Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“I like dangerous,” I murmur against her neck.
She laughs softly. “Since when?”
“Since you.”
Our lips meet, and I forget about everything else. The tour, the band, the complications. There’s only Justine, warm and real in my arms, her mouth moving against mine with increasing urgency.
Someone clears their throat, and we spring apart. Keane stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised but expression neutral.
“Dana’s looking for you,” he says to Justine. “Something about the performance schedule tomorrow.”
Justine nods, her cheeks flushed. “Thanks. I’ll be right there.” She squeezes my hand once before slipping past Keane.
He waits until the door closes behind her. “Careful, Quinn.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I tell him, though I’m not entirely convinced myself.
“Do you?” He leans against the railing beside me. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re diving headfirst into something that could blow up in both your faces.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It’s not what you think.”
“I know back in Boston, I told you I thought Justine liked you, but I didn’t think your feelings for her would escalate so quickly. Because, I’ll be honest, Quinn, it looks like you’re falling for her.”
I’ve fallen for her.
I don’t answer, which is answer enough. I don’t know if I can admit how I feel to anyone but her.
“Look,” Keane says, his voice softening, “I like Justine. We all do. But you’re both part of bands that need to function together for months. If this goes sideways . . .”
“I know the risks,” I say. “We both do.”
Keane studies me for a moment. “All right. Just be smart about it.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Appreciated.”
Later that night, when we’re back on the bus, cruising down the highway, and after everyone has gone back to their bunks, I find myself unable to sleep. The bus feels too quiet after the evening’s festivities. I head to the lounge with my guitar, thinking I might work on some new ideas.
I’m midway through a chord progression when I hear the door slide open. Justine stands there in sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun.
“Can’t sleep either?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Too much pie, probably.”
She sits beside me on the couch, closer than necessary. “Play me something?”
I strum softly, letting the music fill the silence between us. Justine watches my fingers, her head tilted slightly.
“New song?” she asks.
“Maybe. Still figuring it out.”
She hums along, finding the melody with ease. It’s one of the things I admire most about her—the way music flows through her so naturally, as if she’s connected to some frequency the rest of us can only glimpse.
I set the guitar aside. “I’ve been thinking about something Keane said.”
“Oh, and what was that?”
“He told me to be careful. About my feelings for you. Specifically, about me falling for you.”
Her breath catches. “Oh.”
“He’s not wrong.”
Justine shifts to face me fully. “Quinn . . .”
“I know it’s complicated,” I continue. “I know the timing is all wrong, and we work together, and there are a million reasons to keep this casual. But I’m not good at casual, Justine. Not with you.”
She reaches up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “I’m not good at casual either,” she admits. “Not with you.”
The simple honesty of her words breaks something open inside me. I lean in, capturing her lips with mine. This kiss is different from our others—deeper, more certain. Her hands slide into my hair as she moves closer, eliminating what little space remains between us.
“Quinn,” she whispers against my mouth, and my name has never sounded so right.
I pull her onto my lap, her legs straddling mine as the kiss intensifies. Her skin is warm beneath my palms as my hands slip under her tank top, exploring the gentle curve of her spine. She arches into my touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.
“God, I want you,” I murmur against her neck, trailing kisses down to her collarbone.
“You have me,” she breathes, rolling her hips against mine.
The friction sends electricity down my spine. My hands grip her waist, guiding her movements as her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt. When she finally pushes it off my shoulders, her hands explore the bare skin with reverence.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over my chest and down my stomach, making my muscles tense with anticipation.
I capture her mouth again, swallowing her gasp as my hands move higher under her tank top, cupping her breasts. Through the thin fabric of her bra, I can feel her nipples harden at my touch.
“Is this okay?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
“More than okay,” she assures me, then pulls her tank top over her head, revealing a simple black bra that contrasts beautifully with her pale skin.
I take in the sight of her, illuminated by the dim lights of the lounge. “You are absolutely perfect,” I tell her, meaning every word.