I guided him to the bed. He sat on the edge, then lay back, wrists still bound. I climbed over him, straddled his thighs.
"I trust you," I whispered, leaning down to kiss him. "Completely."
Then I reached for the knots. His hands were free in seconds. They went immediately to my hips—his fingers squeezing and kneading my soft flesh.
I positioned myself over him, held his gaze as I sank down slowly. We both groaned—the stretch, the heat, the fit.
"Watch me," I commanded.
He did. And what I saw in his expression made my heart pound.
Something that terrified and thrilled me at once.
I set the pace—slow, deliberate. His hands tightened on my hips. When I leaned down to kiss him, the angle shifted and we both gasped.
"Rhodes," I breathed.
He bent his knees, planting his feet flat on the mattress for leverage. Lifted his hips to meet mine. His grip tightened, pulling me down harder as he thrust up.
When I shattered around him, he followed seconds later. We held each other, hearts racing, breathing harsh.
After, we lay in the darkness.
"I never thought I could," he said. "Let go like that."
"You don't have to carry everything alone." I pressed my hand over his heart, felt it beating. "Whatever you're holding—you can share it with me."
He was quiet. Then his arms tightened. The tension in his body melted away.
My chest ached—the good kind, from feeling too much at once.
His hand stroked down my spine. I burrowed closer, breathing in the scent of his warm skin as I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Six
Rhodes
Iwoke Tuesday morning to Presley's phone buzzing on the nightstand. She was still asleep, face buried against my shoulder, one hand curled on my chest. The buzzing stopped. Started again ten seconds later.
I reached over her carefully, grabbed it. Two emails from parents—Christine Chambers and Rebecca Morrison. Both sent around midnight.
My stomach dropped before I even opened them.
Dear Presley, I'm so sorry, but after yesterday's social media incident, I can't in good conscience bring Crystal to Austin this weekend. Her safety has to come first. I hope you understand...
The second message said basically the same thing. Mary-Kate wouldn't be competing either.
Two families withdrawing. Four days before the competition.
Presley stirred. Her eyes opened, found mine. "What's wrong?"
I handed her the phone without answering.
She sat up, reading. I watched the words sink in—color draining from her face, her throat working like she was trying to swallow something sharp.
"Mary-Kate's been practicing that dance routine for three months." Her voice came out thin. "And Crystal was so excited about her vocal piece."
"They're scared," I said. "Can't blame them for that."
