King of Sloth (Kings of Sin, 4)

“I take back what I said about the malfunctioning robot,” Xavier said. “I don’t want to insult robots.”

I dropped my arms and glared at him. “If I had a better teacher, I’d be doing better.”

We were on the villa’s terrace, where heated lamps warded off the late-night chill and portable speakers played a medley of local and international music. Xavier had insisted the outdoors would help me “relax,” but so far, I was embarrassed, frustrated, and no closer to improving my dance skills than when we started my lessons an hour earlier.

“You have to loosen up.” Xavier brushed off my indictment of his teaching abilities. “Dancing is about movement. You can’t move properly if you’re imitating a petrified piece of wood.”

“I’m loosened up.” A defensive note crept into my voice. “Also, might I remind you I could be sleeping right now instead of enduring your insults?”

I should walk away because there was nothing worse than trying my best and failing, but the competitor in me refused to give up.

I was Sloane Kensington. I didn’t fail, and I didn’t quit. (The only reason I’d stopped my childhood ballet lessons was because I outgrew my age group. Also, I was pretty sure I’d given Madame Olga an ulcer when she retired).

“Yet you’re here.” Xavier placed his hands on my hips.

I stiffened, every muscle turning rigid at the warmth seeping through my dress.

“See what I mean about petrified wood?” He shook his head. “Pretend you’re back at the spa. You’re getting a massage, your muscles are loose…now move your hips like this. No, the other way.” His touch seared my skin and distracted me from his instructions. He probably had a fever from walking around shirtless all the time. He should really get that checked out. “Move them in a circle, Luna, not a square.”

“It is a circle.”

“No offense, but you might need to brush up on your geometry.” Xavier’s grip tightened, stilling my movements. “What are you thinking about?”

“Moving my hips in a circle.”

“That’s your problem,” he said. “You shouldn’t be thinking about that.”

“You just said—”

“You have to feel the movement. The more you think, the less natural it looks.”

My teeth ground together in frustration. “I’m sorry, but I like thinking. It’s something I try to do on a daily basis.”

“That explains a lot.” Xavier released me and stepped back.

A cool wave of relief coasted through my chest, followed by an alarming pinch of…disappointment? No, that couldn’t be right.

I waited for him to continue the lesson, but he simply studied me with that deep, dark gaze.

Tousled black hair fell carelessly over one eye, shielding his thoughts as the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory. There was a pensiveness to him that I rarely saw, and it molded his features into a devastating portrait Michelangelo himself would’ve been proud of.

The dramatic slant of his cheekbones, the thick dark brows, the sculpted mouth that seemed infinitely more inviting when it wasn’t wearing a provocative smile…his face dared me to look away, and I couldn’t.

Electric awareness dripped into the air and snuffed out the oxygen.

Xavier and I had been alone many times before, but this was the first time I recognized the danger in him. Beneath the layers of indolent self-possession, there was a man who could set my world aflame if he wanted.

God, what is wrong with me? I’d gone years without reacting to his presence in any discernible way (unless irritation counted), but ever since we arrived in Spain, my shields had slipped. Maybe it was the brief glimpses into a realer, more vulnerable side of Xavier—the side that wasn’t all about drinking and sleeping—or maybe our spa day had rewired my brain.

Whatever it was, I didn’t like it.

Self-preservation punctured my awareness right as he spoke again. “Let’s get a drink.”

He turned and walked toward the bar cart nestled in the corner.

The remaining static fizzled into nothing as I tried to keep up with the whiplash. “What about the lessons?”

“We’ll resume after the break.” Xavier grabbed two glasses and started mixing drinks right there in the middle of the terrace.

My eyebrows skyrocketed. I’d never seen him make cocktails before, but he moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned bartender.

“So much for not getting wasted,” I groused when he handed me an admittedly delicious-looking pale orange drink.

“It’s one drink. You won’t get wasted unless you have the tolerance of a five-year-old.” Xavier’s mouth tilted at the corner. “Salud.”

I kept my eyes on his as I took a small sip. Fuck, that was good. “Did you make this up on the spot?”

I didn’t recognize the taste, and yesterday’s party had cleared out half the bar, leaving only a handful of ingredients for him to work with.

“You make do with what you have.” A roll of his shoulders, followed by a teasing smile. “I’m naming it the Sloane. Bitter at first but with a sweet aftertaste. Just like someone I know.”

“You don’t know how I taste.”

His smile took on a decidedly more wicked slant. “Not yet.”

My body reacted, instantly and viscerally, like he’d flipped the on switch in a long-untouched room.

My breasts tightened as heat flickered between my thighs, turning my body warm and languid. Less-than-innocent images flashed through my mind before I wrestled them into a box and slammed the lid shut.

No. Absolutely not.

I could not be having this reaction to Xavier, of all people. This was what I got for ending my sex-only situationship with Mark. If I’d slept with him before I left, I wouldn’t be so wound up.

