Page 36 of Second Sin

I don’t have the energy to brace myself against him. Not today. I move quickly toward my office, reaching for the door.

But he’s faster.

His hand catches it just before it shuts, pushing it gently open again.

"Olivia," he says my name—low, rough, almost a plea.

“You’re not scheduled.”

“I know.” He closes the door behind him.

Silence stretches between us. He looks wrecked—dark circles under his eyes, knuckles raw, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything he doesn’t know how to say. There’s shame in the tight line of his mouth, regret in the way he won’t quite meet my eyes. And still—God help me—he’s gorgeous. It’s maddening.

He finally speaks. “I need to talk to you.”

“You can book an appointment.” I keep my voice even. Professional. Cold.

“I don’t want a fucking therapy session, Olivia.”

“Then I’m not sure why you’re here.”

His eyes blaze. “Because I fucked up. And I need to say something that isn’t wrapped in bullshit clinical terms or scheduled between two players with daddy issues.”

I inhale sharply. “You said what you meant. Let’s not pretend it didn’t come from somewhere real.”

“It did.That’s the problem.”

“I already forgot about it."

“No, you didn’t.”

I can feel the sting behind my eyes, the pressure in my throat.Why do I let him get to me like this?

“You have no right to come in here and make me feel like...”

He steps closer. Too close.“Like what?”

"Like a fucking idiot for thinking you were a decent human being," I say too loudly, already regretting the words.

He blinks, his jaw tightening. "I deserve that."

I push past him, trying to regain control. Needing to get away from him before I say something else that borders on unprofessional.

But his hand catches mine.

Heat and want sizzle through my palm, up my arm, coiling low in my belly.

“Please,” I whisper. "Just leave."

He doesn’t.

His fingers linger on mine—hot, calloused, unsure—before he tugs me closer, like he’s just barely making the choice to break the distance. I feel his chest rise. The tension in his grip.

Those storm-gray eyes lock on mine—dark, unreadable, and blazing. I see it there—want, restraint, a war he's already losing.

I should shut this down. But my feet don’t move. My pulse stutters instead, betraying every boundary I swore I’d hold.

His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me against him. His breath is hot against my cheek, and when his mouth finds mine, it’s not gentle—it’s need, fury, regret, all tangled into one impossible kiss.

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