Page 35 of Siren

Me: So I think I like him. And this whole thing is supposed to be pretend.

Jas: Then stop pretending.

I stared at the screen.

My heart thudded—not fast. Justdeep.Like it had been waiting to speak up. Because it wasn’t the sex I feared.

It was everything after.

The way things shift once you give in. The way silence the next morning says more than words.

I turned off the lamp. Dropped the phone.

But my body didn’t listen.

The sheets were cool against my skin, but I was flushed.Too aware. Still thinking about the look in his eyes when he saidmaybe it never was.

I shut my eyes and tried to wait it out. Ten minutes. Twenty.

An hour.

Still burning.

I kicked the covers off. Sat up. No plan. No shame. No lies.

The night wasn’t done.

And neither was I.

TWELVE

She was still under my skin.

That slit in her dress. The sway of her hips when she walked ahead of me—heels clicking soft against the marble like percussion she didn’t mean to play. The way she smelled when she leaned in close—like honey melting on brown skin, like heat after dusk, like a promise I’d crawl to keep.

And her voice…fuck. It lived in my chest now.

Not just the way she sang—but the way she said my name. Slow. Measured. Like she’d claimed it. Like she already knew it belonged on her tongue.

I’d been half-hard since the elevator ride. No touches. No kisses. Just breath and silence and glances that peeled the pretense off both of us.

Now, I was fresh out the shower with the steam thick in the air, my towel slung low on my hips, water sliding down my back and my chest still damp. My dick already heavy with need, pulsing with every memory of her mouth.

Then the knock came. Two taps. Then silence.

Another—softer. Certain.

My hand gripped the knob, and when the door swung open—there she was. Black trench coat. Heels. Nothing else and that calm look on her face—like she knew I’d open. Like this wasn’t a question. Just inevitability.

She stepped inside without a word. Turned to face me. Her eyes slow and direct, dark as the night.

Then—two fingers. Soft against my lips.

“No talking,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

I didn’t breathe. Her voice was heat and hush and hunger.

She stepped closer, the hem of her coat brushing my knees. Her lips grazed my jaw, just enough to tease.

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