‘I think so.’ I take slow, deep breaths, revelling in the way the water soothes my skin. Or maybe it’s being in the water with him that’s soothing. ‘It’s not so bad in the shallow end.’
‘Do you think you’ll have to go deep for the shoot?’ Ronan’s velvety voice harbours a hint of humour.
Is that another innuendo or have I just got a filthy brain?
I haven’t been with a man in seven years. Being this close to one is sending my ovaries into overdrive. Funnily enough, being abandoned and pregnant with twins was enough to put me off for a very long time. I hadn’t intended to be single forlife, but, when my Single Sav brand took off, I couldn’t very well start dating.
I decide to give Ronan the benefit of the doubt with the “go deep” remark. ‘I don’t think so. They want shots of the swimwear, not my shoulders, so hopefully not.’
‘That makes sense.’ Ronan stands again, his powerful body slicing through the water. A devilish smirk lifts his lips. ‘How do you feel about doggy?’
Yep. My doubt was misplaced.
Heat pools between my legs. ‘Paddle or style?’
What am I doing?
Flirting with Major Manwhore?
My only excuse is that it’s a great distraction from my fear of drowning. It’s a good job my bikini bottoms have a legitimate excuse to be wet because the images he’s forcing to the forefront of my mind are downright pornographic.
And decadent.
And fucking delicious.
I need a hot minute with one of my many vibrators. Just because I don’t date, it doesn’t mean I don’t have needs.
His eyes snap to mine. ‘I meant the former, but I would be more than happy to hear your thoughts on the latter, too.’
‘I bet you would.’ Am I imagining it, or is there something bulging in those swim shorts? ‘Perhaps we should stick to the paddle?’
Ronan shrugs. ‘You’re the boss.’
We both know that’s not true. Here in the water, he’s the teacher and I’m the student. He’s the expert and I’m the novice. I’m at his mercy and he knows it.
And the worst thing about the entire scenario?
It’s hot as fuck.
Surrendering control is almost as emancipating as surrendering my body to the buoyancy of the water. All day, everyday, I’m constantly thinking about the things I need to do. Work. Homework. Dinner. Laundry.
Here, all I have to do is what I’m told.
And it’s oddly cathartic.
We do some footwork, treading water and kicking. Ronan hauls himself out of the water, returning with a foam float that even my daughters don’t need anymore. Heat flashes from my chest all the way to the tips of my ears.
The shame. It’s mortifying being so vulnerable.
I feel the weight of his stare as he drops back into the water. ‘Look at me,’ he demands. ‘We all had to start somewhere, okay?’
Through all his teasing and flirting, I never considered he could be so sympathetic, not to me anyway; the woman who totalled his precious car, then blamed him for the accident.
I nod, unable to speak through my shock. This has been a million times easier than I expected.
Then again, as Ronan said, I’m in the shallow end of a pool with an Olympic swimmer. How will I fare when I have to brave unpredictable waves in the freezing cold sea?
His hand brushes my waist as he positions the float around my midsection. Goosebumps fire across my flesh in an alarming display of desire. His blue eyes pin me in a pensive stare. Instead of pulling me up on my obvious reaction to his touch, he reassures me instead.
