Page 113 of Sin

“Yes.”

I lean forward and kiss his shoulder. He draws in a breath like that small touch costs him something.

“You’re not him,” I whisper.

“You don’t know the worst of me.”

I look at his bare left hand. Then back at his face.

“I know enough.”

His eyes follow mine to his hand and the absence we’ve both been pretending not to see.

His voice is quiet when he says, “I left it at home.”

“I noticed.”

“I couldn’t bring it here.”

My throat tightens.

“Does that make this better?” I ask.

“No.”

At least he doesn’t lie.

“But I couldn’t keep taking it off in front of you.” His fingers curl slightly against my arm. “Like you were something I had to make room for by removing evidence of my life.”

That hits harder than I expect because that is exactly what it felt like sometimes. Like I was waiting for him to clear a space for me.

He looks at me. “I know that doesn’t fix anything.”

“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t.”

“I know.”

“But it matters.”

His face tightens. I don’t know which of us moves first. His hand slides into my hair, and mine curves around the back of his neck. The kiss is soft at first. The kind of kiss that makes my heart hurt more than my body ache.

I’ve had Sin desperate.

I’ve had him rough.

I’ve had him in offices and hotel rooms and places where we were both half-wrecked by guilt and need.

This is different.

He kisses me like he has all night and wants to learn me without a clock, without a locked door, without shame making everything sharper.

I pull back enough to look at him.

“What?” he asks.

I almost say I think I’m falling in love with you. The words rise up, terrifying and true.

I swallow them down.