Guilty as Sin

Chapter 3 - A Taste Of Trouble

Cruella’s pulse roared in her ears, matching the rapid thud of her heart as she pushed Marcus back with both palms, though she didn’t try hard enough to make him move. His hands were still at her waist, fingers splayed like he had every right to touch her, and the worst part? She wasn’t stopping him.

“Don’t get cocky,” she breathed, though her voice lacked its usual venom.

Marcus’s grin deepened, slow and smug, like he knew precisely how wrecked she already was. “I think we’re past that, Cruella.”

God, his voice. Low, rough, threaded with heat made her toes curl in her overpriced heels.

But she wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand.

She stepped back, smoothing her tousled hair as if he hadn’t just kissed her. “You’re a walking red flag, Saavedra.”

“Good thing red’s your color.”

“Cute.” Her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “But I don’t do complications.”

Marcus tilted his head, eyes darkening. “Then why are you still here?”

The question sat heavy between them, thicker than the storm still raging outside.

She hated that he had a point.

Cruella turned away, stalking toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. The city lights blurred against the rain, glittering like a thousand secrets waiting to spill. She pressed her palm to the cold glass, needing the grounding sensation before she did something reckless—again.

Behind her, she felt him approach, his presence a heat against her back.

“You don’t scare easy,” he said, voice softer now, almost thoughtful.

She let out a dry laugh. “I’m not scared.”

“Liar.”

His reflection hovered next to hers in the glass, dark eyes locked on her. He was so close she could feel the brush of his breath against her temple.

“I’ve seen people like you before,” she whispered, her throat tightening before she could stop it. “Men who look for something to ruin.”

Marcus didn’t flinch. “And you think that’s what I’m doing?”

She turned then, slowly, meeting his gaze head-on. “Isn’t it?”

His jaw flexed, some unseen battle playing out behind his eyes. For a moment, he looked like he might deny it, say something soft, something that would make her fall—but he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped even closer, crowding her space until there was barely an inch between them.

“I don’t ruin things,” he murmured. “I burn them.”

Cruella’s breath caught.

Because she could believe that.

And worse—she wanted to see how far he’d go.

She didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly his mouth was on hers again—hotter, rougher, like he needed this just as much as she did. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he backed her into the wall, the cold glass biting at her skin through her dress.

But she didn’t care.

Because of this? This was precisely the kind of danger she craved.

His hands skimmed her thighs, lifting her quickly, and she locked her legs around his waist without thinking, their breaths ragged, the room spinning somewhere in the background.

“Still think I’m a red flag?” he rasped against her mouth.

She smirked, all fire and recklessness. “Oh, I know you are.”

Marcus’s hands were fire—rough palms sliding up her thighs, calloused fingers digging into the soft skin—but Cruella refused to melt. Not yet.

She arched her back against the cold glass, forcing him to adjust his grip, a wicked smile curving her lips when she felt the frustration coil tight in his muscles.

“You always this bossy?” he growled.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “You always this easy to rile up?”

His answering chuckle was low, dark, and laced with warning.

“Careful, princess.” He grazed his mouth along her jaw, each brush of his lips maddeningly light before his teeth scraped against the sensitive spot below her ear. She shivered despite herself, but she’d be damned if she let him have that win.

She shoved at his chest—not hard enough to break his hold, but enough to make him pause. His brows lifted in question, but her smirk was already back in place.

“Don’t think I’m one of your usual girls, Marcus. I don’t swoon because you know where to put your hands.”

His grin was pure trouble. “That so?”

“Mm-hmm.” She slid her fingers down his chest, slow and taunting, before pushing off him completely. Her heels clicked against the cool marble as she walked toward his bar cart, hips swaying with practiced ease.

But her heart?

It was thundering.

Marcus stayed rooted where he was, his jaw ticking, hands flexing at his sides like he was debating whether to chase her or let her go.

Chase me, she thought, throat tight.

And he did.

A sharp inhale cut through the tension before his footsteps echoed behind her, fast and sure, and before she could pour the drink she didn’t want, his hand closed around her wrist.

“You run, I’ll follow,” he murmured against her ear, his grip firm but careful.

Cruella’s breath hitched—just once—but it was enough.

He spun her around, trapping her between his body and the edge of the bar cart.

“Here’s the thing,” he drawled, eyes dark with something deeper than heat. “You don’t scare me either.”

She tried to laugh, to shove the rising panic down deep where it belonged. “You should.”

“I think I’m past that.”

Their gazes locked, tension snapping like a wire about to break.

And when it did—

Her hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him down, their mouths crashing together in a mess of teeth and heat and pent-up frustration.

It was chaos.

It was perfect.

He hoisted her onto the bar cart like she weighed nothing, glass clinking dangerously beneath them. Her legs wrapped around his hips again, but this time, she let herself feel it—the wild, reckless pulse of want rushing through her veins.

But then—

Marcus pulled back.

Just enough to make her crazy.

His breathing was ragged, forehead pressed to hers, but he didn’t close the distance.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice rough. “And I will.”

Her throat tightened.

Because he meant it.

And that scared her more than anything else.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

His grin was wicked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

But still—he waited.

Cruella’s nails dug into his shoulders, frustration and desire battling it out in her chest. Every instinct told her to run, to slam the door shut before this spiraled, but—

She yanked him back down.

