Page 66 of Sin

My breath catches. Just a little. But I think he hears it. The air changes. The kind of change I’ve started to recognize too well. One second we’re bickering. The next, I’m wondering what it would feel like if he turned, crowded me against the elevator wall, and finally did what he almost did on the plane. My pulse jumps.

His gaze drops. Not to my mouth this time. Lower. To where the black wrap dress crosses over my chest.

The elevator dings. Thank God.

We step into the hallway, and he walks ahead with the key card, quiet and controlled and far too broad-shouldered for my peace of mind. The room is at the end of the hall. He unlocks it and pushes the door open, then steps aside so I can enter first. I walk in and stop.

It’s beautiful. A huge suite with dark wood floors, soft cream walls, enormous windows overlooking a canal, and golden light spilling across everything like the room was designed specifically for bad decisions. There’s a sitting area, a fireplace, a soaking tub visible through frosted glass. And there’s a bed.

One bed.

A massive bed.

A bed so large and white and obscene it might as well have winked at me.

Mason steps in behind me and stops too.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

I point toward the sitting area. “There’s a couch.”

He looks at it. So do I. It’s stylish. Tiny. Definitely hostile. Mason is six foot something and built like a man who ruins furniture by existing near it. If he sits on that thing it’s going to crumble beneath him. I press my lips together.

He catches it. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was just thinking it’s a very nice couch.”

“Laurel.”

“For decorative purposes.”

He exhales through his nose, and I turn away before I smile too much. Our luggage is already inside, lined neatly by the wardrobe. My suitcase and bag sit beside his. Smaller. Less expensive. Containing one item that now feels like a ticking bomb.

I cross the room too quickly and grab the bag. “I’m going to unpack.”

“No, you’re not.”

I turn. “Excuse me?”

“You’re going to shower, eat something, and sleep.”

My brows lift. “Are you always this bossy in hotel rooms?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back and bury them under the canal.

His gaze locks on mine. For one long second, neither of us breathes.

Then he says, “Only when bratty women test me.”

Bratty women? Why does that send a rush of heat right between my legs?

I want a subject change so badly that I say, “Sleep in the bed.”

His eyes darken and I realize the sentence too late.