Page 86 of Sin

His eyes are dark as he watches me, far too knowing.

I don’t look back as I walk down the narrow aisle. I pass the bathroom without stopping and go to the small bedroom at the back of the plane. My hand is barely on the door before I hear him behind me. The quiet certainty of his footsteps follows me as I step inside.

Sin closes the door behind us, pressing the lock.

For one second, we just stand there. The room is small. Too small. A bed built into the wall, soft lighting, a window shade half-drawn against the clouds outside. The hum of the jet surrounds us, muffling the rest of the world.

He looks at me like he knows exactly what I did. Like he knows I didn’t come back here for the restroom, and he didn’t follow me because he was worried I’d gotten lost.

“Tell me this is a bad idea,” I whisper.

His jaw flexes. “It’s a terrible idea.”

I nod. Then I reach for him. He crosses the space between us in one hard step and pulls me into his arms, kissing me like he has been waiting since Amsterdam to do it again. Which is ridiculous.

He had me this morning.

Twice.

But somehow, every time feels like the first time we stop pretending.

His hands slide into my hair, tilting my face up as his mouth moves over mine. I fist my hands in his shirt, dragging him closer, greedy for the weight and heat and impossible solidity of him.

The plane dips slightly and I stumble. He catches me against him.

“Careful,” he murmurs against my mouth.

He backs me toward the bed, but before my legs hit it, he stops. His forehead rests against mine, and his breath is rough.

“Laurel.”

I know that tone. The last thread of reason. The tiny space where either of us could still stop.

I hate that space.

I kiss him before he can fill it with guilt. His hands tighten on my waist, and then the thread snaps. He turns us, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls me into his lap. My dress rides up around my thighs, and his hands follow, warm and certain, sliding over my curves like he has no interest in pretending he doesn’t know every inch of me now.

The knowledge alone makes me ache.

“Sin,” I breathe.

His eyes close for half a second. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to forget we’re on a plane.”

I shift against him and his hands clamp down on my hips. I feel the restraint in him. It makes me reckless.

“You once told me no one could see what happens in your truck,” I whisper. “Does that apply to private jets too?”

His eyes open. Then he kisses me again, and there is nothing careful left in the room.

The bed is narrow, but somehow we make it work. Or maybe need makes everything fit. His shirt comes off. My dress follows. His mouth moves over my skin while the jet hums beneath us, and every time turbulence trembles through the plane, he holds me tighter.

When he finally pushes inside me, slow and deep, my hand flies to his shoulder and my mouth opens on a sound I can’t stop.

He moves like he has been trying all morning not to remember what I feel like and failing. Every thrust is hard, intimate, devastating. His mouth stays close to mine, catching my breath, swallowing my sounds, his hand braced above my head as if the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely is the thin wall of the plane and the knowledge that we are already damned.