Page 55

“Are we going to Bar Harbor?” she asks from the passenger seat, her legs crossed and her damp braid drying against the back of her sweatshirt, her eyes on the road ahead.

“You lasted an hour before asking where we’re going,” I snicker, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. “We are way past Bar Harbor.”

“Technically I didn’t ask where we were going. I asked if we were going to a specific location,” she corrects, playing with the ends of her braids. “Are we going to Boston?”

“No,” I snicker. “But I do think we need a Boston do-over, maybe something lowkey like dinner and a really expensive hotel room.”

“Ooo,” she hums. “Fluffy robes, endless room service, all the good feels. It’s my favorite part of being on tour.”

“Really?” I say, turning onto a back road.

“Yeah, everything else besides the fans sucks!” She leans her head back as she watches the road ahead. “No sleep. The adrenaline high is crazy ridiculous. My body hurts like it’s falling apart…”

“Well, you dance for the whole ninety minutes.”

Sienna’s fingertip traces patterns on my thigh. The movement is idle, almost innocent circles that climb higher with every rotation of her finger and forces my cock to harden, vein by vein, as she continues to tease me.

“Don’t think you can distract me with small talk.” She clicks her tongue at me. “It’s not going to work. I see right through you Grayson Isaiah Douglas.”

The way she says my full name still does something to me. I mean everything Sienna does has an effect on me. Always has. When we were kids running through her grandmother’s backyard. The first time she kissed me in the tree behind my house at Iris’s birthday party. The night on the beach before she left for California.

Then I think about Boston two years ago when Nicki decided the most efficient way to end something she didn’t understand was to hand me a tote bag and tell me Sienna was already gone.

Two years. Two years of keeping her at the edge of my life because I believed a woman with a clipboard and a rehearsed smile over the person I’ve known most of my life. I’ll never fully forgive myself for that, for every wasted second that she could have been mine, but I was stubborn and in a daze to see.

“Twenty minutes.” I keep my eyes on the road. “You can wait twenty minutes.”

Her fingers drift higher. My knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I manage.

“Doing what?” Her voice is honey and mischief. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, the deep burgundy color that makes her skin glow, and the exposed curve of her shoulder catches the dashboard light. Her blue hair, damp from the shower she took right before we left, is braided into two neat plaits that frame her face.

“Sienna.” I warn.

“Grayson,” she teases.

I risk a glance at her. Bad idea. Her eyes are half-lidded, and her lips shine as if she just licked them. I swallow.

“You owe me,” she says, her palm settling warm over the bulge straining against my zipper. “You distracted me from a ninety-minute dance rehearsal with Beyoncé and a true crime podcast. The Beyoncé thing is forgivable. The podcast was rude. The small talk?” She squeezes. “Unacceptable.”

My hips buck before I can stop them. The truck swerves an inch.

“Jesus—Sienna, I’m driving.” I hiss, through my teeth trying to keep the truck steady on the dirt road.

“You need to use your self-control, Gray.” She rolls her hand across the tent in my pants. “I really don’t want to die with your cock in my mouth.”

“Not happening,” I snarl, gripping the wheel tighter as another car passes by.

“We’ll see about that.” Her fingers find the button of my jeans like she’s been thinking about doing this the whole drive and mapped out every movement.

The button pops.

My breath leaves me in a rush. “You’re a menace.”

“Are you telling me you don’t want your dick in my mouth?” She leans over the center console, and her braids brush my arm. One blue curl catches the fading sunlight.

“I would never say that.” From the corner of my eye, I can see her smiling like a minx.