Page 186 of Sin

She looks at me, breathless and flushed.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

I lift her, and she wraps her legs around my waist like she remembers exactly where she belongs against me. The thought nearly destroys me.

I carry her down the hall, kissing her as we go. We bump into the wall once. She laughs against my mouth, and the sound rushes through me like light. Her bedroom is soft and half-unpacked. A mattress on a frame. Two nightstands that don’t match. More books. A lamp casting everything gold.

I set her down carefully and she reaches for the buttons of my shirt. I catch her hands.

Her brows draw together. “What?”

I lift her fingers to my mouth and kiss them. One by one.

“I don’t want to rush.”

Her throat moves. “We don’t have to.”

“I have wanted you every second since I last touched you.”

“Me too.”

“But tonight…” I brush my thumb over her knuckles. “Tonight I want to remember all of it.”

Her eyes fill and she blinks quickly.

“Don’t make me cry before sex. That’s rude.”

A laugh breaks out of me. Then I kiss her again, softer this time. The kind of kiss that turns heat into ache.

We undress each other without hurry. Her fingers slide over my chest as my shirt falls open. Mine trace the curve of her shoulders as her dress slips down her body. Every inch revealed feels like a gift I have no intention of taking lightly.

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

Her smile wobbles. “You’ve said that before.”

“I’ll say it again.”

“Do you want this life?” she asks. “Not the secret one. Not the affair. Not the adrenaline and locked doors. This. Dinner. Apartments. Work in separate places. Hard conversations. People judging us. Me possibly stealing your product ideas from across enemy lines.”

Despite everything, my mouth curves. “You wouldn’t steal.”

“No. But I’d improve them in ways that hurt your feelings.”

“That sounds more likely.”

Her hands tighten slightly. “Sin.”

I look at her. There’s only one answer.

“Yes,” I say. “I want this life. With you.”

Then she kisses me again.

The last of my clothes hit the floor. So do hers.

When I lay her back on the bed, there is no guilt in the room. Here, there is only Laurel beneath me, her hands sliding over my shoulders, my mouth at her throat, the soft hitch of her breath when my palm moves over her breast. Her body warms under mine. Opens. Her nails drag lightly down my back, and I shudder.

“I missed you,” she whispers.