Page 28 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“Me too.”

“Sorry for getting you drunk.”

“It’s not like you were holding me down,” I say, which of course makes me picture whatthatwould look like.

Fuck, Icannotget a crush on Gibson Hayes. He’s my boss. He knew my father. He’s married. He’s straight.

Also, he’s a man, and my experience with men is limited. Comically sparse. I identify as bisexual, sure, but only because I think certain men are hot. I’ve kissed a few guys at clubs. Exchanged hand jobs in a men’s room two or three times when I’ve been wasted. The bartender at trivia night was my first male blow job, though. I’ve never dated a man—nor had sex with one. And certainly never one I knew. Never one I actually liked.

I’mcasuallybisexual—not really apracticingbisexual, but theway my dick is perking up at my boss’s proximity is reminding me that I do in fact get turned on by men from time to time. It’s actually hard for me to believe not everyone does. That anyone is a hundred percent straight.

Still, I shouldn’t be thinking any of these things. I should be catching my breath, not losing it again.

My blood should be coming back to my head, not rushing to my dick.

His hand moves up my back, splaying open between my shoulder blades, his other hand moving to steady my hip.

“I can walk,” I whisper.

“You can lean on me.”

I nod, my nose brushing the skin of his neck, wanting to nuzzle, but cognizant enough to know that would be pushing it.

“One step at a time,” he says, and I swear I hear a hint of shakiness in his voice—a breathiness that wasn’t there before.

I lift my unsteady leg and take the next step with him bearing half my weight. We make it to the top, and he steadies me again as he opens the door. “You good?”

“Yeah.” I’m staring at him, and the vision of him in the dark stairwell lit by running lights alone is heady and sensual. His hair is falling over his forehead, which is bunched in concentration. He’s breathing heavy, too, his lips parted slightly.

Light spills into the passage as the door swings open, and he turns to me. I don’t know if he realizes I’m blatantly staring, but he bites down on the corner of his lip and drops his gaze briefly. “Need help getting into bed?”

Yes.

“I need to eat something.” Proving I’m capable of moving independently, I walk to the couch, flopping onto it the second I get close enough. I figure I’ll give myself a second to recalibrate, catch my breath, and stop having dirty thoughts before I find some food.

Fuck, I amsoooo drunk. It’s impossible to calculate how muchwhiskey I’ve had in the last two hours. A lot. And it wasn’t the cheap stuff. Now that I’m horizontal, the room moves in staccato shifts and tilts. Closing my eyes doesn’t help.

Distantly, I feel my shoes coming off and clunking to the floor. A hand brushes my hair back from my forehead. “Can you drink some water for me?”

I nod.

“You’ll need to sit up.”

I push myself up on a hand and take the water Gibson’s offering while he sits on the couch with me, his hip aligned with mine. The move brings us up close and personal again, and I sneak a glance at his dark eyes while I’m gulping the water. He’s watching my throat.

This shouldn’t be hot. He shouldn’t be turning me on. He never has before. I have a guy type, and it’s not him. I like young and eager. Smaller than me with smooth faces and Golden Retriever energy to overcome my reticence.

Gibson is large and broad and rough-cheeked. He’s elegant, ripped, and dark. And he’s all the other reasons I shouldn’t be wondering about how to make a move on him.

I finish the water, and he takes the bottle before I have a chance to set it down. I could use another, but we’re staring into each other’s eyes now, and my curiosity is about to get the better of me.

“You feel okay?” he asks.

“I don’t feel sick if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is.”

“Then I’m okay.”

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