Page 50 of Sin

I want to touch him so bad, but I know what will happen if I do, so I pull my hand back into my lap.

I force a smile I don’t feel. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Sinclair.”

His jaw flexes at the name. For once, he doesn’t correct me.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Cross.”

I open the door. Cold rain rushes in, shocking and clean. Before I can step out, he reaches behind his seat and pulls out the umbrella from the lobby.

“You stole the doorman’s umbrella?”

He smiles. “I borrowed it.”

“Does he know that?”

“He will when I return it.”

I take it from him, our fingers brushing around the handle and my heart stutters like an idiot.

“Thank you,” I say.

His gaze holds mine. “Get inside safe.”

I nod and climb out before I can do something unforgivable.

I don’t look back as I hurry toward my building. I absolutely do not. Not until I’m under the awning. Then I turn.

His truck is still there. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I can see him watching me. For one breath, neither of us moves. Then I lift the umbrella slightly, like an idiot.

Mason’s headlights stay on until I’m inside.

Only then do I let myself lean back against the lobby wall and close my eyes.

I didn’t kiss him.

I didn’t touch him.

I didn’t cross the line.

So why does it feel like I left part of myself in his truck anyway?

9

Laurel

My weekend was hell. And not just because I was alone. No, I spent the entire weekend thinking about that damn truck ride home. His voice. His hands on the steering wheel. The rain. The tinted windows. The way he said no one could see what happened inside his truck like he wasn’t handing my imagination a loaded gun and telling it to be responsible.

It wasn’t responsible. Not even a little.

I fantasized about every possible scenario.

Kissing him. Climbing over the console. Sucking his dick while the rain hid us from the rest of Chicago. Fucking him in the back seat of that stupid truck until the windows fogged and neither of us remembered how to be careful. Inviting him into my apartment. Letting him pin me against my front door before I could talk myself out of it.

Basically, my vibrator had a very long and heroic weekend. By Sunday night, the poor thing made a noise no product in our catalog should ever make, and now I need a new one. Which is why I’m already frowning when I walk into my office Monday morning.

Then I come to a stop.

Right there in the middle of my desk is a silicone dildo. That isn’t unusual on its own. I work for a sex toy company. I once found a box of glow-in-the-dark butt plugs in the break room beside the coffee filters.