Page 72 of Sin

The conference has been great. Professionally, it has been everything I wanted. Lust is getting attention. Retailers love it. The international buyers asked smart questions. The press previews went better than I expected, and even Mason admitted my presentation was strong, which I’m pretty sure is the corporate equivalent of a marriage proposal from him.

Unfortunately, sex is literally being thrown in my face every second of the day. Meetings about sex toys. Demos of sex toys. Panels about pleasure equity and product safety and the future of interactive intimacy. Industry professionals everywhere, including sex workers who are gorgeous, confident, funny, and openly discussing orgasms over coffee like they’re talking about weather patterns.

The best was today, the fifth day, when Mason and I were invited to a private exhibit. We agreed, because we’re idiots, only to find out it was an interactive exhibit about orgasms. Interactive. As in lights. Sound. Touch-responsive displays. Educational models. A guided tour by a woman named Fleur who kept saying phrases like “sustained stimulation” and “full-body surrender” while Mason stood beside me with his hands in his pockets and his jaw locked tight enough to crack stone.

At one point, we were asked to stand in a booth that simulated elevated pulse, increased skin sensitivity, and a recorded heartbeat. I made it twelve seconds before I walked out. Mason followed and neither of us spoke for three blocks.

Now, I’m in the hotel room alone and so horny I can’t stop my hands from shaking as I unzip my bag and dig out the massive dildo. The moment my fingers close around it, I close my eyes. Bad idea. Because now I’m not picturing the toy. I’m picturing him.

Mason in that exhibit, standing too close in the dark while the audio guide talked about delayed gratification. Mason in the elevator afterward, staring straight ahead like looking at me might kill him. Mason in this room every night, sleeping on the other side of a pillow wall like restraint is a sport and he’s determined to win gold.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at the ridiculous silicone monster in my lap.

I should put it back or take a cold shower. Instead, I grab the lube from my toiletry bag. Because apparently my common sense got lost somewhere between the orgasm exhibit and the hotel elevator.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I nearly throw the toy across the room.

It’s a text from Mason.

Mason Sinclair

Dinner is running late. Don’t wait up.

I type back with shaking thumbs.

Wasn’t planning on it.

I strip out of my conference clothes with none of the grace of a woman in a romance novel. My blouse gets stuck on my bracelet. My skirt nearly takes me down. By the time I’m naked, I’m annoyed, flushed, and more turned on than ever. I crawl onto the bed and drag a pillow behind my back. The room is quiet except for the rain against the windows and the soft hum of the city below. Amsterdam glows beyond the glass, all canals and gold reflections and people out there making much better decisions than I am. Or worse ones. Honestly, hard to say.

I wrap my hand around the toy again. It’s heavy. Smooth. Intimidating. So very Mason.

That thought should make me stop.

It doesn’t.

It makes me angrier. Because the note he left with it is still burned into my brain. This is what my wife enjoys each night. Fine. Good for Jenna.

I squeeze the base and mutter, “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

I start slow.

I have to.

There’s no other option unless I want my obituary to say cause of death: split in half by a massive toy. The stretch makes me gasp. I exhale shakily and try again, working myself open inch by inch, cursing Mason Sinclair, his product design talent, his hands, his mouth, his stupid dark eyes, and the fact that my body seems determined to prove him right about absolutely everything.

The fullness is obscene. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough because the part I really want is impossible. A man, not a toy. His weight. His voice. His control finally slipping.

I close my eyes, and suddenly he’s there. Not really. But close enough to destroy me.

Mason standing at the foot of the bed, looking at me the way he did in the truck. Like every rule is a thread and I’m holding scissors. Mason saying my name. My hips lift and a broken sound slips out of me.

But then the room door clicks and I go completely still. No, no, no. The door opens. I yank the blanket over myself so fast I nearly give myself a friction burn, one hand still trapped beneath it around the toy that’s still deep inside of me.

Mason steps inside, phone in one hand, room key in the other. He stops, staring at me. I swear to God I stop breathing. For one terrible second, neither of us moves. Then his gaze takes in the room. The clothes on the floor. My flushed face. My very obvious panic. Then his eyes go to the nightstand where the lube is sitting because God has abandoned me.

“I thought dinner was running late,” I say.

My voice cracks. Wonderful.