Page 58 of My Beautiful Sin

“Oh, nothing. Only that we need to celebrate.”

“Mr. Saint, if you are prepared to indulge in more celebrating—” I make air quotes around the word. “—then I absolutely won’t say no.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, and I squeal as he flips me onto my back and straddles me. “Because with you, baby, I’m always in the mood to celebrate.”

We make love again, slowly and sweetly, and when we are both spent, I spoon against him, then jump when the sharp ping of my phone startles me, signaling an incoming message.

“Sorry about that. I can’t believe I forgot to silence it.”

“I can’t believe that’s the first text message you’ve gotten,” he says. “I consider us lucky.”

“It’s probably Brandy wondering whether it’s safe to come back, or if we’re having sex all over the living room floor. Or if I’m still a horrible mess.”

“Damn. Living room floor. We missed another opportunity.” He rolls over and props himself up on an elbow. “And I’m very glad you’re not a horrible mess.”

“Thanks to you.”

He lightly taps my lip. “You’re okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m perfect. Slightly sore,” I add, taking his hand and sliding it between my thighs. “But that doesn’t mean I want to stop yet. Shall we go for the gold?”

“Somebody’s horny,” he teases, then lightly strokes my clit, sending electrical sparks racing through me. “I like it.”

My laugh turns into a needy moan—then a frustrated sigh when the phone signals again.

“You should check it,” he says, and I reluctantly grab it off the bedside table.

The message box on my lock screen is blank, so I open the phone, then freeze when I see the text, which is decidedly not from Brandy.

Devlin frowns at my expression, then takes the phone. “Oh, fuck.”

I look over his shoulder, this time taking a closer look at the text message that simply says, Why do you even trust him?

It’s accompanied by a photograph inside the Las Vegas Phoenix Hotel. I recognize it, even though the image is nothing more than an open hotel door, because the sign on the wall next to the door reads Sammy Davis Suite in the now-familiar font.

It’s the room we shared when Devlin took me to Vegas. And now the photo shows him exiting that same room with Regina Taggart on his arm, her skirt tight and her arm through his.

Beside me, Devlin spits out a curse. “That is not what it looks like. She’s been my date to a couple of functions, but we haven’t—”

“I know,” I say, interrupting him. “I bet Reggie wasn’t even in Vegas with you today. That’s an old picture.”

“Actually, she was. She flew in late afternoon. But you’re right about the picture. I think it was from right before one of the foundation awards banquets. How the hell did you know?”

I shrug casually, then nod at the image on my phone. “Your glasses, for one. Different frames. And her shoes. Those Jimmy Choos are two seasons out of date.” I lift my head, meet his eyes, and shrug. “Just one of my special skills,” I say. “But it makes me certain that someone’s fucking with us.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Someone definitely is.”

Chapter Twenty

I wake to an empty bed and the smell of bacon. Usually I have a hard time getting up in the morning, but not today. I roll out eagerly and follow my nose to the kitchen, and to Devlin.

“I was going to cook for you,” I say, feeling slightly guilty. “You came back from Vegas to take care of me. I figured it was the least I could do.” I shrug. “Although to be honest, I’m a terrible cook.”

He grins at me. The stubble of beard is shaggier than usual since he hasn’t trimmed it yet, and his hair is a tousled mess. He’s not wearing his glasses or his green contacts and he looks sexy as hell in a rumpled, early morning sort of way. “I’m happy to cook for you. I was looking forward to it all night.”

I laugh. “I sincerely doubt that, but I’m fine with being a spectator. I’m actually tempted to take a picture of you and post it on Instagram. Except I’d have to remember how to use my account.” I’m terrible at using social media. Considering I can count my close friends on one hand, I don’t really see the point. “Guess I’ll keep it just for me.”

I expect him to protest when I pull out my phone and start to take a picture, but then I laugh when he actually strikes a pose, pointing the wooden spoon he’s using to stir the scrambled eggs to the Kiss the Cook apron that Brandy keeps hanging on the inside of the pantry.