Page 120 of Sin

“What?”

His mouth lowers to mine. “If you need to be quiet, kiss me.”

So I do.

I kiss him as he starts to move, swallowing every sound, every gasp, every broken little breath he drags out of me. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he takes me on the edge of my desk, and it is messy and frantic and not at all the careful distance we promised each other after Seattle.

I dig my nails into his shoulders, and he makes a sound against my mouth that I feel everywhere.

“You feel too good,” he says. The words are rough.

I would laugh if I could breathe. Instead, I wrap my legs tighter around his waist and pull him closer. His control fractures and the pace changes. Still quiet, but only barely. The kind of quiet that feels more obscene because every sound is trapped between us. Skin against skin. Breath against mouth. My desk creaking beneath me. His name breaking in my throat and dying on his tongue.

I’m right on the edge when there’s a knock at the door.

Both of us go completely still.

My heart stops. Sin’s body locks against mine, still buried deep, one hand gripping my hip, the other braced beside me on the desk.

“Laurel?” Wilder calls from the hallway. “Have you seen Sin?”

Oh.

My.

God.

I stare at Sin with wide eyes. He stares back. For one deranged second, neither of us moves because our brains have apparently short-circuited from panic and poor choices.

Then the door handle turns.

Sin moves faster than I have ever seen him move in my life. He pulls out, turns, and crosses the room in two silent strides, catching the lock a split second before the handle fully depresses. The click is tiny. Deafening.

I yank my skirt down and slide off the desk so fast my knee bangs the drawer.

Ow.

I slap a hand over my mouth.

Sin stands at the door, one palm flat against it, shirt open, belt undone, breathing like he just sprinted across the city. Technically, he sprinted eight feet.

The handle jiggles again.

“Have you seen him?” Wilder asks.

Sin closes his eyes. I clamp both hands over my mouth because if I laugh, cry, or scream, it is over for us.

“Give me a minute,” Sin says. “We’re on a call with Tokyo.”

His voice is calm. Mostly. A little rough. The kind of rough that makes my entire face catch fire because there is absolutely no way Wilder doesn’t hear it.

There’s a pause.

Then Wilder says, “Is this a bad time?”

Sin looks back at me. His eyes move over my flushed face, my messy blouse, my skirt that is technically down but definitely not innocent, then lower to the floor where his tie is lying like evidence. His mouth twitches. The bastard.

“Yes,” he says.