Page 46 of Sin

Rain pounds against the roof. The windows fog at the edges. The heat hums low. And suddenly, I am very aware that I am alone in Mason Sinclair’s truck. Honestly, I should not be allowed to make my own decisions.

He starts the engine. “Address?”

I give it to him, and he enters it into the navigation system, then pulls away from the curb. For the first few blocks, neither of us speaks. Which is fine. Silence is good. It gives me plenty of time to stare out the window and not think about how his hand looks wrapped around the steering wheel. Naturally, I think about it. His sleeves are rolled beneath his coat. Just enough that I can see the strong line of his wrist when he turns.

His wedding band catches the light. That should cool everything. But then I remember those same hands braced on my desk. The way he leaned in. The way his voice dropped when he called me a brat. My stomach flips and I shift in my seat.

Mason glances over. “Cold?”

“A little.”

He reaches out, turning up the heat as we come to a stop at a red light. Rain streaks down the windshield, turning the city into smears of gold and red. For one second, I can see his reflection in the glass. His profile. His jaw. His mouth.

I wonder what it would feel like.

The thought comes out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. Still, it hits me hard enough that I stop breathing.

I picture leaning across the console. My hand against his chest. His head turning toward mine. That first second before either of us remembers all the reasons we shouldn’t. His mouth close. His breath warm. The rain hiding everything outside while we ruin everything inside.

I can almost feel it. The scrape of his jaw. The heat of his hand at my neck. The sound he’d make if he finally stopped being careful.

The light turns green, but the truck doesn’t move.

I blink and glance up. Mason is looking at me. Not at the road. At me. My heart slams once, hard.

“What?” I ask.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lifts.

“Nothing.”

The car behind us honks.

Mason looks forward and drives, and I press my knees together before staring out the window like the streetlights are fascinating. They’re not. They’re blurry and yellow and doing absolutely nothing to distract me from the fact that, for one horrifying second, I imagined leaning across the console and kissing my very married boss in his very expensive truck.

A minute passes.

Then he says, “You went quiet.”

“I’m enjoying the silence,” I answer pointedly.

He laughs at that.

“Sorry,” he says. “I like to get to know people in my truck.”

I glance over. “That sounds like something you shouldn’t mention to HR.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Speaking of your truck,” I say, desperate for literally any subject that isn’t the way his laugh just settled somewhere beneath my ribs… and legs, “why are the windows so tinted? Isn’t that against the law or something?”

“Why?” He glances at me. “You going to call the cops on me?”

I meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

Another red light catches us, and I bite back a groan. Seriously?

I clear my throat. “So, what are your plans for the holiday?”