Page 87 of Sin

I come with his name against his mouth.

He follows with his face buried in my neck, my body held so tightly beneath his that I can feel the shudder run through him.

For a moment after, neither of us moves as the jet carries us home. We lie tangled in the small bed, breathing hard, the clouds outside the window bright and endless.

Then Sin lifts his head. The guilt is already there. I see it before he speaks.

I touch his mouth. “Don’t.”

His eyes close.

“We’re going home,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“Everything changes when we land.”

I swallow. “I know that too.”

But neither of us says what we both understand. Everything already changed. Landing just makes it harder to ignore.

By the time the jet touches down in Chicago, we are dressed, polished, and sitting across from each other like we spent the flight discussing market projections instead of fucking each other in the bedroom. Sin’s ring is back on, and I try not to look at it.

I fail twice.

He drives me home from the private terminal. In his big black truck.

The city is dark by then, wet from earlier rain, the streets shining under headlights. I sit in the passenger seat pretending I am not hyperaware of every inch of him beside me.

Then we stop at a red light. The same kind of red light that started all of this. I glance at the tinted windows.

His voice is low when he says, “Don’t.”

I look at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

My pulse jumps. The light turns green and Sin drives through the intersection, jaw tight, hands hard on the wheel.

“Take me home,” I say.

“I am.”

“No.” My voice shakes. “Take me home before I ask you to pull over.”

His breath changes.

“Laurel.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“No,” I admit. “Not anymore.”

That’s the truth. I don’t know anything anymore. Not how to want him less. Not how to go back to work and pretend I don’t know the sounds he makes when he comes. Not how to watch him put that ring back on and still want his hands on me.

He turns down a quieter street.