“I’m not saying stop.”

And that was her first mistake.

Because Marcus Aurelius Saavedra?

He didn’t play fair.

Marcus tore her dress down the middle in a split second, the fabric giving way with a brutal rip that echoed through the marble-floored penthouse. She gasped—half shock, half something darker—as the silky material pooled at her feet, leaving her bare beneath his dark, consuming gaze.

“Aurelius—” she barely managed before his mouth was on her throat, teeth grazing the delicate skin before he bit down, hard enough to make her hips jolt against his.

Her head tipped back, a broken sound ripping from her throat as his hands roamed, rough and reverent all at once. He was everywhere—palms splayed against her hips, mouth mapping a path down her collarbone—and yet it still wasn’t enough.

The cold marble beneath her heels grounded her, but Marcus? He was chaos incarnate, tearing through her like a storm she could not survive.

And worse—she didn’t want to survive it.

Cruella’s breath hitched—again—but this time, it wasn’t because of Marcus’s mouth trailing dangerously low or the way his hands framed her hips with all the reverence of a sinner worshipping at the altar.

No.

It was because her stomach—traitorous, embarrassing, and completely indifferent to the moment—let out the loudest growl in recorded history. Like, earthquake-on-the-Richter-scale loud.

For a beat, neither of them moved. Marcus froze, his mouth still hovering just above the hollow of her throat. She could practically feel the smug grin forming before she even looked.

“Seriously?” His voice was low, rough—still drunk on heat—but the edges softened with barely contained laughter.

Cruella squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely going to.”

She shoved at his chest, mortification burning hotter than anything else now. “Get off me.”

But Marcus didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled back just enough to see her face—his dark eyes glittering with a kind of wicked amusement that made her want to both slap him and kiss him again. Preferably in that order.

“You’re hungry?” he teased, that smug grin in full bloom now.

Cruella crossed her arms over her chest, only now fully realizing she was standing there in nothing but her lacy black undergarments—her torn dress lying in a tragic heap on the marble floor.

Her face burned.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, though the heat creeping up her neck ruined the bite in her tone.

Marcus lifted his hands in mock surrender but didn’t try to hide how his eyes swept over her—slow, heated, lingering just long enough to make her knees wobble.

“You’re the one half-naked in my penthouse,” he pointed out, entirely too smug for someone who’d just been the reason her dress was now unwearable.

She huffed, grabbing the nearest cushion off the sleek leather couch and holding it against herself. “You literally tore my dress, Aurelius.”

He dared to look proud of that.

But then, as if remembering he wasn’t a complete menace, he rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Wait here.”

Before she could respond, he strode down the hall, disappearing into what she assumed was his bedroom.

Cruella stood awkwardly, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other, acutely aware of how ridiculous she must look—half-naked, holding a throw pillow for dignity. At the same time, the city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her.

Moments later, Marcus returned, tossing something soft in her direction.

“Here. It’s clean,” he said, like he wasn’t handing her a massive black button-down shirt that still smelled faintly like cedar and whatever cologne he used—rich, heady, unfairly addictive.

She caught it mid-air. “You’re lucky this is oversized. Or I’d make you suffer.”

His grin was pure sin. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m counting on it.”

Still, she slipped the shirt on, the fabric swallowing her whole, sleeves past her wrists and the hem hitting mid-thigh. It was warm. Soft. Way too comfortable.

Marcus’s gaze lingered too long before he cleared his throat and turned toward the kitchen.

“Come on. I’m making you food before you pass out.”

“I didn’t say—”

But he was already pulling ingredients from the fridge. Vegetables, tamarind paste, thick cuts of pork belly.

Cruella blinked. “You’re making sinigang?”

Marcus didn’t look up as he started slicing radishes with the casual expertise that made her suspicious. “Problem?”

“No, I just—” She tugged his shirt sleeves over her hands, biting back a smile. “Didn’t peg you as the ‘comfort food on a rainy night’ type.”

He shot her a quick, sideways grin. “I’m full of surprises, sweetheart.”

The rain still poured outside, the city skyline blurred in silver streaks through the massive windows, and here she was—standing in Marcus Saavedra’s penthouse, wrapped in his shirt, watching him cook sinigang like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Except nothing about this was normal.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked, hopping onto one of the marble counters.

Marcus shot her an unimpressed look. “I’ll have you know, my lola would disown me if I didn’t.”

Her chest did that annoying flutter again, and she immediately stomped on the feeling.

But then he glanced at her—just a quick, almost shy flick of his eyes—and it hit her.

This man, this disaster of a man, had layers. And she was already peeling them back without meaning to.

“Here.” After a few minutes, he handed her a spoon, the scent of sour tamarind and slow-cooked pork filling the air. “Taste test.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If this sucks, I’m holding it against you forever.”

Marcus’s grin was pure arrogance. “Try me.”

She blew on the steaming spoonful, then took a bite—and it was good. Tangy, rich, the perfect balance of sour and savory.

“Okay, that’s illegal,” she admitted, going in for another bite.

“Told you.”

He looked so smug she almost threw the spoon at him.

Instead, she said, “You’re still a red flag.”

Marcus only chuckled. “Good thing you like red, sweetheart.”

And just like that, she was wrecked all over again—this time, in the kind of way that no amount of sinigang could fix.