Sin stands at the counter, a glass of what looks like whiskey in his hand. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else, his cut draped over one of the chairs at the small table. Tattoos flow across his chest and arms, telling stories I haven’t learned to read yet. His dark hair is disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks up when I enter, those gorgeous eyes finding mine across the dimly lit space. Neither of us speaks for a long moment. The air between us feels electric, chargedwith everything we’ve been through tonight and everything we haven’t said.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice is rougher than usual, gravelly with exhaustion or emotion or both.
“Too much in my head.” I move farther into the kitchen, drawn toward him like gravity I can’t resist. “You?”
“Same.” He takes a drink, his throat working as he swallows. “Want some?” He gestures to the bottle on the counter.
I should say no.
Should grab water like I planned and go back to my room.
Should maintain some semblance of professional distance between us.
But I’m so tired of fighting. So tired of pretending. So tired of carrying the weight of secrets that are crushing me from the inside out.
But I already had a taste of him in the storage shed, and fuck if I don’t want to binge on him again.
“Yeah.” I move to stand beside him, close enough that the heat radiating from his skin makes me even hotter than I already feel. “Actually, I do.”
He pours amber liquid into a second glass and hands it to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and that simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm. I take a drink, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. It’s smooth, expensive, and nothing like the cheap whiskey I usually drink.
“Can’t stop thinking about Marcus,” I say, because it’s true and because the silence between us is starting to feel too heavy. “About what you told me.”
“I figured.” Sin leans back against the counter, studying me in that way he does, like he’s trying to read the truth written in the spaces between my words. “It’s a lot to process.”
“That’s an understatement.” I let out a bitter laugh, taking another drink. “Finding out that a police captain murderedsomeone and covered it up? That there’s a whole trafficking operation running through this city with law enforcement protection? Yeah, I’d say that’smorethan a lot.”
“You believe us.” It’s not a question, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like my belief matters more than it should.
“I do.” And I realize, standing here in this dimly lit kitchen at two in the morning, that it’s the truth. I believe them completely. “Everything you told me… it fits. It makes sense of things that never made sense before.”
We fall into silence again, but it’s different now. Less heavy. More like we’re both lost in the same storm, trying to find our way through the turbulent waves.
I should go back to my room.
Should put distance between us before this moment gets out of my control.
Again.
But then Sin shifts closer. I smell his cologne mixed with whiskey and something uniquely him. His hand reaches up, fingers trailing along my jaw with a gentleness that seems at odds with his rough exterior.
“Elizabeth.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. His mouth crashes against mine, and I’m drowning. His kiss is desperate, almost violent in its intensity, like he’s trying to consume me, claim me, make me forget everything but this. His hands are in my hair, gripping, controlling, angling my head exactly where he wants it.
I respond with equal fervor, my hands clawing at his chest, feeling muscle, heat, and the rapid thundering of his heart beneath my palms. Every touch of his lips sends fire racingthrough my veins. Every stroke of his tongue makes my knees weak.
He breaks the kiss only to lift me, his hands gripping my thighs as he sets me on the kitchen counter. Then he steps between my legs, and I wrap them around his waist, dragging him closer, desperate to feel something other than the guilt and confusion tearing me apart.
“Wildcat.” His voice is rough, scraped raw with hunger. His hands slide under the borrowed T-shirt, palms branding me with heat. “You think I’m walking away this time? Not a fucking chanc—”
“I know.” I cut him off with another kiss, pouring all the fear, longing, and desperate need into it. “And I don’t fucking care.”
He pulls back, just enough to trap my gaze. His chest heaves, eyes dark with desire and something heavier, something that makes my heart stumble.
“You wanted this,” he growls, his grip tightening on my waist. “Now you’re going to take every damn bit of me.”
