Page 190 of Sin

His gaze drops over me slowly. When his eyes come back to mine, they are dark enough to make the noise of the reception fade.

“I’m not trying,” he says. “I’m succeeding.”

I tell my team I’ll be back in half an hour while Sin coughs into his champagne. I glare at him.

We make it to the elevator without touching. The second the doors close, I turn on him.

“Half an hour,” I say.

He steps closer. “One hour.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Two.”

“That is not how negotiation works.”

His hand slides around my waist, pulling me into him. “It is when I’m very motivated.”

My palms flatten against his chest. The elevator begins to rise. We stare at each other in the mirrored walls, polished and composed and engaged like respectable adults. Then his mouth lowers to my ear.

“I have been watching you own that room for the past hour,” he says quietly. “Watching everyone see what I’ve always known.”

My breath catches.

“You’re brilliant. Confident. Mine only because you choose to be.” His lips brush just below my ear. “And all I’ve been able to think about is getting you alone.”

Heat blooms low in my stomach. “Sin.”

His hand flexes at my waist. “I love when you say my name like that.”

“You love when I say your name in general.”

“Yes.”

“At least you’re honest now.”

His mouth curves against my skin. “I learned from the best.”

The elevator dings. We separate immediately because, tragically, cameras exist. The hallway is empty. Our suite is at the end of the corridor, because Sin still books rooms like privacy is a sport he intends to medal in. He opens the door and I step inside. The room is all glass, warm light, and Amsterdam glowing beyond the windows. Canal water dark below. City lights soft and gold. A massive bed turned down with white linens.

One bed.

No pillow wall.

No guilt sitting at the foot of it.

No ring on a nightstand.

This time, the ring stays on my hand.

Sin closes the door behind us. The lock clicks. The sound rolls through me like memory. For a second, neither of us moves.

Then I turn to him.

“This is where everything started,” I say.

His expression softens. “Not everything.”