All Chapters of 100 WAYS TO SIN: Chapter 361 - Chapter 370

Claire’s POV I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes I felt the pressure of his mouth again and the way his hand had tightened at my waist. The kiss played on a loop until the dark of the blue room felt too small to hold it. When the gray morning light finally pushed through the curtains I was already awake, staring at the ceiling with my pulse still unsettled. Downstairs the house woke slowly. I waited until I heard enough movement before I left the room. Noah was not in the kitchen when I entered. The relief was brief and unconvincing. I poured coffee and drank it standing at the sink while my aunt talked about the plan for the day. A late lunch. A walk into town for a few people. Board games later if the weather turned. Ordinary details that felt disconnected from the fact that I could still taste him. He came in from the back porch halfway through my second cup. Cold air clung to his sweater. Our eyes met across the kitchen and held. There was no politeness left in the loo

Claire’s POV Noah’s mouth returned to mine before I could answer. The locked door and the quieter house changed the shape of everything. There was less fear of being overheard and more of the raw, unfinished need that had been building since the first night. He pulled my sweater over my head and unclasped my bra with steady hands. I shoved his clothes out of the way with the same urgency. When we were both bare he settled between my thighs and pushed into me in one long thrust. The stretch forced a soft broken sound out of my throat that I did not try to hide. He held still once he was fully inside, forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I meant what I said,” he muttered. “I’m not stopping this time.” “Good.” He started moving in deep, steady strokes. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room without any attempt at silence. Every thrust pushed me farther into the mattress. I locked my legs around him and pulled him deeper. Noah’s hand slid under my hip to keep the angle he want

Elias’s POV I sent the selection email before dawn because waiting any longer would have felt like hesitation. Avery Lang’s name had been at the top of the list for weeks. Her case logs were clean. Her research notes were sharper than most fellows I had worked with. When the trial committee asked for my resident recommendation I wrote her name without a second candidate beside it. That should have been the end of the internal debate. It was not. I watched her open the message from across the surgical ICU later that morning without meaning to. She kept her face steady. She almost always did. Then she locked her phone and walked away with the same focused stride she used before a difficult case. I went back to the chart in my hands and forced myself to finish the note I had been writing. Two years. Two years of scrubbing in beside her and pretending the only thing I noticed was her technique. Two years of short nods in the hallway and feedback delivered in the cleanest professiona

Elias’s POV The flight was short and delayed by thirty minutes. Avery sat in the aisle seat with the protocol binder open on her tray table. I took the window and tried to read the same page of site notes three times before giving up. Every so often her shoulder shifted near mine when the plane hit light turbulence. Neither of us mentioned the parking garage. The words from the night before still sat between us anyway, quiet and irreversible. We landed after dark. The hotel near the hospital was the kind the trial budget covered without apology. Two rooms on the same floor, booked under the institutional account. I handed Avery her key card in the lobby without letting my fingers touch hers. She thanked me in the same professional voice she used in the OR. We rode the elevator in silence and separated in the hallway with a plan to meet downstairs in twenty minutes for the working dinner on the official schedule. Dinner was clean and useful. Two physicians from the host site joined

Elias’s POV She walked into the lobby at 6:28 with her bag over one shoulder and the protocol binder under her arm. Whatever softness the night had left on her face was gone, replaced by the clean professional composure she wore like armor. Only the brief hold of her eyes on mine gave anything away. We checked out. We rode to the airport. We boarded the flight and sat in the same row with a shared armrest and a whole night of unfinished want sitting quietly between us. I did not touch her. At the hospital the ordinary machine of the day closed around us again. Rounds. A consult. A trial check-in call with the other sites. Avery answered questions in the same precise voice she always used. I gave instructions in the same controlled tone. To anyone watching we were exactly what we had been for two years. The only difference lived under my skin and in the memory of her mouth and the way she had looked at me when she told me to stop treating her like glass. By late afternoon the floo