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)
Her smile is shy but eager as she guides my hands back to her body. I unclasp her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. The first touch of my hands on her bare breasts draws a sigh from both of us.
“Quinn,” she moans as my thumbs brush over her nipples.
I lean in, replacing my fingers with my mouth, and her back arches as she clutches at my shoulders. My name becomes a chant on her lips as I worship every inch of newly exposed skin.
Her hands fumble with the button of my jeans, her intent clear. As much as I want this—want her—I catch her wrists gently.
“Not here,” I say, my voice rough with desire. “Not like this. Not our first time.”
She nods, understanding in her eyes despite the frustration evident in her flushed cheeks. “You’re right. But God, Quinn, you’re making it hard to be patient.”
I laugh softly, pressing my forehead to hers. “Believe me, I know exactly how you feel, and as much as it pains me to say this, you need to put your shirt back on.”
Justine laughs and takes her bra and shirt from my hands. The gentlemanly thing for me to do is to look away, but I can’t. I don’t want to. While she dresses, I rebutton my shirt and adjust the bulge in my pants.
We stay in the lounge for a while, trading kisses that slowly cool from desperate to tender. Eventually, she curls against my chest, her breath evening out.
“I should go back to my bunk,” she says, though she makes no move to leave.
“Probably,” I agree, tightening my arms around her.
She looks up at me, something vulnerable in her expression. “What are we doing, Quinn?”
I brush a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t know exactly. But I know I don’t want to stop.”
“Me neither.” She presses a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. “Whatever this is . . . it feels right.”
“It does,” I agree, kissing the top of her head.
Reluctantly, we disentangle ourselves before one of our bandmates catches us.
“Goodnight,” she whispers, pressing one last kiss to my lips.
“Goodnight,” I echo, watching her slip through the door.
I lean back against the couch, guitar forgotten, replaying every moment of the last hour in my mind. Whatever this is between us, it’s becoming increasingly clear that there’s no going back.
The Billboard Music Awards sneak up on us like a forgotten deadline. Suddenly, we’re being fitted for suits and prepped with talking points for red carpet interviews. Sinful Distraction is up for three awards, including Best Rock Album, which has everyone on edge in the best possible way.
Elle calls me the morning of the ceremony, her voice sharp with pre-event stress. “You’re wearing the Armani, not the Gucci. The stylist will bring it to your room at four. Hair and makeup at five. Car picks you up at six sharp.”
“Good morning to you too,” I say, stifling a yawn. “How’s my favorite pregnant sister?”
She softens immediately. “Enormous. Uncomfortable. Ready to meet this kid.”
“Not long now,” I remind her. “You flying in for the awards?”
“I wish. Even with a private jet I’m not allowed to fly. Besides, my shoes don’t fit because my feet are swollen and every time I stand, I have to pee.”
“I think the latter falls in the too much info department.”
Elle scoffs. “Just win and don’t forget to thank me as your sister first, manager second.”
“Got it.”
“Love you, Quinny. Can’t wait to see you on the red carpet.”
I focus on the day ahead. Soundcheck goes smoothly, despite the undercurrent of nervous energy. We’re performing “Come Undone” with Justine at the ceremony, which means extra rehearsal in the afternoon.
Watching her on the empty stage, running through her part with Dana, I’m struck again by how naturally talented she is. She belongs in this spotlight, her voice filling the cavernous space effortlessly.
When we break, she finds me backstage.
“Nervous?” I ask.
She nods. “A little. You?”
“Not about the performance.” I glance around to make sure we’re alone, then pull her into a quiet corner. “About us. I know we need to be careful tonight.”
Justine steps back slightly, putting professional distance between us. “Right. I should go get ready. Wynonna’s freaking out about what to wear.”
“Justine,” I catch her arm gently. “This doesn’t change anything between us. You know that, right?”
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course. See you out there, rock star.”
Hours later, I’m stepping onto the red carpet in a tailored black suit that probably costs more than most people’s first car. The flashes are blinding, the shouted questions a cacophony I’ve never fully adjusted to despite years in the industry.
I pose with the band, answer the usual questions about the album, our tour, and the upcoming holiday break. No one asks about Nola, which is a relief.