Chapter 13
Sin
I wake up with Laurel in my arms.
For one moment, before memory catches up, I let myself feel the peace sitting heavy and warm in my chest. Her back is tucked against me.
My arm is around her waist. Her hair is spread across the pillow, and the scent of her shampoo drifts toward me every time she breathes.
Something soft and floral. Clean. Nothing like Jenna. The thought lands like a blade.
Jenna.
My wife.
My fucking ring is still on the nightstand.
The small circle of gold sits there beside Laurel’s phone, a water glass, and the bottle of lube we knocked over sometime around three in the morning when I slid into her again.
Laurel shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to me, and my body reacts before my conscience can stop it.
I close my eyes. For one selfish second, I want to kiss her awake.
I want to slide my hand over the curve of her hip, drag my mouth down her neck, and hear the sleepy little sound she makes when she realizes it’s me touching her.
But the other side of me knows I can’t.
We’ve already taken things too far. So far I don’t know if there is a way back.
But there is still time to stop making it worse.
There is still time to put my ring on, put distance between us, and pretend I am the kind of man who can make one mistake and then do the right thing.
Save my marriage. Save her. Save whatever is left of me.
So I do the cruel thing.
I carefully untangle myself from Laurel and get out of bed. She stirs but doesn’t wake. Good. If she looks at me right now, I don’t know that I’ll be strong enough to leave. I pick my ring up from the nightstand and stand there for a second, staring at it in my palm. Then I put it back on.
It feels heavier than it did yesterday.
I pad to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I stand beneath the spray and wash her scent from my skin, but it doesn’t matter. She is still everywhere. In my mouth. Behind my eyes. In the part of my chest I thought had gone numb years ago.
By the time I emerge dressed for the day, Laurel is awake. She’s sitting in the bed, the bedding pulled to her chest. Her hair is messy. Her lips are swollen. There’s a faint mark low on her neck where my mouth had no business being. My stomach twists. She looks beautiful.
“We need to talk,” I say.
Her eyes go to my ring then back to my face.
She nods like she was expecting this. Of course she was. Laurel Cross is too smart not to know how this morning would go.
“Last night was…” I shake my head, because I can’t say what it was.
I can’t say it was the best thing I’ve felt in years. I can’t say I woke up with her in my arms and, for one moment, forgot I had ever belonged anywhere else.
“It can never happen again,” I say.
Something flickers across her face. Not surprise, but pain. Then it’s gone.
She dips her head once. “Okay.”
Just that. Okay. No fight. No sarcasm. No sharp little comeback to make this easier. I hate myself for wanting one. It would be easier to do this if I hated her.
“I’ll head down first and give you time to get ready,” I say. “Our meeting is at ten.”
I turn before she can respond.
But then her soft voice stops me.
“Sin.”
My chest tightens.
I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”
She clutches the sheet tighter, and somehow that hurts more than if she’d thrown something at me.
“I’m sorry.”
The words gut me.
She’s not the one who should be sorry.
“Me too,” I say.
Then I leave. The door closes behind me, and I stand in the hall for a moment, unable to move. Inside the room, Laurel is alone in the bed I left her in. Outside the room, I am a married man with his ring back on and her taste still in his mouth.
The day is punishment. Every second of it.
The first meeting is with a distributor from Germany who wants exclusivity on Lust for several boutique stores.
I answer questions. I discuss margins. I sign off on follow-up materials.
All while Laurel sits two seats away in a cream blouse and wide-leg trousers, looking polished, composed, and entirely untouchable.
She doesn’t look at me unless she has to. When she does, her eyes are professional. Empty. That’s worse than anger.
At lunch, I watch her laugh at something one of the Dutch retailers says.
It’s not her real laugh. I know that now, which feels like another thing I have stolen.
Her real laugh is lower. Warmer. It breaks out of her like she tried to stop it and failed.
I made her laugh like that last night. Then I made her apologize this morning.
By two, the guilt has settled under my ribs and stayed there.
By three, I’ve spun my wedding ring around my finger so many times the skin beneath it is irritated.
By four, Laurel gives the last live demo for Lust, and every person in the room is captivated.
She’s brilliant. Confident. Precise without being cold.
Warm without losing authority. She talks about pleasure like it matters.
