Chapter 16
Sin
It’s been four weeks since we got home from Amsterdam. Four weeks since I told myself we were going to stop. Four weeks of failing.
Every day, we say this is the last time. Every day, we pretend we mean it. Every day, we look for excuses to be alone in the same room. A late meeting. A prototype review. An elevator ride no one else gets on. It doesn’t matter. The excuse changes. The ending never does.
Right now, Laurel is in my office, on my desk.
And I’m on my knees like she’s the only thing I’ve ever worshipped.
We didn’t even wait until everyone left.
No, she came in for a lunch meeting with a folder full of numbers and that sharp mouth of hers telling me we needed to discuss post-launch projections.
I locked the door before she finished the sentence.
Now her skirt is pushed up around her hips, one heel braced on the edge of my desk, the other digging into my back, and her fingers are buried in my hair.
She pulled it loose from the bun two minutes ago.
I’ve discovered she likes it down. I’ve discovered a lot of things about Laurel Cross that I have no right to know.
The way she arches when my mouth moves exactly right.
The way she says Sin like it’s a curse and a prayer at the same time.
“I’m close,” she pants.
Her thighs tighten around me. I grip her hips harder, keeping her there, keeping her open, keeping my mouth on her because if I let myself think about where we are or what time it is or the fact that half my executive team is on this floor, I might remember I am supposed to be a better man than this.
I’m not.
Not with her.
“Sin,” she breathes. “Oh, God.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, muffling the sound as she breaks for me. I watch her fall apart, my name still caught behind her fingers, her body shaking against my mouth. It should satisfy something in me. It doesn’t.
It never does.
I want more before she has even come down.
I rise, dragging my mouth along her thigh before kissing her mouth. She kisses me even though she can taste herself on me, and the sound she makes against my mouth snaps the last of my restraint. I enter her while she’s still trembling from the orgasm.
Her head falls back, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at me,” I tell her.
Her eyes open.
That is almost my undoing.
I fuck her on my desk with one hand braced beside her hip and the other tangled in her hair, keeping her mouth close enough that I can swallow every sound she shouldn’t make. She clings to me like she hates me and needs me and wants me more than either of us can survive.
When I come, it hits hard enough to leave me shaking.
For a moment, there is nothing. No company. No wife. No locked door. No shame. Only Laurel underneath me, warm and breathless and smiling up at me like I’ve done something worth being proud of.
“What?” I ask.
Her grin spreads. “That was… impressive.”
A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it.
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“As you should.”
I kiss her again because I’m weak and because in thirty seconds, we’re going to get dressed and go back to pretending.
She slides off the desk on unsteady legs, and I steady her with a hand at her waist. Her eyes lift to mine. For one second, the joke fades. She looks soft and my chest tightens.
Then she clears her throat and reaches for her blouse. “Your hair is a mess.”
“You did that.”
“I did.” Her smile returns. “You’re welcome.”
I move to get dressed.
She does the same.
Somehow, we’ve fallen into this routine of acting like we’ve done nothing wrong. I straighten my tie. She smooths her skirt. I wipe the desk. She gathers her files. I unlock the door only after we both look normal again.
Well, almost normal. Her lipstick’s gone. My pulse is still trying to break through my ribs. Nothing about us is normal.
She pauses at the door and glances back. “Same time tomorrow?”
I should say no and end this right here.
Instead, I say, “Don’t be late.”
Her mouth curves. Then she leaves.
I stand in the middle of my office for a long time after the door closes, staring at the place where she was bent over my desk fifteen minutes ago.
Then I hear a knock. Before I can answer, Blaze opens the door and strolls in like he owns the building. He doesn’t but being my brother, he acts like he has visitation rights to every room in it.
“Busy?” he asks.
I reach for my jacket. “What do you need?”
He stops halfway into the room and studies me. That’s never good. Blaze sees too much. He always has. His gaze moves over my hair, then to the desk, then back to me. Slowly, his mouth curves.
“Well, damn.”
My spine tightens. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shuts the door behind him. “Just didn’t realize Jenna was making office visits now.”
The room goes cold.
“What did you say?”
Blaze lifts both hands, but the grin stays. “Relax. I’m not judging. Honestly, good for you two. Marriage needs spice, right?”
