Sinning in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 2)

Flashing him a victorious grin, I say, “Ha! I got more information out of you. Better be careful, I’m getting good at this; I might steal your job.”

Sin rolls his eyes at me.

“Yeah, because I was being so secretive.”

I’m so happy, I can’t hide it. Hugging his arm and resting my head against his muscular bicep, I tell him, “You were mean to me last night.”

“I’m mean sometimes,” he states.

“I know,” I murmur, absently running my fingers over the black ink peeking out from beneath his black T-shirt. He’s dressed casually tonight, a tee and dark jeans, not his usual work gear. “What were you doing when I called you?”

“Not cleaning up baby vomit,” he says, dryly.

Smiling faintly, I tell him, “You look really good with a baby. Like… really good.”

His gaze drifts down to the little swatch of bra peeking out from beneath my satin robe, but he doesn’t say anything.

In the interest of playing fair, I turn my attention back to his tattoo. Given he slept naked in his bed and I slept on this side of him, I have seen it before, but I’ve never asked about it. I can only see the bent legs right now, but the whole tattoo appears to be an angel kneeling on the ground.

“Are you religious?” I ask him.

“If I am, I must be really excited about my inevitable descent to Hell.”

“Well, if you’re going to Hell, at least you know all your friends will be there,” I tell him.

“Are you religious?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I know you can’t tell by the whole ‘I’m falling in love with you after four days’ situation, but I tend to run more logical. I like things that can be studied and proven, not things made up entirely of myth and belief. But agnosticism aside, I’ve let a mob kingpin impregnate me and given many blow jobs to a man I know to be a killer, so I think I’m a little too scandalous for the pearly gates crowd. If you die first and Hell does exist, make sure to pick out a nice torture pit and I’ll come keep you company once I get there.”

“No peace and quiet, even in death,” he says lightly, shaking his head.

“I mean, we might just be worm food. Who knows?” Glancing back at the tattoo, I ask, “So, if you’re not confessing your sins on Sundays… how come you have an angel on your arm?”

It doesn’t seem like a difficult question, but as his gaze shifts to the ink on his arm, he says nothing. His gaze drifts away, across the room. He looks off at nothing, and the solemnity of his features gives birth to dread. I can’t help wondering where he mind is, who it might be with. I look at the tattoo stretched across his muscular bicep again and think about the closet full of clothes Sin has in his bedroom.

I almost wish I hadn’t asked, because his reluctance to tell me makes me want to know even more. Softly, I ask, “Did you lose someone you loved?”

Still, he says nothing.

My curiosity deepens, grows roots and wraps itself around me. If he got a tattoo over some woman, where is she now? It’s an angel, so did she die, or is it more figurative? Was she his angel? The thought makes my stomach sink. I’m jealous of a woman who might be dead, who might not even exist. Maybe it’s not about a woman. Maybe he had religion once, before this life. Perhaps the weight of all his sins grew too heavy, so he stopped believing in order to cope. Or maybe the tattoo doesn’t mean anything significant at all. Maybe he just liked the design.

Of course, if he just liked the design, that would be easy enough to say, wouldn’t it? The religion thing seems like a simple enough explanation, too. It only gets hard if there is some personal significance, something he doesn’t want to share with me.

I would share anything with him, so I don’t want there to be something he won’t tell me.

Instead of sating my curiosity, he lifts his hand to rub the baby’s back, knocking my hand off his arm in the process. The tenderness of this lethal man lovingly stroking this sleeping baby’s back is an incredible distraction. He is so damn good at distracting me.

I sigh, leaning my head on his shoulder and watching him love on Skylar. It gives birth to new torturous mental images, like him holding my baby the same way. It also calls back memories of his hands on my breasts, his breath on my skin, his beautiful, lying words on his lips, convincing me this could be our life together if I kept Rafe’s baby.

The doorbell rings, swiftly pulling me out of my Sin stupor. I shoot upright, alarmed. “Did Rafe say anything about coming home early?”

Shaking his head, Sin shifts, keeping one hand on Skylar’s back as he lifts his ass off the couch. “Grab my wallet. I figured you’d be hungry, so I ordered us dinner. Charged the food to Rafe’s account, but you need tip money.”

I’m not going to turn down a chance to touch Sin’s ass, even if it is only to fish a wallet out of his pocket. My face flushes as I reach into the back pocket of his black jeans and I can’t help meeting his gaze.

This is so much more appealing than I want it to be. An evening in, cuddling babies and talking, ordering take-out. I want this. I want all of this, and I want it with him. I guess he can keep his secrets if he needs to. I like to believe someday he’ll trust me enough to share his past with me, but it’s his future I want.

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