Like it is not shameful. Like bodies deserve patience and attention and care. I should be proud of her.
I am proud of her.
But I’m also remembering the way she looked beneath me with her head tipped back and my name breaking out of her mouth. I excuse myself before the session ends. In the restroom, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.
“You’re a bastard,” I say quietly.
My reflection doesn’t argue.
Because I’m in hell, my phone buzzes and Jenna’s name flashes across the screen. For a second, I can’t breathe.
Finally, I answer the call.
“Hey,” I say.
“Mason.” Her voice is distracted. There’s noise behind her. People talking. A door closing. “I forgot to ask. What time do you get back tomorrow?”
“Late.”
“I may still be in Kansas anyway. Mom wants me to stay through the weekend.”
“Okay.”
There’s an awkward pause.
“Conference going well?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. I have to run. Safe flight.”
“Jenna.”
She pauses. “Yeah?”
I don’t know what I planned to say. I’m sorry. I miss who we used to be. I ruined everything. I don’t know how to fix us.
Instead, I look down at the ring on my finger and say, “Nothing. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
The call ends and I stand there with the phone in my hand, feeling nothing I should and everything I shouldn’t.
The last session of the day is a panel I should skip. I don’t. The title alone should send me straight to the bar.
Monogamy and Modern Desire: Are We Built for One?
I sit in the back. Laurel is near the front with two buyers from London. She doesn’t know I’m there at first. I plan to stay unnoticed. Listen for ten minutes. Leave. Get air. Get control.
Then the moderator starts talking. About desire. Commitment. The difference between love and possession. About how monogamy is often treated as instinct when, for many people, it is actually a choice that has to be remade, renegotiated, and honestly examined over time.
I hate every word. I hate how convenient it sounds. I hate how badly some part of me wants to hold onto it.
One speaker talks about how people use fidelity as proof of love because they are too afraid to ask what they actually need. Another talks about shame. Another about honesty. Another about the damage done when people stay inside dead agreements and call it virtue.
Dead agreements. The phrase hits too close.
I think of Jenna in Kansas, relieved not to be home.
I think of our separate bedrooms. Separate lives.
Years of politeness where passion used to be.
I think of Laurel in my bed this morning, looking at my ring and apologizing for being wanted. Something inside me twists hard.
Across the room, Laurel turns. I don’t know how she feels me watching. She just does. Her eyes find mine.
For one second, the whole panel disappears. The room. The people. The academic language wrapped around want. All of it gone.
There’s only her. And me. And the thing I said could never happen again.
Her expression doesn’t change, but her throat moves when she swallows.
By the time the session ends, I’m raw. Laurel is waiting near the exit, speaking to a woman from the panel. She looks calm. Completely composed. Then her eyes lift to mine as I pass, and all that composure fractures for half a second. Just enough to ruin whatever was left of my good intentions.
We don’t speak. In the elevator, she stands as far from me as the space allows.
It’s not far enough. The mirrored walls reflect us back at each other.
Me in a dark suit, tie loosened. Her in that cream blouse, hair pinned up, mouth bare now from a long day of talking and drinking coffee and pretending we’re fine.
We are not fine.
The elevator climbs. I stare at the numbers changing above the door like they can save me. The doors open and we walk down the hall in silence. At the room, I swipe the key card and hold the door open for her.
She steps inside.
I follow.
The door shuts and the lock clicks.
Laurel sets her bag down on the chair. I stand near the door, one hand still on the handle. This is the last chance. I can leave. Go downstairs. Do anything except what every part of me has wanted since the moment I woke up with Laurel in my arms.
She turns to face me. Her expression is guarded.
“You said it could never happen again.”
“I know.”
Her chin lifts. “Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flash. The answer hurts her. It hurts me too.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
My hand tightens on the door handle.
“Because meaning it didn’t make me stop wanting you.”
Her fingers curl at her sides.
“Sin.”
I close my eyes.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Say my name like you’re still giving me a choice.”
Her breath shakes. I open my eyes to find she’s closer now. I don’t know which of us moved. Maybe both.
“This is wrong,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You’re married.”
“Yes.”
“We said we wouldn’t do it again.”
“I know.”
“Then stop me.”
The words land between us and I stare at her.
“Laurel.”