Page 90 of Sin

I point blindly down the hall.

“Last door.”

He carries me there like he already knows the way. Which is impossible. He’s never been here before. He’s never seen my bedroom, with its soft gray walls and too many books stacked on the nightstand. He’s never seen the throw blanket at the foot of my bed or the candle on my dresser or the framed print above my headboard that I bought because it made the room feel less lonely. But when Sin walks in with me wrapped around him, it feels like he belongs there.

That might be the most dangerous thing of all.

He sets me down on the bed, but he doesn’t come over me right away. For one second, he just stands there looking at me and I look at him. Dark coat gone. Shirt wrinkled. Hair a mess from my hands. Mouth still damp from mine. He looks ruined. And beautiful.

And married.

The thought hits like it always does.

I sit up on my elbows, breathing too fast. “You can still leave.”

His eyes hold mine. “I know.”

“You should.”

“I know that too.”

Neither of us moves. Then he reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head.

My mouth goes dry. Then his hands go to his belt. The sound of the buckle coming undone is obscenely loud in my quiet, lonely, ordinary bedroom.

Sin pushes his pants down and steps out of them, leaving him in black boxer briefs and nothing else. He is all hard lines and restraint, broad shoulders and muscle and the kind of body that makes me want to write an apology letter to every rational thought I’ve ever had.

Then he looks down at his hand and the room changes. Not enough to kill the heat. Enough to remind us what the heat is burning through.

I watch his thumb slide over the gold band once like a habit. Or a wound.

“Sin,” I say quietly.

His jaw tightens. He removes the ring and sets it on my dresser.

I swallow.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His gaze comes back to mine. “I do if I’m touching you.”

That should make me feel better. It doesn’t. It makes me ache. Because there’s no accident in this. Just a wedding ring sitting on my dresser while we decide, again, to be terrible.

He comes to the bed. I expect him to climb over me, to kiss me hard, to let the lust carry us the rest of the way. Instead, he kneels between my legs and puts his hands on my knees.

“Tell me yes,” he says.

My throat tightens. He could have made this filthy or a demand. Instead, he makes it a choice. My choice.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His hands slide up my thighs. Then his mouth is on mine. And there is no more talking for a while.

The first time in my bed is desperate.

His mouth is everywhere. My hands are everywhere. He knocks a book off my nightstand, and I laugh into his shoulder because it is either laugh or fall apart completely. He looks down at me when he’s finally inside me. And whatever thin thread was holding us to the world snaps.

After, I expect him to leave. I tell myself he will. That he should. That he’ll pull on his clothes and put the ring back on and kiss my forehead like a man who regrets me.