Page 88 of Sin
Not mine.
My heart kicks.
“Sin.”
“Tell me to keep driving.”
I should. I absolutely should. Instead, I reach across the console and touch his thigh.
The truck slows near the curb. For half a second, neither of us breathes. Then he parks.
His seat belt snaps free. Mine follows. He reaches for me at the same time I climb across the console, and then I’m in his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, the skirt of my dress shoved up, my hands in his hair, his mouth already on mine.
The truck is dark. The windows are tinted. And no one can see.
The thought makes me dizzy.
He kisses me like he hates himself for needing it. Like he wants to punish us both for landing, for leaving Amsterdam, for pretending the sky was the only place we could be honest.
His hands slide under my dress, gripping my hips as he drags me against him.
“This is insane,” he says against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“We’re back.”
“I know.”
“We should stop.”
I grind down against him, and his head falls back against the seat.
“Then stop,” I whisper.
His eyes open. There’s no softness in them now. Only lust and the kind of need that has stopped asking permission from his conscience.
He doesn’t stop.
The second time is rougher. Messier. All hands and breath and the creak of leather beneath us. I have one hand braced against the window, the other locked around his shoulder, while he holds me in place and takes what I’m giving him like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
The truck windows fog.
My lipstick smears across his jaw.
His ring catches against my thigh.
We both feel it, but neither of us stops.
That might be the worst part. Or maybe the worst part is that when I come, I bite his shoulder to keep from crying out, and he groans like the pain is the only mercy he deserves.
Afterward, I collapse against his chest. The truck is silent except for our breathing and the soft tick of the engine. Then his phone buzzes in the cup holder.
We both look at it and my body goes cold.
Jenna.
Sin stares at the screen for one long second before reaching for it. It’s a text.
