Page 101 of Sin

“We need rules.”

I laugh once. “We had rules.”

His mouth tightens.

“Then we need better ones.”

I look at the mess on my desk. The papers on the floor. The chair turned sideways. The place where his ring had sat.

Then back at him.

“Good luck with that.”

For the first time all day, his mouth almost smiles. Almost. Then he unlocks the door and leaves.

I stand alone in my office, breathing in the aftermath of him, with rain streaking the windows and my body still humming.

Normal lasted less than one business day.

Honestly, I should have known.

16

Sin

It’s been four weeks since we got home from Amsterdam. Four weeks since I told myself we were going to stop. Four weeks of failing.

Every day, we say this is the last time. Every day, we pretend we mean it. Every day, we look for excuses to be alone in the same room. A late meeting. A prototype review. An elevator ride no one else gets on. It doesn’t matter. The excuse changes. The ending never does.

Right now, Laurel is in my office, on my desk. And I’m on my knees like she’s the only thing I’ve ever worshipped. We didn’t even wait until everyone left. No, she came in for a lunch meeting with a folder full of numbers and that sharp mouth of hers telling me we needed to discuss post-launch projections. I locked the door before she finished the sentence.

Now her skirt is pushed up around her hips, one heel braced on the edge of my desk, the other digging into my back, and her fingers are buried in my hair. She pulled it loose from the bun two minutes ago. I’ve discovered she likes it down. I’ve discovered a lot of things about Laurel Cross that I have no right to know. The way she arches when my mouth moves exactly right. The way she says Sin like it’s a curse and a prayer at the same time.

“I’m close,” she pants.

Her thighs tighten around me. I grip her hips harder, keeping her there, keeping her open, keeping my mouth on her because if I let myself think about where we are or what time it is or the fact that half my executive team is on this floor, I might remember I am supposed to be a better man than this.

I’m not.

Not with her.

“Sin,” she breathes. “Oh, God.”

Her hand flies to her mouth, muffling the sound as she breaks for me. I watch her fall apart, my name still caught behind her fingers, her body shaking against my mouth. It should satisfy something in me. It doesn’t.

It never does.

I want more before she has even come down.

I rise, dragging my mouth along her thigh before kissing her mouth. She kisses me even though she can taste herself on me, and the sound she makes against my mouth snaps the last of my restraint. I enter her while she’s still trembling from the orgasm.

Her head falls back, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” I tell her.

Her eyes open.

That is almost my undoing.