My heart kicks once. He heard something and he thinks it was Jenna. I keep my face blank because if I don’t, he’ll see everything.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
His brows lift. “Come on, Sin.”
“Blaze.”
His smile fades slightly at my tone.
“I stopped by a little before lunch,” he says. “Door was locked. I was going to wait, then I heard…” He pauses, grinning again. “Let’s just say I heard enough to know you weren’t on a conference call.”
My jaw locks. The idea of Blaze outside that door, hearing even a second of her, sends something dark and possessive through me so fast I almost take a step toward him.
I don’t but Blaze notices anyway. His expression shifts.
“You good?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He watches me for a beat too long.
Then he shrugs, but the humor doesn’t fully come back. “Okay. Well, I came by to tell you Dante moved the meeting to four.”
“I know.”
“Right.” He rocks back on his heels. “Tell Jenna I said hi, I guess.”
He opens the door, then stops.
“Sin.”
I look at him.
His voice is quieter now. “That was Jenna, right?”
The question hangs there.
I meet his eyes. “Who else would it be?”
It isn’t an answer and we both know it. Blaze’s face changes again. Then he nods once.
“Yeah,” he says. “Who else?”
He leaves. The door closes. And I stand there with my heart pounding and my stomach twisted into something ugly.
For the first time in weeks, the consequences are not abstract.
They’re not a ring on my dresser or a missed call from my wife.
They are my brother standing outside my office, close enough to hear Laurel moan.
Close enough to ask a question I could not answer.
I look toward the door like Laurel might somehow still be there. I’m glad she’s not. I don’t want her near this part. The lies. The suspicion. The rot. Except she’s already in it.
I put her there.
By the time I leave the office, the sky is dark and rain streaks the windows of my truck. I drive home with both hands on the wheel and Blaze’s question playing over and over in my head.
That was Jenna, right? Who else would it be?
Laurel. It was Laurel. It’s always Laurel now. That’s the problem.
When I pull into the garage, Jenna’s car is there. I sit in the truck for a moment, staring at it. She wasn’t supposed to be home. Or maybe she was, and I stopped keeping track. Either possibility makes me feel like a bastard because I’m irritated she’s here.
Jenna’s in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine. She looks up when I walk in.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
That’s us now. Two people who used to say more and now reduced to one-word greetings.
She glances at my coat, my loosened tie, my hair. “Long day?”
“Yes.”
“I can make dinner if you want.”
I should walk toward her. Kiss her cheek. Say the things a husband says when his wife comes home. Instead, I stand too far away and wonder if Laurel is still at the office. If she got home. If she changed out of that skirt. If she is thinking about me.
Jenna sets her glass down. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
She walks toward me, and I force myself not to step back. Her hand lands on my chest. It should feel familiar. It does not.
“Maybe you need to relax,” she says.
The words slide over me and find nowhere to land. A month ago, maybe I would have leaned into this. Not because I wanted her with any real hunger, but because marriage has habits. Bodies remember routines even when hearts do not.
Now my entire body goes still because all I can think is, That isn’t Laurel’s hand.
Jenna reaches for my tie, loosening it the rest of the way. “It’s been so long, Mason.”
Guilt burns up my throat.
“Jenna.”
She smiles faintly. “What?”
Her fingers move to the buttons of my shirt and I catch her wrist. Her smile fades. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she looks down at where my hand holds hers.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Then what is this?”
I step back. I’ve faced boardrooms full of hostile investors with less panic than I feel standing in my own kitchen with my wife looking at me like she might finally notice the man in front of her is already gone.
“I’m tired,” I say.
Her face closes a little. “Right.”
“Jenna—”
“No, it’s fine.”
It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. She picks up her wine and turns away, but the damage is already done. I see it in the set of her shoulders. In the quiet way she puts distance between us before I can.
I should feel relieved. I don’t. I feel sick. Because when she touched me, I didn’t feel married.
I felt unfaithful, and not to Jenna.
To Laurel.
The realization nearly knocks the air out of me.
I am standing in my kitchen with my wife and backing away from her feels like loyalty to another woman. There is no version of me that survives that thought cleanly.
“I’m going upstairs,” I say.
Jenna doesn’t turn around. “Okay.”
I leave her there and go to the guest room that’s become my room over time. I sit on the edge of the bed and drag both hands down my face. My phone is in my pocket, and I pull it out before I can stop myself.