“Come on, you deserve to celebrate. Twenty-five seconds is practically Olympic level. I’m certain Ezra would tell you himself.”
“I doubt your accomplished merman younger brother would think anything of the sort.” I’ve had to refresh my memory on all the Hastings siblings, but thankfully Wikipedia has a family chart for me to stalk.
“Maybe. But I’ll be your lifeguard either way.”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Does that mean you’re coming tonight?”
“No. But my day is open tomorrow,” I say, finality in my tone. “Now, I need to actually relax in this bath.”
“Well, if you wanted to relax, you’d invite me over.”
I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m naked on the phone with him or that I’ve lost my mind, but I find myself saying, “And whatexactlywould you do to help me relax?”
“I’d ease away the tension from your demanding day on set. I’d help you unwind completely, make you forget everything but…” His measured pause holds a wealth of meaning. “Fuck, Reese…the things I’d give you.”
The bath heats up like a tea kettle. My core throbs at the sardonic laugh he lets out. I nearly have to grab my free hand to stop it from dipping beneath the water’s surface.
His voice, so perfectly crafted, so him, could make a nun regret her chastity vows.
“Anything?” The word sticks in my throat. The steam rises around me, creating my own world. A world in which he is here.
I imagine his hands, his large, veiny hands, running up my inner thighs while his lips whisper his devotion to me. My breath hitches.
“Whatever you want, it’s yours. Want me to give you some ideas?”
Yes!I nearly scream.Please keep talking. Please keep telling me exactly what you’d like to do.
Instead I say, “Good night, Mr. Hastings.”
“Wait—before you hang up. I realize I never told you my last regret.”
“That makes you a bad student,” I whisper, blushing. “Let’s have it.”
“My third regret is that I didn’t meet you sooner.”
The line goes flat. He seriously hung up after divulging that. I splash water on my face.
My mind swims with images of his perfectly messy brown hair falling just so across his forehead, begging me to run my fingers through it. Those impossible cheekbones leading to a jaw so sharp. And those eyes—golden and intense, framed by criminally thick lashes, burning like honey in sunlight whenever they lock onto mine.
My self-control snaps like a glowstick, silent at first, then a little too bright to ignore.
One hand finds my breast, the other runs down between my thighs until it reaches the spot that’s been begging for him. His praise fills my mind.
Reese, you’re doing so good.
Move your legs apart.
Straighten your back.
Breathe, fighter.
These are dangerous thoughts. But the neediness pooling in my core tells me it’s already too late—I’m in deep trouble when it comes to Dante Hastings.
The things I’d give you.
I circle my clit, moving from wandering to desperate.
