Page 118 of Sin
“I know.”
“We were doing so well.”
“No, we weren’t.”
That makes me laugh, but it breaks into a gasp when he lifts me onto the desk with one strong movement. Papers scatter. My pen rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor.
His mouth moves to my throat, and I tip my head back, giving him more because I am apparently an idiot with survival instincts made of wet tissue paper.
“Sin.”
He freezes for half a second then his teeth graze my skin.
“Don’t say it like that unless you want me to forget where we are.”
I slide my hands into his hair. “Maybe I do.”
His eyes lift to mine. There he is. Not Mason Sinclair. Not my boss. Not the man at the head of the conference table pretending we are only work. Sin. Mine in every way that counts and none of the ways that matter.
His hands slide beneath my skirt.
I suck in a breath.
“Door,” I whisper.
“What?”
“The door.”
His mouth is on my collarbone now. “Closed.”
“Locked?”
He goes still. For one second, we both look toward it. A very responsible person would fix that. A very responsible person would also not be on her desk with her skirt around her thighs and her married CEO between her legs, so clearly, that ship boarded, sailed, and exploded somewhere off the coast of Seattle.
Sin looks back at me, but neither of us moves toward the lock.
“Five minutes,” he says.
“That is optimistic.”
His mouth curves, dark and wicked. “For you or for me?”
I smack his shoulder. He catches my hand and kisses my palm. Then he presses it flat to his chest, over his racing heart, and somehow that is hotter than if he’d said something filthy.
Which is rude. I had defenses against filthy. I have absolutely no defenses against his heart pounding under my hand.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I stop thinking about locks. I stop thinking about everything. His fingers find me, and my entire body jerks.
“Quiet,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I laugh shakily. “You first.”
His thumb moves. My laugh dies. The office is too silent around us. The building mostly empty but not empty enough. Every breath feels too loud. Every soft sound my body makes feels like it could carry through the walls and announce to the entire company that Laurel Cross has absolutely no common sense when it comes to her boss’s hands.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
That’s the problem.
