Page 63 of Sin Bin

“That’s because Iamgoing to land onmyass.”

Rolling my eyes, I hold out a hand, palm up. I shouldn’t be surprised when she doesn’t immediately take it, no doubt worried that I’ll pull a dirty prank and send her flying to theground.

I waitherout.

One . . . two . . .three. . .

With a sigh of frustration, she gives in, dropping her hand into mine. God, it feels good. Holding her hand isn’t remotely sexual, but after having no contact with her for months, it feels like everything I’ve everneeded.

My voice emerges, deep and gravelly. “Youready?”

“No.”

“Zoe, didn’t I promise that I wouldn’t letyoufall?”

At that, her dark eyes fix unblinking on my face, and I feel that one look like a sucker punch to the gut. Because I can see what she’s thinking as if she’d voiced her thoughtsoutloud.

Why did you have sex with me, knowing that I’d alreadyfallen?

Because I couldn’t say no. Because I needed her like I needed air to breathe and water todrink.

Because I’dneededher.

The way that I stillneedher.

“I won’t let you fall,” I tell her. In more waysthanone.

And then we’re moving together. She struggles at first, no doubt because her ankles are weak. I order her to push with her thighs, to let her feet just be the vehicle that brings her forward. Her hand stays in mine until I grab two hockey sticks and hand her one. “Takeit.”

She does so with a worried grimace. “Weren’t you ever told not to hand a weapon over to awoman?”

I laugh, loudly. “You gonna beat me with thestick,Zoe?”

“I’ve certainly thought about it,” she grumbles. She stabs the hook of the stick into the ice like a pillar to ground herself. But it has the opposite effect—the abrupt downward thrust has her legs shaking, her skates moving, and the next thing I know, Zoe has slid down the stick like a stripper onapole.

But with less elegance, that’sforsure.

“I think I need to call it a day,” she says, staring up at the rink’s ceiling as she lays comatose on the ice. “My vanity can’t take anotherwipeout.”

I crouch down beside her. “You didn’t dohalf-bad.”

“But it wasn’t half-good,either.” She sounds so miserable that I can’t help myself. I touch her. My fingers brush her exposed collarbone, drifting up to the underside of her chin. Her breath stutters out against the rough pads of my fingers when I skim her lips, pressing my thumb to the center of her lower lip,tuggingdown.

Jesus. Iwanther.

I’vealwayswanted her, from the very first moment we were introduced solongago.

“Andre?” shewhispers.

Does she want me? That’s the question at hand here. I’ve told her no. I’ve told her that we aren’t ever going to happen again. Less than thirty days later, and I’m willing to renege on all of that just for one single taste ofherlips.

One taste will never beenough.

No, but it’ll havetodo.

I pull my hand away, more so because I don’t need anyone thinking that we’re doing something that weshouldn’t.

“Tell me you want this, too.” My voice drops. “Tell me that I’m not alone in this, Zo. That I’m not the only one going crazy with fuckingwantingyou.”

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