-Sloane Pierce:
"Tell me you don't," she whispered, daring me, her smirk softening into something sharper, hungrier. "Tell me you don't want me, Sloane. I'll stop. Tell me you are straight and you don't like women and I will stop even when I know you are lying."
my silence was louder than anything else in the room.
The steam wrapped tighter around us, the space smaller, heavier, charged.
And she smiled—slow, wicked—because I didn't say a damn thing.
The bathroom was too warm, the air thick with steam, the mirror fogged over so much I couldn't see my own reflection. My heartbeat was louder than the faint drip of water still running from the showerhead, louder than the music Roxy had left playing from her headphones.
She stood in front of me with that towel barely clinging to her skin, hair damp and curling against her shoulders, droplets of water sliding down her collarbone.
