Sinful Cravings A Raw Taboo Erotica Anthology

Chapter One: The House That Watches

The gravel crunches beneath Grace's sandals as the Uber idles behind her, twin red brake lights glowing like a pair of tired eyes. She doesn't look back. She's already halfway up the long circular drive, suitcase wheels bumping over uneven stones. The estate rises ahead of her like a sleeping giant-three stories of weathered stone and climbing ivy, green as the summer air is thick.

She hasn't been home since Christmas. Seven months away, but it still stuns her how huge the house is. Grand in that arrogant, old-money way: pillared entrance, arched windows tall enough to swallow a cathedral's shame, and the heavy iron front door that looks like it should groan when opened.

She pauses at the base of the steps. The air smells like overgrown roses and sun-warmed stone. Her shirt sticks to her lower back. Thunderheads bruise the sky beyond the treeline-just heat lightning now, but the pressure feels like a held breath.

And somewhere inside this house is Julian.

She hasn't seen him in person since the holidays, just a few photos her mom had posted on Facebook before disappearing to Europe for the summer. Grace had zoomed in on them more times than she'd admit. Julian with his button-down sleeves rolled, scotch in hand, that unreadable half-smile curving his mouth. A little more gray at the temples, maybe, but still the same lean body, the same shoulders that seem too broad to belong to a man who prefers books to sports.

She'd been twenty when her mother married him-late for a second marriage, early for Grace to care. At first, she'd been wary. Who was this quiet, polished, way-too-composed man her mother brought home like a new handbag?

Then he'd looked at her once. Really looked. Long enough to make her feel like the most dangerous thing in the room. Not a kid. Not a step-anything.

She knocks once, then twice. The door opens almost immediately.

Julian.

White linen shirt open at the throat, collarbones shadowed in the dusky light. Black slacks loose around his hips. He smells like sandalwood and tobacco leaf, something warm and complicated. His hair is damp at the temples like he's just come from the shower-or just sweating, she realizes, with the heat.

"Grace," he says, smile understated. That slow, almost curious way of speaking that makes it sound like he's tasting your name. "You're early."

"Couldn't wait," she replies, and lets her smile linger. She watches the shift in his eyes-how quickly he tracks her bare legs, the tiny hem of her denim shorts. She's dressed for the drive, not for greeting her stepfather. But that's not an accident.

He steps aside, lets her pass. The foyer swallows her in cool air and the soft echo of her footsteps on marble. She always forgets how cold the house is, like it refuses to let summer in. There's a vase of lilies on the table. Their scent is rich, almost too much.

Julian closes the door behind her, and the click of the latch sounds final.

"Your mother's flight left late," he says, gesturing toward the sweeping staircase. "She's already in Paris. Left this morning."

"I know," Grace answers. "She called me from the airport. Sounded giddy."

"She usually is when she's shopping."

He says it without judgment, but there's something tight in his voice, some subtle derision. Grace looks up at him, amused.

"You two fighting again?"

Julian's expression doesn't change, but the muscles in his jaw pulse faintly. "We don't fight. We disagree. Occasionally with volume."

He glances toward her suitcase. "Want help carrying that up?"

"No," she says, dragging it to the bottom of the stairs. "I've got it. I need the workout."

He doesn't argue. Just watches her start up the stairs, slowly, deliberately. She knows what her ass looks like in these shorts. She can feel his gaze like warm breath between her thighs.

And God help her, she likes it.

Her bedroom hasn't changed. Pale linen curtains float in the warm breeze, and her sheets are crisply turned down. The housekeeper must've come today-everything smells faintly of lavender and starch.

She unpacks slowly. Her fingers trail over folded bras, thin cotton panties, cropped sleep shirts. She picks one deliberately-white, sheer, hangs just below her hips-and tosses it onto the bed. She imagines wearing it tonight. Imagines coming down for water. Imagines the way Julian's eyes would catch, flicker, refuse to move away.

By the time she heads downstairs again, dusk has crept into the corners of the house. The lamps are on, warm pools of gold across leather and glass. She finds Julian in the sunroom, reading. He hasn't turned on the overhead lights, just a single tall lamp behind his chair.

He looks up as she enters. She's barefoot now, wearing a tank top and the same tiny shorts. Her skin is flushed from the shower, still slightly damp at the collarbone. She drops onto the couch opposite him, legs folding beneath her.

"What're you reading?"

He lifts the book slightly. The Collected Stories of Nabokov.

"Jesus," she says, grinning. "You never change."

His eyes narrow faintly. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I don't know. Depends on how you were to begin with."

"Grace," he says, her name like a warning-but there's amusement too, buried under the low timber of his voice. "Are you trying to provoke me already?"

"Only a little." She stretches her arms above her head, sighing as her spine arches. "It's just... good to be home."

He's silent for a beat too long. Then: "You were supposed to stay in New York for the summer."

"I was supposed to take that internship at that awful hedge fund." She leans back on her elbows. "Then I realized I don't want to wear heels and kiss ass for the next ten years."

"So instead you came here. To... kiss mine?"

It's a dry joke, but it lands between them like a lit match. Her breath hitches just enough to give her away. Julian doesn't move. Doesn't smirk. Just watches.

"I came for the pool," she says airily. "And the view."

"Ah," he murmurs, eyes on her throat now. "The view."

There's silence then, taut and vibrating. The sound of cicadas rising in waves through the open windows. The breeze lifting the edge of her tank top. His gaze follows it, lingers on the bare skin just below her ribs. He closes his book without marking the page.

"I'll open a bottle," he says, voice low.

"I'm twenty-one," she calls as he walks past. "No rules now."

He doesn't answer. Just disappears into the kitchen. When he returns, he's carrying two glasses and a bottle of white wine, the condensation already sliding down the green glass.

They drink in silence for a while. She sits cross-legged now, sipping slowly, letting the alcohol fuzz the edges of her thoughts. He's across from her, legs stretched out, one arm slung over the back of the chair. Watching. Always watching.

"How's school?" he asks eventually.

"Fine."

"You like it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because everyone there's trying too hard. They act like they know everything. I'd rather be here."

He doesn't reply. Just takes another sip of wine. She watches his throat move as he swallows, watches the tendons shift under skin.

"It's weird without her here," she says, voice softer now. "The house feels... different."

Julian nods. "Quieter."

"Better?"

He doesn't answer that either. Instead, he stands, sets his empty glass down. "I should lock up."

Grace watches him move-how his shirt pulls across his back, the clean lines of his shoulders. Something stirs low in her belly, dangerous and old and familiar.

"I might go for a swim," she says. "After dark."

He pauses by the door. Looks back. "Alone?"