottle before answering. “The one I saw tonight, you know, when I was throwing down with Sasquatch.” Evvy gave me a blank look. “Sasquatch.” More blank staring. I rolled my eyes. “Dude, c’mon! Rocco Calloway.”

Evvy rolled his eyes back. “Oh. Riiiiight, I think you might have mentioned her a time or twenty. The blonde in the Calloway jersey, the one you won’t shut up about. How could I forget?”

I punched Ev in the biceps and scowled. “First of all, it's a sweater, Evvy, not a jersey. Second, you didn't see her, you unlucky bastard.”

I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of the breathtaking blonde. At the time, she had been all riled up, furious even, but somehow the anger aimed my way did nothing to detract from her stunning good looks. In fact, the slight curl to her upper lip and the blazing fire in her eyes only made her that much hotter.

“Too bad you missed her, because she was smoking. And for the record, Evvy, you're an asshole.”

Fucking Everette raining on my parade.

I sucked

down the rest of my beer and stared off into space. Thinking about the girl had me half-hard, which served as a reminder to how I left things with Amanda. I winced at the memory.

And I was calling Evvy an asshole? Pot meet kettle.

“You got that part right,” Ev said as he slugged down the rest of his drink and belched. “At least I'm proud to be an asshole.”

“Whatever, Ev.”

Evvy didn’t get it and obviously, I was terrible at explaining exactly what about the girl at the King’s game made her different, and why her face decided to imprint directly on my gray matter. Even I didn't fully understand why I couldn't shake her loose. Not that it mattered. Hell, I didn’t know why I bothered to tell Evvy about her in the first place. I didn’t discuss women—or feelings, or any other girly crap—with anyone. Though the rare times I felt the need to purge something from my system, Ev was my go to guy. Still, I never waxed poetic about women. Especially not one particular woman.

I lounged back in my chair and pretended to check out the bar. No way did I want to look at Evvy after spewing all that embarrassing shit. Apparently, my mouth to brain filter broke. Probably when Calloway dropped me to the ice. There was no other explanation, because I hadn’t been able to stop talking. After spotting her, I yammered in Evvy’s ear, going on about Hot Blonde from the final buzzer right up to the present, minus the ten minutes I took to duck into my room and call Rémy. In the span of a few hours, the blonde had become an unhealthy obsession.

I picked at the label on my beer and tried to figure out how to get my man card back, but my one-track mind had other plans. When I locked gazes with Hot Blonde, something happened. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. Christ, I could hardly admit it to myself. It was like we had an instant connection or some other equally ridiculous bullshit. You know, the kind of fantasy nonsense they put in chick flicks to get women all mushy and teary. The kind of crap that’s so far-fetched you know damn well it never happened in real life.