“Oh.” Her face softens at my sister’s name.
She sets her carry-on on the bed and the strap slips off her shoulder, letting the sports jacket slide lower and expose more skin. My stare drags there before I can stop it—collarbone, the curve of her neck, the delicate line where fabric meets flesh.
“So,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear, “house rules?”
“Always ask first.”
“Am I a prisoner or something?”
“You’re in my house,” I say. “You’re free to leave anytime if you don’t like my conditions.”
“Right,” she says lightly. “Your house.”
“Unpack.” My voice clips as I head for the door. “I’ll be downstairs. Don’t move shit around.”
“Wow,” she sighs and plops onto the bed. “Can’t wait to write my glowing review on Airbnb.”
My mouth twitches. I should be mad she’s intruding, but I can’t find it.
Down the hallway, I feel her behind me—the way the silence isn’t silence anymore.
I’ve been seeing her every few days, and it was already too much. She got under my skin at the arena, the gala, the club. Now I’m going to see her first thing in the morning and every night before bed.
I drag a hand over my face and exhale, fighting the throb in my chest and the dull ache in my cock. I’ve been avoiding this in my head, but there’s no avoiding it now.
She’s here.
And I still don’t know what’s worse: that I was forced into this arrangement, or that a part of me is already thinking about how fast I can adjust to it. How easy it would be to stop pretending I don’t want her. How fucking good it would feel to give in.
Forty-five minutes on the phone.
Forty-five minutes listening to the board ramble about sponsor projections, community outreach expectations, liability insurance, and everything else I should be focusing on.
Except I can’t focus because somewhere in this house is Jessica—touching things, breathing my air, existing under my roof.
“We can have the donors meet the team during the facility tour,” I suggest.
“Yes, we’ve been thinking the same—”
The voice on speaker dulls as I catch movement from the corner of my eye.
Jessica appears in the open-concept living room, padding over my hardwood floors with bare feet, wet hair, and a towel wrapped around her body, barely held together by a knot.
My brain stops for two solid seconds. Heat, hunger, need—all crash together in a vicious whirlpool.
Fuck.
My cock punches against my zipper.
“Mr. Moreal?” the voice on the phone chirps. “Are you still with us?”
Oh, I’m very much not with them. I’m barely with myself.
“Give me a minute, please.”
Jessica doesn’t hesitate. Her lips curve. Drops of water slide down the slope of her neck, over her collarbone, and between her breasts. I follow the trail with my eyes like a starving animal.
She stands in front of me, raises an arm, and mimics blow-drying her hair, clearly asking if I have one.
