"Holy shit," she whispers, watching me with wide eyes. "Did you just?—"
"Couldn't help myself," I admit, licking the last traces of her from my fingers. "You taste fucking incredible. Do you haveanyidea how many times I’ve imagined ruining our friendship? How many nights I’ve gone to sleep thinking about what you would taste like?"
She doesn’t answer but her body shivers and lets me know how much I’ve affected her. I move us back out of the dark just a little bit so she can enjoy the concert while I just enjoy being with her.
Chapter 22
Reese
Iwake up with my thighs still trembling, and my panties soaked. Again. Third fucking time since the concert two nights ago. Every time I close my eyes, I feel Ramsey's fingers inside me, his voice in my ear telling me I'm his good girl.
"Fuck," I groan into my pillow, pressing my face into it to muffle the sound.
I roll over, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. Quarter til eleven. Shit. I was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago to work on my solo piece. My body feels wound tight, like a rubber band ready to snap. I need to dance, need to move, need to do anything but lie here thinking about Ramsey's hands on me.
Since that night at the concert, he’s been giving me space. Carried me to my bedroom, put me in bed and kissed my forehead and then told me toprocess shit.
It feels like he's avoiding me. And it's driving me fucking insane.
I throw back the covers and grab my gym bag, shoving in my dance shoes, a change of clothes, and a towel. My body's on autopilot while my mind replays those moments in the dark corner of the pit, the way his fingers felt stretching me open, his growled promises in my ear.
"Get it together," I mutter to myself, yanking on leggings and one of Ramsey's hoodies I've stolen. It hangs off my shoulder, smelling like him, which doesn't fucking help my situation at all.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text.
Going to the studio. Be back later.
I don't expect an answer. Ramsey has morning practice, and Coach Kingston would literally murder anyone who had their phone on the ice. But my phone buzzes almost instantly.
My Stalker
Take the Tahoe. Truck's making a weird noise.
I roll my eyes. He's not supposed to have his phone during practice. Is he seriously risking getting benched just to tell me which car to take?
Aren't you supposed to be practicing?
Take the fucking Tahoe, Reese. Keys on the hook.
I stare at the phone, heat pooling low in my belly at his commanding tone. Even through text, he manages to sound like he did that night—authoritative, demanding, fucking hot.
I like the truck better.
Tahoe. Now.
The three dots appear again.
Please.
I snort. That must have physically pained him to add.
Fine. But only because you said please.
I grab the Tahoe keys from the hook by the door, still annoyed but also weirdly turned on by Ramsey's bossiness. The drive to the studio is a blur—my mind keeps replaying those moments in the dark, his fingers inside me, his voice in my ear. By the time I pull into the parking lot, I'm so wound up I could scream.
The studio is empty when I arrive, exactly what I need. I flip on the lights and connect my phone to the sound system, scrolling through my playlists until I find one labeled "ANGER MANAGEMENT." Heavy bass, screamingvocals, the kind of music that makes you want to throw your body around until something breaks.
I toss Ramsey's hoodie onto the bench, leaving me in just my black crop top and high-waisted leggings. The studio mirrors reflect back a girl I barely recognize.
