Page 92 of Sin

Then he stands and I think he’s going to leave. Instead, he walks around the table, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me. It’s not gentle or sweet. A kiss that tastes like guilt and hunger and anger at himself.

I shove at his chest. “Sin.”

He stops immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The apology hurts more than the kiss.

Instead, I touch his wrist. “I know.”

His phone buzzes again and we both look at it. He reaches for it and turns it off.

I stare at him.

“That doesn’t make it disappear,” I whisper.

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t.”

“Then why?”

His eyes are dark when they come back to mine.

“Because I don’t want to be anywhere else tonight.”

That’s the worst thing he could have said. Because it makes me step into him even though I know better. Because when his mouth comes down on mine again, I let it.

Sunday is worse. Not because the lust fades. Because it doesn’t. Because it starts to become something else. He reads beside me in bed while I answer emails. He makes a comment about my terrible organizational system, and I threaten to evict him. He smiles. A real smile. A devastating, unfair, soft thing I want to keep and have no right to.

I make pasta badly, and he eats it anyway.

He washes the dishes. Mason Sinclair, billionaire CEO, stands in my kitchen washing my chipped plates with the sleeves of his black shirt rolled to his elbows. I watch him from the doorway and feel something inside me shift. Not lust. Something more dangerous.

Something that has no place in an affair.

He glances over his shoulder. “You’re staring.”

“I’m making sure you don’t break anything.”

“I own a company that designs precision motors.”

“And yet my favorite mug is irreplaceable.”

He dries his hands and turns. His gaze moves over my face, and something softens. I hate when he looks at me like that.

That’s when the phone rings again. The sound slices through the apartment and her name glows between us. I expect him to reach for it. Instead, his eyes lift to mine.

“Tell me to answer it,” he says.

My breath catches.

I should say, Answer your wife.

I should walk out of the kitchen.

I should grab his ring from my dresser and press it into his palm.

Instead, I whisper, “Do you want to?”