Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sienna
Hours after the fake proposal, the alcohol has settled warmly in my bloodstream like slow-burning embers.
I’m not obliterated, nowhere near blackout, but I’m loose.
Laughter bubbles up from my chest without effort. My body keeps drifting toward Milo like a magnet—my shoulder brushing his arm, my knee pressing against his under the table. Every time he leans in to murmur something low in my ear, I feel it everywhere.
It feels natural.
Dangerous.
Addictive.
We’ve been showered with congratulatory cocktails and shots all night by strangers who bought our fake engagement story, hook, line, and sinker.
Each new glass tastes sweeter than the last, and my head is pleasantly fuzzy as my skin hums with warmth from the liquor and from the way Milo’s fingers keep tapping slow, rhythmic patterns against my bare thigh.
I try not to squirm. I try not to imagine those fingers sliding higher. My body betrays me anyway, shifting closer on the worn leather booth.
The current singer finishes her off-key pop song to polite applause and a few good-natured boos. Before I can steady the nervous flutter in my chest, the host returns to the stage.
“Alright, alright, folks! Next up, we have a duet from the couple who got engaged right here tonight,” he announces, his eyes landing on our booth with a mischievous grin. “Let’s give it up for the happy couple—Milo and Sienna!”
My heart slams against my ribs with sudden force. A hot flush races up my neck. Engaged. The word still sounds surreal, even fake, a silly dare from Aria and Ethan. Yet my pulse refuses to get the memo.
Milo’s fingers tighten briefly on my thigh—a silent reassurance that sends another shiver through me. He rises smoothly and offers me his hand, his eyes gleaming with amusement and that dark hunger I’m beginning to recognize all too well.
I hesitate for half a second, my stomach doing a dizzying flip, then slide my fingers into his. His palm is warm and steady as he leads me through the cheering crowd toward the stage. My free hand clutches my cocktail like a lifeline, condensation dripping coolly over my fingers.
As we step onto the low, circular stage, the host grins broadly. “What are we singing tonight, then? Something romantic, I hope.”
Milo glances at me, one dark brow arched in silent question.
We chose the song earlier while we were laughing until our sides hurt over a shared fishbowl cocktail someone sent as a congratulations.
I picked it on impulse, half-joking, never imagining the lyrics would mirror so perfectly the confusing storm inside me now.
I lean into the mic, my voice steadier than I feel. “Untouched by The Veronicas.”
It’s a song about wanting something so badly you can almost taste it… but you still can’t quite touch it. Yet.
The host nods enthusiastically. “Oh, I like that. Classic tension. Let’s turn up the heat!”
The intro begins—slow, pulsing, settling deep in my bones.
Thirty seconds stretch into an eternity.
My skin prickles with anticipation. Milo takes the first verse, reading from the screen, his voice low and rough around the edges.
He directs each word to me, those gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
The lyrics sink heavy into my chest, describing the exact electric push-and-pull that has hummed between us since the moment we met.
Every line feels like it’s describing the way my skin hums when he brushes against me, the way my breath catches when he looks at me too long. The way I want him so badly it aches.
The spotlight catches the diamond on my ring finger. I glance down at it, unable to stop myself. It sparkles, throwing tiny rainbows across my skin. It’s beautiful—too beautiful for something built on a lie.
My throat tightens with a confusing rush of emotions I’m nowhere near ready to name.
Longing.
Fear.
A dangerous flicker of hope.
What if…
No.
I shove the thoughts away before they can take root and force my gaze back up to Milo as he continues singing, his voice dropping lower on the pre-chorus, each word dripping with hunger and the sweet ache of almost.
Carefully, I set the cocktail down on the small table beside the microphone stand. Then I bring the mic to my lips for my verse. My voice emerges breathy and teasing on the surface, but raw vulnerability underneath.
Our eyes never leave each other. The air between us crackles. Someone in the crowd yells, “Go, girl!” but it barely registers. There’s only Milo—his voice, his eyes, his hands finding my waist and drawing me closer until our bodies are nearly flush.
We trade lines back and forth, voices weaving together. The song peels back every careful layer I’ve built around my heart.
I’m not supposed to want him this much.
I’m not supposed to feel this deeply, this quickly.
Yet the music refuses to let me hide. It drags every hidden emotion into the bright spotlight, and he stands right here with me, singing as if he feels every line echoing in his soul too.
When the bridge comes, I turn slowly in his arms and press my back against his chest, the flamingo squeaking under my weight.
His arms wrap around my waist, holding me tight.
Then his mouth hovers at my ear, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur as he sings the lines about surrender, about no longer being able to hold back.
His warm breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of my neck, raising goosebumps and sending a fresh wave of heat cascading through me.
A soft, involuntary sound escapes me. I tilt my head back against his shoulder, eyes half-closed, and continue with the next line. My voice trembles with the weight of how much truth lives inside those words.
His hand begins a slow journey up my side, fingers tracing my ribs until they brush deliberately along the underside of my breasts—feather-light, but enough to send a sharp bolt of heat straight between my thighs.
I press further into him instinctively, feeling the unmistakable hard ridge of his cock pressed against my lower back. His breath hitches audibly against my neck, and the knowledge that I affect him this much makes my pulse race even faster.
As the final chorus hits, we turn to face each other again. The last note lingers in the air like a held breath. The music fades into silence, and for one breathless heartbeat, it feels like the world holds its breath along with us.
Then the room explodes into cheers and whistles.
But Milo and I stay frozen onstage, foreheads nearly touching, our chests heaving as we breathe each other in. His hands rest possessively on my waist, mine clutching the pineapple shirt until my knuckles turn white. The heat rolling off his body feels capable of igniting the whole island.
Milo’s eyes drop to my mouth, dark with barely restrained desire. “Sienna…”
I don’t answer with words.
I pull him down to me and kiss him like I’m starving.
Our mouths collide in pure desperation, like gasoline on a flame.
His hands tighten around my waist, pulling me flush against him as the flamingo squeaks pathetically between us.
I thread my fingers into his wig and tug, earning a deep groan that vibrates through his chest and into mine.
When we break apart, we’re both wearing matching dazed grins. I look up at him, my heart so full it actually aches with a sweet, terrifying pressure. His arms remain locked around my waist, anchoring me.
And his eyes… they’re softer now, unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before. No walls. No careful masks. Just him open and real and looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lean in to kiss him again, the spotlight still warm on our skin and the taste of our shared longing tingling on my lips.
And for the first time, wrapped securely in his arms and the sparkling ring heavy on my finger, I let myself think about it.
Maybe… just maybe… I’m ready to believe in us.