Page 23 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

In my bedroom, moonlight seeps in under the gossamer curtains, so potent I can almost see raindrops hanging in the air. I nestle under my blankets and stare at my e-reader, trying in vain not to wonder when my phone will light up with his text.

The dark silence of the penthouse does nothing to ease my nerves.

Nick is only a few steps away, just down the hall.

After dinner, I heard him bumping around the kitchen, doing the dishes and listening to music on a low volume.

Then his footsteps trailed up the stairs and disappeared behind his bedroom door.

Inside me, it’s like the world is cracking open.

I’m falling for you. I want more.

I drop my e-reader on the bed, breathing in and out. I’ve never felt like this before, this gut-squirming, heart-pounding cocktail of anxiety and excitement. I don’t know what to do with these unrequited feelings—can I hide them long enough to see Nick and I through to the end of the contract?

What if I can’t?

My family needs this money. I need it. Without the payment, I’m staring down the barrel of a lifetime of debt. Everything that Nick and I have accomplished together would be for nothing.

But his eyes tonight … they were deep, black, his proximity maddening, our conversation charged. The longing between us is getting more and more obvious. And though he only wants me for a quick, casual release of sexual tension, it’s nearly impossible for me to deny him.

Even if my heart is on the line.

Nick’s sheets slide softly over my bare legs.

I turn on my side, staring at my phone charging on the bedside table.

I’m not built for this confusion, this onslaught of feelings.

I’m built for getting things done. For being the boldest, smartest, most prepared person in the room. For having sharp teeth.

Sharp teeth.

I curl my hand in my comforter. Why hasn’t he texted me yet?

It’s a few minutes past midnight when I pick up my phone. Rain patters the windows, cutting through the silence. I pull the charging cable out of my phone, stare into the white light of the screen, and tap Nick and I’s text conversation.

There’s an ellipsis at the bottom.

I sit up, my e-reader falling off the bed to the carpet below. The ellipsis disappears, appears, and disappears again.

He didn’t forget. He’s either writing a novel in our message screen or he’s purposefully drawing out the suspense. Or he’s having trouble with what he wants to say.

I don’t know why my heart is racing.

My thumbs walk across the screen of their own accord.

Sienna, 12:10 AM

You’re awake.

The ellipsis vanishes, popping out of existence as if I startled it. I stare at the screen, biting my nails. Then two messages come through.

Nick

You beat me to it.

Yeah. I haven’t been sleeping well.

Sienna

Why not?

Lying awake wondering how to get through the next month.

That makes two of us.

I scoot back against my pillows and tap out a reply, the light from my phone screen making me squint in the darkness.

Sienna

What are you thinking about?

The delivered receipt pops up beneath my message, and I wait. And wait. Rain drums against the window, droplets painting speckles of light on the curtains. Two minutes tick by before I see the ellipsis appear again.

Nick

You.

My breath gusts out, ruffling the hair hanging on either side of my face.

Nick

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Sienna

Why not?

Because I told myself I wouldn’t.

I need you to tell me to stop.

Stop what, Nick?

Wanting you.

Hot, tingly feelings. Everywhere. Wanting you. I’m not sure what he’s referring to, but I can make a guess.

My free hand finds the outside of my thigh, skimming the hem of my pajama shorts.

These last few weeks of celibacy have been punishing.

If I’ve found them difficult, I can’t imagine how they’ve been for Nick.

He’d probably be out at the Monarch Lounge with a woman on each arm right now, if it weren’t for me.

I haven’t been with anyone since I broke up with my last ex, almost a year ago.

Asking him to tell me what’s been going on in his head would be against so many rules, I might as well throw the No Intimacy clause into a cardboard box and start it on fire.

But if it takes the pressure off …

I cross my legs under the blankets, staring at the words shining on my phone screen.

Would it really be that bad? He isn’t here with me.

We’re not in the same room. We’re not being intimate out loud.

It’s like Lena said: If it’s words on a screen, it doesn’t count. She called me the queen of loopholes.

The cursor in my text box blinks at me. Nick and I have been exploiting the texting loophole for weeks, now. How would this be any different?

Sienna

How do you want me?

Nick

Sienna.

Nick. We’ve been good. I want to know.

I don’t want to fuck anything up.

You won’t.

Tell me.

