Page 95 of Sin

The kitchen is quiet. Then his phone buzzes once. A voicemail notification. Sin pulls out carefully and turns me into his arms. I let him hold me, because I am too exhausted to pretend I don’t need it.

His mouth presses to my temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “For her?” I ask.

His arms tighten. “For all of it.”

That should make me cry. Maybe later, it will. Right now, I am numb and warm and shaking and more his than I have any right to be.

I pull back enough to look at him.

His face is wrecked. Truly wrecked.

And because I am cruel in my own way, because I need to know if I’m alone in this disaster, I ask, “Are you leaving?”

He looks toward the dark phone. Then back at me.

“No.”

The answer lands heavy.

I hate him a little for it.

I love him a little for it.

No.

Not love.

Absolutely not love. I refuse to call it that.

He cleans us up in silence. Then he carries me back to bed even though I tell him I can walk. He gets under the covers with me and pulls me against his chest, his bare hand splayed over my stomach.

The rest of Sunday disappears the way the weekend did. In pieces. His mouth at my shoulder. My hand over his heart. Jenna’s voicemail unopened. His ring untouched on my dresser. Every hour makes the affair less like a mistake and more like a place we are choosing to live.

By Sunday night, I’m terrified of Monday.

Not of work or consequences. Not even Jenna.

I’m terrified of the door opening, of him picking up his ring, and of watching Sin become Mason Sinclair again.

Because I know now.

I know how he looks in my kitchen. How he sleeps in my bed. How he says my name when he is too far gone to hate himself. I know what it feels like to fall further into sin.

And God help me, I don’t want to climb out.

15

Laurel

Monday morning comes. And so do I. In the shower. With Sin behind me, one hand braced against the tile beside my head, the other between my thighs, his mouth at my ear whispering filthy, impossible things while the hot water beats down over both of us. By the time we shatter, I’m shaking so hard he has to hold me upright.

For one blissful second, I let myself pretend this is just how mornings are now. His body behind mine. His breath against my neck. His hand splayed over my stomach like he has some right to keep me close.

Then reality finds me. It always does.