I let my head fall back against the couch, closing my eyes as I describe every inch of the dress to him—how short it is, how tight, how it barely covers anything at all.
His breath catches on the other end.
“Fuck, Kate,” he mutters, his voice thick with hunger. “Wish I could tear that off you right now.”
I bite my lip, heat pooling low in my belly. “What would you do if you were here?”
Silence stretches for a beat, thick and charged. Then his voice comes back, dark and deliberate.
“I’d pin you against that wall. Make you keep your boots on. Slide that dress up and pull your panties down nice and slow,” he murmurs, every word curling hot against my skin. “Then I’d fuck you right there, with your whole crew outside, not knowing you’re coming on my cock.”
My breath stutters, a soft whimper slipping out before I can stop it.
“You like that, sweetheart?” he asks, smug now. “You like me talking dirty to you while you’re all dressed up for someone else’s party?”
I can barely speak, my hand already slipping down between my thighs, dress pushed up around my waist.
“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”
“Then be a good girl and let me hear you,” he growls.
And I do.
Right there in the bus, while the band’s laughing just outside, I let Finn pull every filthy sound out of me through the phone—his voice, smoking hot, and he makes me want to sin, just for him. I love the way his words send me spiraling fast and hard as I touch myself.
By the time it’s over, I’m breathless and boneless, sprawled across the bed like I’ve been wrecked from head to toe.
He chuckles darkly in my ear, smug and satisfied.
“Miss me a little more now?” he teases.
I can’t even pretend otherwise.
“Always,” I whisper.
And I mean it.
Tour life never really slows down.
It’s just sound checks and spotlights and hotel rooms that all start to blur together. I’m barely keeping up—every day, another city, another crowd. My brain’s fried from too many late nights and half-finished lyrics that refuse to come together the way I need them to.
There’s pressure building, heavy and constant.
The label’s breathing down my neck about new songs. Ray’s nagging me about being “authentic” online. And tonight, I just need a goddamn drink and a break from pretending I have it all figured out.
So here I am—stuffed in a dim corner booth at some trendy restaurant with my band, trying to loosen up after the show. I’ve got a Prosecco sweating in my hand and half a plate of overpriced fries in front of me.
This should be fun. Except it isn’t because Finn’s not here with me. I want him to be, but he has his career, and I have mine.
My phone alerts me to a new post. I click. It’s Finn. The view is from across the room, and he’s not alone. My heart sinks into the floor.
He’s withher. Tessa Langford. Model, ex-girlfriend. Yeah, I didn’t want to be trolled on the internet, so Shay did it for me.
The same ex who always seems to slither back into the headlines whenever Finn’s name trends. The one who stood between me and Finn at that charity event weeks ago, all smug smiles and subtle claws.
She’s draped across her chair, laughing too loud, leaning in like she’s still got some hold on him.
My stomach drops. I shouldn’t care. I don’t, I tell myself. Only.
