Page 111 of Sin

Laurel

We’re in bed again, and Sin is holding me. The past two days have been… wonderful. That’s the only word I have for it, which feels stupidly small considering everything that has happened. Wonderful sounds like a nice brunch or a good parking spot. Not a weekend spent tangled in hotel sheets with a man I have no business loving. And yet. Wonderful.

Now reality is starting to settle in.

We fly back to Chicago tomorrow. After that, it’s going to be go-mode for the launch of the Sins line. Meetings. Production timelines. Retailer follow-ups. Marketing pushes. The kind of chaos I normally thrive in. Except now I’m worried we won’t have time to see each other.

I should be worried about a lot of other things first.

“What has you frowning?” Sin asks.

I look up to find him watching me. His hair is messy from my hands. His chest is warm against my cheek. His arm is wrapped around me like he has no intention of letting go, and his left hand strokes slowly over my arm.

I noticed right away his ring was missing. I notice everything about that hand now. The way it looks on my waist. In my hair. Curled around mine in the dark. The pale line where his wedding ring usually sits, a mark that is somehow louder than the ring itself. I didn’t say anything.

What’s there to say?

I’m already a terrible person because I’ve been sleeping with a married man for over a month.

Worse, I think I’m falling in love with him.

“Just dreading going back to reality,” I say.

His hand moves up and down my arm, slow and soothing. “We can stay another day.”

I laugh softly. “That’ll make everyone talk.”

His sigh is deep. “I know.”

For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. Rain taps against the hotel window. Seattle glows beyond the glass, gray and wet and far away from everyone who knows us.

Then Sin surprises me by asking, “Do you want kids?”

I lift my head. “What made you think of that? All the unprotected sex we’ve been having?”

His mouth twitches.

I let out a small laugh. “We’re good. I have an IUD.”

Because God knows I could be pregnant otherwise.

“I was asking because you’re young.”

“I’m thirty.”

He smiles faintly. “Like I said. Young.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re forty-five, not ninety.”

“People my age are still having kids.”

“People your age also complain about their knees and use the phrase back in my day.” I smile and answer his question. “No. I don’t want kids.”

He watches me carefully

I stare at the wall across from the bed, trying to find the right words. “I know that’s the dream for some people. It’s just not mine.”

“That’s enough of a reason.”