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And I didn’t want him to.

We stayed like that.

Sweaty. Tangled. Silent.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t think about what I might lose.

I thought about what I might be brave enough to keep.

SIXTEEN

We hadn’t talked about those nights. Not in the studio. Not in the hall. Not when she leaned over me to adjust a mic level, and her soft hair grazed my jaw. Not when I passed her a water bottle and our fingers stayed touching for just a beat toolong.

But the silence didn’t make it disappear. If anything, it deepened it.

That first night in New York lived in every breath we took now. A low hum under every lyric. A memory threaded through the soundscape of our sessions. It followed us like a bassline. One you didn’t need to hear to feel.

And I felt her.

In every damn way. The clench of her wet pussy haunted my thoughts as did the sweet nectar of her invaded my thoughts.

Even now, her posture called out to me. The line of her neck, and the curve of her jaw…

Sienna was perched on the stool in the booth, curls pulled up again, neck bare like she was asking to be looked at. A soft sheen on her collarbone. Tank clinging to her just right.

She sang into the mic like it was a secret. Notes wrapped in ache.

“It’s not a lie if we both play along.

Call it a game, but I feel it too strong…”

I sat in the engineer’s chair, headphones half on, trying to stay focused.

But her voice? Shit. Her voice pressed against places in me that had nothing to do with music. And everything to do with how she sounded moaning my name, nails in my back, pussy wrapped around me like silk and fire.

I closed my eyes, jaw clenched.

“Run it back,” Amir said. “Let’s get another layer.”

She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t push back. Just nodded, took a slow breath, and reset.

I respected that about her. She gave the art everything. Didn’t force it. Let it build. She moved like someone who’d lived through things and turned every one of them into a note.

She finished the take and stepped out of the booth, tuggingher sweatshirt over her head like it was part of her exhale. She wore a ribbed black tank beneath it, thin and low, the kind of soft that only came from time and skin. A sheen of sweat gleamed across her chest. Her curls were a little frizzy at the edges now, lips bare, voice slightly raw from the chorus she’d just poured her whole damn self into.

And every part of me reacted.

She dropped onto the couch beside me and took a long drink of water. Then let the bottle rest against her lips for a second too long.

“You ever notice,” she said, not looking at me, “how music hits different when your heart’s in chaos?”

I dragged my gaze from her mouth, chest tightening. “Yeah. But sometimes… that’s when it hits the best.”

She turned to face me. “You ever make something that hurt too much to release?”

I looked down at my hands. “Yeah. Couple of times.”

Her voice lowered. “Me too.”