Litany Of Sins

10 Muscle Memory

CHAPTER 10

Muscle Memory

The memory did not just flicker; it roared to life, drowning out the rhythmic hum of the current engine.

She was back in the backseat of his old sedan, the windows fogged thick with their own frantic humidity, shutting out the rest of the world until there was only the frantic friction of skin against leather, and skin against skin.

She could feel him—the sheer, unyielding weight of him as he loomed over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint streetlights. It was the way he moved—not just with passion, but with a possessive, heavy intent that made her feel entirely consumed.

She remembered the scratch of his day-old stubble against her neck, the way his calloused palms had gripped her waist until she knew she had bruise, his thumbs digging in as he dictated the pace.

She could still hear the sound of her own voice, unanchored and desperate, shattering the silence of that parked car as she arched into him, gasping his name—Everett—over and over, a litany of surrender.

He had not been the good man he was now; back then, he had been a force of nature, rough and overwhelming, his hazel eyes dark and unfocused as he watched her lose the battle for control.

She had felt splintered, hollowed out, and rebuilt by the way he looked at her in the aftermath, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing as ragged as her own.

It was a visceral, haunting sensation—the ghost of his touch still branding her skin, leaving her breathless and burning in the cool air of the current car.

The sudden, smooth deceleration of the vehicle snapped the tether. The memory evaporated, leaving her lungs aching and her skin feeling far too sensitive. The car came to a complete, quiet stop.

“Lila?”

She jolted, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She blinked, the world rushing back into focus: the dashboard, the seatbelt, the quiet, upscale street in Brisbane. Everett was looking at her, his expression unreadable, though there was a knowing, patient curve to his mouth that made her blood run cold.

“We are here,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, casual register that felt entirely too intimate in the sudden silence.

He reached over, his hand brushing the console, just inches from her own trembling fingers. “You have been quiet for a while, Lyle. You doing okay?”

Lila pushed the memory down, shoving it into that mental box she had spent years perfecting, clicking it shut with a force that made her head ache. She did not look at his hand on the console; she looked at the door handle, her movements jerky and stiff as she forced herself to re-engage with the present.

“I am fine,” she snapped, a little sharper than she intended. “I just... I was zoning out. It has been a long day.”

She pushed the door open, the cooler night air hitting her face like a slap of reality. It was a relief, though the humidity of the city—heavy with the scent of rain on asphalt and distant jasmine—could not quite scrub the phantom feeling of his touch from her skin.

She stepped out onto the curb, her legs feeling unsteady.

Everett was already moving, rounding the hood of the car with a fluid, predatory grace that made her breath hitch all over again. He did not walk right up to her, but he did not give her enough space to feel truly alone, either. He stood there, watching her smooth her top, his gaze lingering on the way the fabric hugged her waist.

“A long day,” he repeated, his voice close behind her as she straightened her hem, her fingers trembling slightly. “Or just a long ride?”

Lila turned to face him, her eyes narrowed, projecting a boredom she was nowhere near feeling. “Do not psychoanalyze me before we have even ordered, Everett.” He chuckled at her words as she continued, “It is exhausting.”

He stopped a foot away, that insufferable dimple finally deepening—not in mockery, but in a way that looked dangerously like genuine amusement. “My apologies, Lyle. I forgot that in your world, silence is just a medical symptom to be ignored.”

He gestured toward the restaurant entrance—a low-lit, sophisticated place tucked away in a quiet Brisbane lane. It looked expensive, intimate, and entirely too small to hide in.

“Shall we?” he asked, his tone shifting from teasing to something smoother, more inviting. “Or are you going to keep dissecting my motives on the pavement?”

Lila gripped her purse strap, her knuckles white. “Lead the way,” she said, her voice cool and clinical. They walked side by side towards the front door of the restaurant as she chimed, “And for the record?”

“Hmm?” He tilted his head toward her, listening, though the words were beginning to blur. His hazel eyes were locked on her mouth, tracking the curve of her lips as they formed each sentence.

The sight was a complete distraction he had not prepared for. It was a dangerous, magnetic pull. A dark, hungry thought surfaced, unbidden and overwhelming: he had spent years trying to move on, but seeing her like this, he knew he was still starving for the taste of her.

“I am not dissecting your motives.” She added, “I am just trying to keep my lunch down.”

Everett laughed softly, a low rumble that vibrated through the air between them as he moved to hold the door open for her. “I will take that as a yes to dinner, then.”

Once they were seated at the private table he’d reserved, the rest of the restaurant seemed to melt away. While Lila was absorbed in the menu, Everett was absorbed in her. His gaze drifted with a dangerous, unchecked hunger—tracing the golden, jagged lines of her sleeve tattoo, then watching the way a stray lock of hair fell from behind her ear as she leaned forward.

When his eyes dropped to the curve of her chest, the memory hit him like a physical blow: the taste of her skin, the way he had once worshiped her there, night after night. He exhaled a ragged, heavy breath, shifting in his chair as his pants suddenly felt restrictive.

When Lila looked up at the sound, he reacted on pure instinct, snapping his eyes to the menu and aggressively flipping the page to hide the heat in his gaze. “This one looks good,” he blurted out, pointing at the first dish he saw.

Lila did not even look up at him; her eyes remained fixed on the print. “You are allergic to shrimp,” she stated, her voice flat.

He looked back at her as she looked at him as well, his composure slipping as the realization hit him. A flash of genuine embarrassment crossed his features, followed by a softer, surprised look. “God,” he breathed, his eyes locking onto hers. “I am genuinely impressed you still hold onto details like that.” He smirked.

A faint, jagged line appeared between her brows as if she were annoyed with herself for saying it. She reached for her water glass, her fingers trembling ever so slightly—just enough that she hoped he would not notice but he had been.

“I do not choose what my brain decides to file away,” she murmured, taking a long sip to hide her mouth. When she lowered the glass, her face was back to its carefully constructed mask of indifference. “It is just a fact. Like knowing the boiling point of water. It does not mean anything.”

Everett reached across the table, his hand settling over hers, stilling the involuntary tremor he had clearly been watching for. She finally let out the breath she had not realized she was holding, her lungs expanding in a sudden, sharp relief.

“Don’t be nervous,” he murmured, his tone steady and disarming. “I have noticed that you have been shaking since we got off the car. You do not have to be. It’s just me, Lyle.” He offered her a warm, patient smile, trying to bridge the distance she was so desperately trying to maintain.