SIENNA.

“Last chance,” Noah said, voice low and rough as he stood between my open thighs on the edge of his bed. “We keep pretending this is still some dirty little arrangement. We end it clean right now. Or we stop lying to ourselves and let it become something permanent and dangerous.”

The house was quiet. Mom and his dad were downstairs arguing about something that had nothing to do with us—voices rising and falling through the floorboards like distant weather. Up here the only sound was my own heartbeat and the soft, wet noise his fingers made as they stroked through the slick heat between my legs without ever...