Page 193 of Sin

“Same thing.”

I type back one-handed because his mouth is on my shoulder.

Professional emergency. Handle without me.

The reply comes fast.

Sure, boss.

I drop the phone and roll toward him. “They know.”

His hand slides over my hip. “Everyone knows.”

That sentence used to terrify me. Now it makes something warm spread through my chest.

Everyone knows.

And the world did not end.

The third round starts because I make the mistake of telling him the serpent prototype has an improved pulse pattern inspired by his touch. He takes that personally and insists on verifying. For research. Obviously.

We test nothing from the Eden line because the suitcase is downstairs with the product team, but that does not stop Sin from saying he needs to compare methodology.

I tell him that is the least sexy sentence ever spoken.

He proves me wrong.

Repeatedly.

By midnight, the suite is a disaster.

My heels are somewhere by the window. His belt is hanging off a chair. Room service sits half-eaten on the table because we ordered it and then forgot food was a thing bodies need. Champagne has gone warm in the bucket. My launch notes are scattered on the floor, and at some point Sin uses one page to demonstrate exactly where he thinks the serpent model needs more pressure variation. I tell him he’s banned from product feedback. He tells me to put it in writing. I tell him my hands are busy. He agrees. Enthusiastically.

The fourth round happens against the window with Amsterdam glowing beneath us. His hands on my hips. My palms pressed to the glass. His mouth at my ear telling me how beautiful I looked onstage. How proud he is. How badly he wants to marry me. How he would go through hell again if it led him here, to me, to this room, to my ring catching light while he holds me.

I should scold him for saying romantic things while actively doing very unprofessional things to me against hotel architecture. Instead, I come so hard my knees nearly give out. He catches me.

He always does.

Later, much later, when the city has gone quieter and my body is boneless and overly pleased with itself, I end up sprawled across his chest in bed. His hand moves lazily up and down my back. The room smells like sex, champagne, and the very expensive candle housekeeping left on the dresser.

I lift my head. “We really didn’t go back to my own reception.”

“No.”

“That’s rude of us.”

“Yes.”

“I’m the guest of honor.”

“You were honored.”

I bite his chest. He laughs, hand tightening on my hip.

“Careful,” he says. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Ready to show me some more tricks, Mr. Sinclair?”