Page 69 of Sin
“Compared to everything else happening here? Absolutely.”
Mason eats across from me in a T-shirt, barefoot now, his hair slightly messy from the way he ran his hand through it earlier. I hate that this version of him feels more dangerous. When dinner is finished, he stands and clears the plates before I can protest. He sets everything back on the cart, then rolls it near the door.
“I’ll take the bathroom now,” he says.
“Okay.”
He grabs clothes from his suitcase. Not much. Sweatpants. A dark shirt. A toothbrush. A normal amount of things for a normal man. Unlike me, who smuggled a silicone battering ram across international waters.
Before he goes into the bathroom, he pauses.
“Take the bed.”
I shake my head. “We already discussed this.”
His jaw tightens. “Please don’t argue with me about this.”
“Fine,” I say. “But if you end up unable to turn your neck tomorrow during our presentation, I’m telling everyone you lost a fight with Dutch furniture.”
His mouth almost smiles. “Fair.”
He steps into the bathroom and closes the door. A second later, the shower starts. I stand frozen in the middle of the room. Because apparently this is my life now. Mason Sinclair is showering ten feet away from me while I’m in a hotel robe, in one shared room, with a bed big enough for a Shakespearean tragedy and a bag containing a sex toy he personally designed.
I move quickly, turning down the bedding, losing the robe, and climbing under the covers. Then, for good measure, I pull them up to my chin like a Victorian widow protecting her virtue. It would be more effective if I weren’t wearing satin shorts.
I grab my phone and check email, trying to stay busy, Anything so I can’t hear the sound of the shower in the other room. Then I scroll on social media. I’m just getting cozy when the shower turns off. I flip to my side, facing away from the bathroom door.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens. I keep my eyes closed. This is a smart strategy.
Then Mason says, “Your suitcase is buzzing.”
My eyes snap open.
“What?”
He’s standing near the wardrobe in dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt, long damp hair hanging freely, looking like every fantasy I have been trying to avoid since we landed. And my suitcase is, in fact, buzzing.
No.
No, no, no.
I sit up so fast the covers slide to my waist.
Mason’s gaze drops. Not to my suitcase, but to me. Then he looks away.
My face burns.
“The zipper must have pressed against something,” I say, scrambling out of bed.
“Something,” he repeats.
I rush to the suitcase, drop to my knees, and unzip it. The buzzing gets louder and Mason makes a strangled sound behind me.
I glare over my shoulder. “Not. A. Word.”
His hands lift.
I dig through my clothes until I find the culprit. It’s not the massive dildo. Thank God. It’s my travel vibrator and its button is flashing like a beacon of shame. I turn it off and shove it back under my clothes. The silence behind me is devastating.
