“Remi.” He nips at my neck, wrapping his hand around the back of my thigh. “Fuck,” he whispers, grinding his erection into me.

I keep breathing in more than breathing out—as if my body were more concerned with memorizing the scent of him than using the air. Cedar and leather.

“Foster.” It’s on an exhale, my lips grazing the side of his face.

He hasn’t even kissed me yet when his mouth works its way over my skin to my jaw, and I’m about to wrap my legs around him for more contact when his tongue glides over my skin, and he hums out a satisfied sound.

“Remi Sinner.”

I still—all of me in a free fall that feels even less real than everything else.

Foster stops moving too, bringing his face to hover in front of mine. “What’s wrong?” Even in the mostly dark room, I can see his mouth hitch up on one side. “That’s your name, right? Your real one?”

My lips part on a shaky breath, my fingers still in his hair. The lines of his face begin to come into focus, the features piecing together.

“She’s a sinner, pretending to be a saint.” His voice is still his, but now it also sounds like someone else’s, repeating Of Men and Wolves’ lyrics.

No, it can’t be.

I would have known it was him.

The last time I talked to him flashes through my mind. It leaves me even more chilled inside, my heart twisting as I remember sending him my picture. He texted back like he promised he would—only I never opened the message to see his.

With the memory tightening around my throat, I slowly bring my phone around to his face, closing the app as I do. Light flares over his face, and my eyes lock with his.

Adams North is staring back at me. Only now I know without a doubt it’s Foster too.

Then it all slips into place—how the voice on the radio made me want to close my eyes and fall, and I could feel it deeper than I should. Because I’d already fallen. It had already been buried as far down as I could get it.

Foster licks his lips, his eyes lowering to my mouth for a second before they return to mine. “Come on,” he says smoothly. “If anyone could figure it out, it should have been you. Foster West. Adams North. Who do you think inspired me?”

If it felt unreal before, now it’s so real it hurts.

My eyes burn, and I shake my head, but before I can even come close to forming a coherent sentence, Foster straightens.

He smirks, and the last parts of me that were still warm with him touching them cool as he backs away. “You’re hired, by the way.” He turns, walking toward the door. “See you on tour.”