“How’s delusion treating you?” I asked, striving for indifference even as I strangled my glass.

“Quite well.” Xavier’s eyes gleamed like he could reach inside me and pick out every filthy, inappropriate thought. He leaned against the wall, seemingly unaware of the havoc he’d just wreaked. “Since we’re still on break, let’s try something else. Truth or dare. You choose.”

“Truth or dare? What are we, twelve?”

“It’s a timeless game.” He arched one brow. “Unless you’re scared.”

Fuck it. Playing the stupid game was better than humiliating myself dancing again. “Truth.”

“If you could be anything other than a publicist, what would you be?”

I blinked. It wasn’t a question I’d expected, nor was it one I’d given much thought to before. “Nothing. I love my job.”

And I did. Despite the frustrations, the breakneck pace, and the clients who made me want to tear my hair out sometimes, I thrived under pressure. There was no downtime for reflection. There were only problems I could solve and solutions I could implement.

People could call me a bitch or an ice queen, but there was one unshakeable, undeniable truth—I was the best at what I did. Hands down. That was why CEOs, celebrities, and socialites paid me the big bucks. They didn’t all like me personally, but they respected me and they needed me.

So you like to be needed.

Xavier’s observation floated to the surface before I brushed it aside. So what? Everyone liked to be needed. Those who said they didn’t were lying.

“Nothing? There’s not a single career you would consider outside PR?” He looked unconvinced. “I call bullshit.”

“Maybe I’d be a surgeon,” I allowed. It was another high-pressure, fast-paced career. I had steady hands and I wasn’t squeamish about blood. Commanding an operating room and saving lives could be exciting.

Xavier’s mouth quirked. “Unsurprising.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I finished my drink. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

Interesting. I would’ve pegged him as a dare guy.

“Similar question,” I said. “If you had to choose an actual career, what would you choose?” I was genuinely curious. Xavier had never expressed an ambition for any type of job. What made someone like him tick?

He languished in the shadow of the villa, untouched by the moon or terrace lights, but his eyes sparked at my question.

“One I’m good at,” he said. “Like?”

A cloud passed over his expression before his smile reappeared. “Like teaching you how to dance. I think we’ve taken a long enough break.” He pushed off the wall and poured two shots of whiskey. “One more for courage. Salud.”

His hand brushed mine as he handed me my shot, and a tiny jolt zipped down my spine.

The whiskey burned smooth enough to dampen any concerns over my body’s strange reactions tonight. “You didn’t answer my question truthfully,” I said.

Warmth buzzed over my skin and pooled in my veins. I held my liquor pretty well, but the drinks were strong, and I didn’t resist the intoxication as fiercely as I normally did.

It felt good to let my control slip. Just a little bit.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I would choose a career I’d be good at.” A smile still played at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes contained a soft warning. “I even gave you an example.”

“Semantics. You don’t play fair.”

“I never do.” He came around behind me. His hands found my hips, and my breaths slowed beneath the weight of renewed static. “Let’s try this again.”

The music changed to something sultrier, easier to follow. Maybe it was the new rhythm. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was my attempt to focus on anything except Xavier that loosened my inhibitions.

Whatever it was, it worked. I didn’t hyperfocus on moving exactly the way I should, and the ironic result was that my movements flowed so much more easily.

I wouldn’t win competitions anytime soon, but I no longer resembled a malfunctioning robot, as someone had so rudely pointed out earlier.

“Much better.” Xavier’s murmur grazed the nape of my neck, eliciting an involuntary shiver of pleasure. “There might be hope for you yet.”

The seeds of a witty reply died on my tongue when he lowered his head so his face came next to mine. A delicious earthy scent seeped into my senses, heightening taste, smell, and touch until my mouth watered and I could feel every beat of his heart against my back.

I turned my head a fraction of an inch, just enough to meet his eyes.

I wished I hadn’t.

Xavier’s gaze smoldered like a lit match in the dark, scorching every inch of skin and any semblance of distance between us.

Beads of sweat dripped between my breasts. It was an inferno out here, but he was so close, and my head was so light, that if I just…

My lips parted.

His eyes darkened, and—

“Luca!” A girlish squeal from the neighboring villa tore between us. “That’s my favorite bag!”

There was an indecipherable reply, followed by a riot of laughter and then…silence. But it was too late.

The interruption snapped me out of whatever trance Xavier’s drinks/unholy magic/suspiciously glorious cologne put me under.

I jerked away from him, the loss of body warmth as sobering as the bowl of ice water I’d thrown on him mere days ago.

What was I doing?

He was my client, and I’d almost…he’d almost…

Xavier stared at me, his expression unreadable. If it weren’t for the heavy rise and fall of his chest, I would’ve thought him unmoved by what just happened—or didn’t happen.

My heart crashed against my ribcage, but I lifted my chin, broke eye contact, and forced myself to walk calmly into the villa without another word.

He didn’t stop me, and as I closed my bedroom door behind me and slumped to the floor, I hated how a tiny part of me wished he had.