It’s two minutes of forcing my breathing to be slow and steady before the next message comes in. I turn to gaze at the wall of my bedroom, imagining Nick in his own room down the hall. Sitting on his bed, maybe, like me. Phone in front of him, trying to think of what to say.

Nick

I keep picturing you in that wedding dress, standing across from me.

Sienna

Yes?

I forgot to fake it. I forgot about the deal, the company, all of it.

All I could think about was how good it would feel to kiss you again.

Just like that, the air in my bedroom is too thick, too warm.

I flop onto my back, holding my phone over my face.

I’ve dreamed about the wedding almost every night since it happened.

Nick waiting for me at the table with the flowers, how incredible he looked in his suit, like someone’s billionaire playboy fantasy.

His arm pressed against mine, sending waves of heat through my body.

My phone buzzes again.

Nick

I wanted to do so much more than just bring you home and put you up in my guest room.

Sienna

Tell me.

I wanted to lay you out on my bed and climb on top of you.

A perfect thrill sparks in my chest, flaring like a match, then sinking between my legs. It takes everything in me not to jump from the bed and start pacing back and forth in front of the door, buoyed by the unreleased energy between him and me. I swallow hard and type a reply instead.

Sienna

Me, too.

I wanted to kiss you again.

I thought about doing more.

Nick

You did?

Of course I did.

I don’t know how to be in the same room as you and not think about touching you.

A few moments of silence pass. Butterflies churn in my stomach. I stare at the curtains, watching rain cascade down the other side of the window. Then …

Nick

Tell me to stop.

My heart skips a beat.

Sienna

I won’t.

Nick

Then here’s what’s going to happen.

You’re going to tell me everything. Every thought you’ve had, every dream. Everything you want.

And I won’t let you go until I’ve given it to you.

But I want so much.

You don’t even know.

Tell me.

I wanted you to push me against the counter again tonight. I wanted you to taste the gasp I made when I saw you standing there.

Yeah?

I thought about dropping to my knees and pulling your shorts to the side. They’re criminal, you know that, right?

I know.

Seeing you in my shirt …

Are you still wearing it?

Obviously, Mr. Harwood.

I stare at my phone, every inch of my skin blazing. After a decade of on-and-off singleness, sexting is second nature—but this is more than sexting. It’s confessing. It’s personal, and heartfelt, and so fucking dirty, and I know the relief it gives Nick to tell me this, because I feel it, too.

I type my next message and press send before I can talk myself out of it.

Sienna

Want to see?

His reply pops up milliseconds later.

Nick

Obviously, Ms. Hayes.

If you want to show me.

Eager nerves course through me. I push my blankets to my waist and reach to flick on my bedside lamp.

It’s not the greatest light, but I can work with it.

My shorts fall to the floor beside the bed, leaving me in my plain cotton panties.

I haven’t done this in months, not since I met my most recent ex.

Centering the camera just right, I half-cover myself with my blanket so just a peek of the white waistband of my panties is visible.

Then I take the photo below my chin, making his t-shirt—and the impression of my nipples through the gray fabric—the emphasis of the photo.

I press send.

Sienna

No shorts this time.

The delivered receipt pops up under the photo. While I wait for him to reply, I tap on the picture to look closer, assessing it for composition, the way Lena and I used to do for each other’s thirst traps in college.

In truth, I’ve never thought twice about whether a picture I’ve taken is hot.

I feel hot. That’s all that matters. But maybe I should have been better posed.

A lacy thong instead of the panties. Or the collar of his shirt pulled down, exposing one of my shoulders.

Nick probably receives a hundred lewds a day on social media from women far better at taking pictures than me.

I stifle a stunned laugh, dropping my phone on the blankets to my side.

I can hear Lena’s voice in my head already.

You sent a blurry, amateur lewd to Nick Harwood?

This man is mutuals with every supermodel with a professional camera on the planet, girl.

He’s used to Dior and Gucci in 4K. He won’t be …

My phone buzzes on the bed beside me. I ignore it, shaking my head at myself for a few seconds more, but then it keeps buzzing.

And keeps buzzing.

I pick it up with numb fingers. Nick’s name is across the top of the screen, above a red decline and a green accept button.

He’s calling me.

Nick Harwood is calling me from the other room.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

“Hello?” I say into my phone. It comes out quieter than I’d hoped. “Nick?”