Page 48 of Sin
“Not the truck?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Not the back seat?”
My breath catches and his eyes flicker briefly to mine, and I know he heard it.
“I didn’t say anything about a back seat,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
The green light ahead turns yellow. He slows instead of trying to beat it.
I glare at the windshield. “Are you intentionally stopping at every light?”
“I’m obeying traffic laws.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Very.”
The truck rolls to a stop. Again. Rain beats against the roof, steady and intimate, and the windows are so dark I can’t see anything but distorted reflections of passing headlights and the hard line of Mason’s profile.
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “For the record, you can do almost anything in this truck, and no one would know.”
My head swims. Is this what Eve felt like in the Garden of Eden? Because I don’t think I’ve ever been this tempted in my life.
I swallow. “Almost anything?”
His gaze turns to me slowly.
“There are limits.”
“Like?”
“My patience.”
The words land low in my stomach. I should make a joke. I should say something about Cornstar, or holiday traffic, or the fact that this conversation has veered so far out of acceptable workplace conduct that Owen would probably burst into flames if he heard it.
Instead, I whisper, “And what happens when you run out?”
Mason goes completely still. The kind of stillness that makes me realize he has been holding himself back this entire time.
His jaw flexes once.
“Don’t ask me that.”
My heart pounds. “Why?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lifts.
“Because I might answer.”
The cab feels smaller than it did a second ago. Hotter. My fingers curl around the strap of my bag, and I have the insane urge to lean toward him just to see what he would do. Would he stop me?
Would I want him to?
The light turns green. Neither of us moves. The car behind us honks again. This time, Mason doesn’t look away from me right away. When he finally drives, his hand tightens on the wheel.
