Page 51 of Sin

It’s the size of this one that makes me pause.

It’s massive. At least nine inches. And girthy. There’s a pink sticky note stuck to the tip.

I step closer and read it.

From the line I personally designed. This is what my wife enjoys each night.

—Sin

My entire body goes hot. Then cold. Then hot again. My hand is actually shaking as I peel the sticky note off and set it aside.

Holy.

Shit.

He has to be joking. Right? There is no way this would actually fit inside anyone who wants to walk again. I pick it up before I can stop myself. It’s heavier than I expect. Smooth, soft silicone, perfectly shaped, with a flared base and enough arrogance molded into it that I know he designed it. Of course Mason Sinclair would design a dildo that looks like it should come with a warning label and a prayer candle.

I turn it over in my hands and my mouth goes dry. This is what my wife enjoys each night. I should be disgusted and toss it into the trash and wash my hands with bleach. Instead, my traitorous brain decides to picture Mason holding it. Then Mason using it on me. Then Mason’s mouth near my ear in that truck saying You can do anything and no one would know.

I squeeze the toy so hard it bends slightly. Nope. Absolutely not.

Because God hates me, someone clears their throat behind me.

“Jeez, Cross. Doing some product testing?”

I nearly launch the thing into the ceiling.

Instead, I snatch Mason’s note off my desk and turn to find Tate standing in my doorway, grinning like he just caught me committing a felony.

“Very funny,” I say. “Someone left it as a prank.”

His gaze drops to the toy in my hand. “That’s a prank? Looks more like a challenge.”

I shove it behind my back. Which is stupid.

Tate’s grin widens. “Relax. I’m not judging. Everyone needs a hobby.”

“My hobby is firing people who stand in my doorway making jokes before coffee.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“Give me time.”

He laughs and leans against the frame. “Well, you ready for lunch?”

I glance at the clock. “It’s not even noon.”

“It’s Monday after a holiday weekend. Time has no meaning, and I want a drink.”

Fair. I grab my purse with my free hand, then realize I’m still holding the enormous dildo like it’s evidence in a murder investigation.

Tate looks at it.

I look at it.

Then I drop it on my desk so fast it makes a very unfortunate thud. Tate loses it.

“Not a word,” I warn.