Built For Sin

Prologue

Present Time. 

Talitha's POV.

The dress that had hung so limply on the svelte mannequin is now the only separation between my skin and the creeping midnight chill. In the heady heat of noon, it was as tempting as ice water, now all I want is a jacket to throw over the top. 

In front of me is our rendezvous, the cafe where we first met. I can already see the front, the street tables that were so busy in the day all stand empty, lonely without their chairs.

I've never seen the orange paint look so grey, so blackish. The only splash of the friendly tangerine is in a spreading spot from the glow of a streetlamp. The hunger I had felt on the bus has been replaced by a rising feeling of unwellness in my stomach and below the clack of my heels, my heartbeat pounds it's own quickening rhythm.

I had expected the streets to be almost empty, and whilst I don't need to weave through the crowds of earlier, there are a few folks about. I guess that's life in the city for you, the finest place to be alone in the crowds.

I spent the entire afternoon in the cafe until midnight approached, dragging me into the day I had been dreading for weeks.

Now all I can do is sit in the star-speckled darkness and wait until the dawn. The darkness is almost absolute, only a smattering of luminous stars scatter the heavens. Even the moon has waned to almost nothing, and I cannot see even my hand in front of my face.

Suddenly, my cellular phone rang.

"Baby, I'm in my condo."

I sighed before forcing myself to get up from lying on one of the benches in the most famous park in Las Esperanza.

His wife is probably out of town again, huh.

After a minute I finally reach his condo. The guards already know about me, so they let me in quickly without asking for my information. I calm myself down until I finally have the courage to come inside.

The living room was dimly lit with the vintage wall sconces that hung on the mute colored walls like earrings. Thick black curtains hid the long windows across the walls, just leaving a shy peak of the building beyond. Two antique couches stood on the opposite sides of each on the hand-woven rug in front of the ashen fireplace, accompanied by white and black wing-chairs that stood as a sidekick. The paintings and faded tapestry panels on the walls seem to blink as I entered like they were greeting me.

I squinted my eyes to look for him, but it looks like he's not in the living room.

I make my way towards his room.

The room is uncomfortably large. It reminds me of a hotel foyer, not just in the space but in the artwork too. I scan for a personal touch, something that doesn't suggest that a hired designer chose it.

Nothing.

The floor is polished concrete, the walls white and the furniture I'm sure is from a high-end Scandinavian designer, but the name escapes me for the moment. 

It is a perfect place, but cold in its tranquility. The soft jazz just audible as background noise, and at the same volume in every room, somehow makes it even less personal. I feel like I just stepped into the mall. There are no personal photographs like the place is staged for sale. It isn't, though.

Astreo has been here for a year now.

The room is like a perfect magazine cover. I'm afraid to sit in case I wrinkle the fabric or stain it with something I don't even know is on my pants.

The couch is cream but inlaid with fine black silk; leaves embroidered so delicately that they might have landed there in spring and just sunk in, but I know they took hundreds of hours to sew.

The white curtains are linen, the kind of white that is untouched by hands and devoid of dust. A cursory look to the right shows me the almost hidden cords that are used to open and close them. There is no television, no bookshelf, no dining table, only the chairs arranged around the bespoke fireplace which leaps with a gas flame.

The photographs are black and white, not casual family snaps, but arranged to look like such by a professional. The floor is a high polished wood, dark and free of either dust or clutter.

"Reo?" I called him while looking for the switch. 

"Hi, baby"

I turn around to see Astreo standing in front of me, only wearing a towel around his waist.

His curls were midnight black and his eyes were dark brown, framed by graceful brows. His skin was tanned. He had prominent cheekbones and a well-defined chin and nose. His muscles rippled across every part of his body.

"I miss you," He whispered, kissing me again, but this time, on my neck down to the valley of my breast.

One minute Astreo was in front of me. The next thing that I know is that he was already kissing me, his hand clasped gently into the back of my hair, pressing in softly.

After a few seconds, he broke away and smiled at me.

"Sorry, I can't help myself," He sheepishly said while hugging me.

"Your wife is out of the country again?" I softly ask, afraid that the question would ruin the moment.

"Yes, baby," He said before kissing me again, more passionately and full of love.

He grabbed me by the waist, pulling her up close against his chest. His hand gently glided through my hair, as he looked at me in a way he had never looked at a girl before.

His eyes were candles in that night, there light a spark of passion... desire.

The simple touch of his hand leads me into moving in ways I never learned but know so well. The feelings rock my head backward as he kisses my neck and pushes his body into mine; he engulfs my senses and steals away my worries.

At that moment I am only alive in the present, all thoughts of the past and future melted away. This medicine Astreo bring heals me, and though I am addicted, I feel safe because he is equally addicted to me.

But at the back of my mind, I know that this is just temporary happiness, and I will always remain as a

Mistress...