Page 71 of Sin

I press my lips together.

“Don’t laugh,” he says from the darkness.

“I’m not.”

The sound that escapes me is definitely a laugh.

The couch creaks again. I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The room is dark except for the soft glow of the city through the curtains. I can barely make out his shape on the couch. I know he has to be uncomfortable.

“Mason, the bed is big enough.”

“What?” His voice is low.

“I said the bed is big enough.”

“For what?”

“For both of us to sleep without touching.”

The word sleep does a lot of work in that sentence.

“Look, it’s not going to do either of us any good to be sleep deprived because the couch won’t stop making noises.” I push up on my elbows. “No touching, obviously. In fact, I’m going to build a pillow wall between us.”

Then the couch creaks one final time as Mason stands. My breath catches in the dark. I hear him pick up a pillow. Then the soft fall of his steps across the room. The mattress dips on the far side of the bed. Not much but enough that my entire body knows exactly where he is.

Mason lies on his back, rigid as a corpse.

I do the same.

There’s at least three feet between us and a row of pillows that I immediately arrange like a border wall. The silence is unbearable.

Then he asks, “Comfortable?”

“No.”

“Same.”

I turn my head. He’s looking at the ceiling, mouth tight, hands folded over his stomach like he is attending his own funeral. Despite everything, I smile.

“Are you scared of me, Mr. Sinclair?”

His head turns slowly. Even in the dark, I can feel his gaze.

“No,” he says. “I’m scared of myself.”

I stop breathing.

He turns back toward the ceiling. I do too and neither of us says another word.

The rain keeps falling outside. The canal glows through the curtains. And in the middle of Amsterdam, in a bed far too big and nowhere near big enough, I lie beside Mason Sinclair and realize the most dangerous thing in this room isn’t the dildo in my suitcase.

It’s the fact that I believe him.

12

Laurel

I’m in actual hell. Not regular hell. Not Monday morning without coffee hell. Actual, personalized, hand-crafted-for-my-destruction hell.