“I fucking love the taste of you undone, fighter.”
It is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. He kisses me, and I collapse my head against his chest, boneless.
Then, like a cruel joke, reality crashes back like a wave. My face burns. My chest rises and falls rapidly against the cool air. The enormity of what just happened settles over me like a heavy blanket.
Words fail me. “That was—”
His eyes catch mine, dark and knowing. “Careful now. Don’t overthink it.”
But I am overthinking it.
Every possible tabloid headline flashes through my mind:On-Set Scandal. Costars’ Steamy Affair Revealed. Reese Sinclair off the Rails.
I’ve worked too hard to become another cliché. I’ve already crossed every professional boundary here—with Felix, with the movie, with everything I’ve built. Is this my quarter-life crisis catching up to me? Or am I making deliciously bad decisions and pretending not to love every second?
“Hey.” His hand finds my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from his kisses. “Stay here with me. You’re just a woman who knows what she wants. Simple.”
Simple. Nothing about this is simple. But when he looks at me like that, everything else falls away. The critics. The cameras. The carefully constructed image.
“Thank you.” I reach for him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“For what?”
“For making me forget myself.”
Chapter 23
Dante
MakingReese Sinclair orgasm felt like a religious experience.
A deeply specific kind of power.
She lets me hold her hand on the way back to my cabin, her cheeks still a perfect shade of rosy against her soft skin.
“You’re quiet,” she says, glancing up at me.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“The way you taste,” I say, squeezing her hand.
She’s nervous in a way that makes me want to protect her. On set, she’s all sharp edges and certainty, but with me that armor slips. Just like mine does around her.
“That’s mortifying.” She swats my chest playfully.
“Don’t say that,” I say, voice low and matter-of-fact. “I loved making you feel good.”
When we step into the cabin, I head straight for the bathroom. It still has the rustic charm of the old summer camp—wood-paneled walls, a sloped ceiling—but I’ve made it my own. A plush rug softens the plank floor, and a stack of thick white towels sits neatly on a reclaimed wood shelf. As I pull back the deep-green linen shower curtain, the brass rings glide smoothlyalong the rod. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water is tepid.
At the bathroom door, Reese fidgets with her hands, biting her bottom lip. “I…are you okay that you didn’t, um—” She gestures vaguely. “I mean, I’ve never had someone focus on just me,” she continues, playing with the door handle now. “Usually it’s more rushed, mutual. Or honestly, mostly about him—” Her rambling is delectable, and it makes me laugh. She stops. “What?”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“Uh, I am not flustered,” she protests. “I just wasn’t raised to discuss these things.”
“Be selfish, Reese.” I kiss her softly, smoothing my thumb over her worried brow.
