Page 23 of Sin

“And so do you.” Wine makes me brave and I step closer. “Where were you?”

His expression shuts down. “That’s not your concern.”

I almost laugh again, but it sticks in my throat. “Not my concern? You put me in charge of Lust, disappeared for two months, and then walked back in tonight like you had the right to look disappointed.”

“I was never disappointed in your work.”

“No. Just in me.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a second. But I see it. Worse, I feel it.

“That depends,” he says.

My pulse stutters. “On what?”

“On whether tonight is a habit.”

I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you.” I take another step toward him. “I’m giving you a chance to make it sound less insulting.”

Mason Sinclair doesn’t retreat. He stands there in his perfectly tailored suit, while I come closer in lace and fury and pretend this isn’t the closest we’ve been in months.

His gaze flickers over my face. “You and Jack seemed comfortable.”

I move closer still, until there’s barely an arm’s length between us.

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to disappear, come back, stare at me like that, humiliate Jack, and then pretend this is about company policy.”

His voice lowers. “How was I staring at you?”

The question hits like a match struck in a dark room. I should step back but I don’t.

“You know exactly how.”

His gaze drops again, slower this time, and my skin reacts before my pride can stop it. Heat spreads across my chest. My nipples tighten beneath the lace.

“Put on your blouse,” he says again, rougher this time.

I lift my chin. “Make me.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Mason goes utterly still and then the air changes. His eyes darken, and for one suspended second, I realize exactly how dangerous it is to taunt a man who has spent his entire life getting what he wants by refusing to reach for it too soon.

He reaches past me, and for one wild second I think he’s going to touch me. My breath catches. My body betrays me so completely that I have to curl my fingers into my palms to keep from reaching for him first. But he doesn’t touch me. He picks up my blouse and holds it open.

“For once in your life,” he says, voice low, “stop daring me to prove a point.”

That should not feel intimate, dammit.

“Why?” I whisper. “Because I’m embarrassing you?”

His eyes lock on mine.

“No,” he says. “Because I’m having a very hard time remembering why I shouldn’t touch you.”

The confession lands between us with a violence that steals the air from my lungs. For a moment, I forget everything.