Page 63 of Sin

My head snaps toward him. His eyes are on mine and my throat goes dry. Asked first. About brushing against me? Touching me? Moving closer? Ruining me?

“All this consent talk before breakfast,” I say, because panic makes me sarcastic. “Owen would be proud.”

His mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. “Owen would throw me out of the plane.”

“Probably.”

“He’d be right.”

The words land between us.

I close the laptop halfway. “Maybe we should take a break.”

“Good idea.”

Neither of us moves.

Because apparently we are both excellent at ideas and terrible at execution.

A few minutes later, the flight attendant brings lunch. Small plates. Salad. Fruit. Pasta that looks too fancy for a plane and not nearly comforting enough for the emotional damage happening at thirty thousand feet. Mason eats like a normal person. I pick at my food and pretend I’m not replaying the way his hand felt around mine during takeoff.

After lunch, I try to sleep. Try being the key word. The seat reclines almost flat, there’s a soft blanket, and the cabin lights dim enough that I should be able to drift off. Instead, I stare at the ceiling and think about the man sitting a few feet away, typing quietly on his laptop like he hasn’t been driving me insane since seven this morning.

Eventually, the jet hits turbulence. Not terrible. Just enough to make my eyes snap open and my hand grab the armrest again. Mason’s laptop clicks shut.

“I’m fine,” I say before he can ask.

The plane bumps again, and my hand tightens on the armrest. Mason reaches over, palm up. An offer.

Our fingers slide together.

This time, neither of us pretends it’s accidental.

The turbulence continues for a few minutes. My pulse gradually stops trying to escape my body. Mason’s hand stays steady in mine, warm and solid and far more comforting than I want it to be.

I close my eyes, which is a mistake. Without sight, everything else sharpens. His breathing. His thumb against my skin. The faint shift of his body when the plane dips. The fact that our shoulders are touching.

“You’re good at that,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“Making people feel safe.”

His hand tightens slightly around mine. For a second, I think he won’t answer.

Then he says, “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“It is right now.”

When I open my eyes he’s looking at me. Really looking. His gaze drops to my mouth and my breath catches. My gaze drops to his mouth too. The distance between us is nothing. A breath. A bad decision. A heartbeat.

He leans in first. My entire body answers like it’s been waiting months for that inch. I tilt toward him. His hand slides from mine to my wrist, thumb pressing against the wild beat of my pulse. I want to ask him to kiss me. So badly.

Then the plane jolts enough to make us both freeze and to remind me that we are on a company jet, heading to a work event, and he has a wife whose name keeps cutting through every fantasy like broken glass. I pull back and Mason lets me. Immediately. Which makes it worse.

“I should try to sleep,” I say.

My voice is not normal.