I squeeze my violin case to my chest, accidentally making my cleavage spill over the hard edge and Mike’s eyes flash as I dig my incisor into my bottom lip. “Very willful.”

  He traces up the line of my curves, my throat, my face. “Willfulness needs a firm hand,” Mike growls.

  Oh Lordt.

  My mom’s preference for my swimsuit would be a 1920s bathing dress that comes halfway down my thighs and is the color of surgical support stockings. However. Because I’m at Sam’s, it’s bikini time.

  I wriggle out of my panties in the guest room and slip on the tiniest one I’ve got. Sam knocks and comes in.

  “Hello, bombshell.” He signals for me to do a twirl, and I do, feeling a little shy. But also very, very happy to feel so free and unencumbered like I do when I’m here.

  “Now where did this teeny-tiny thing come from?”

  I wriggle the bottom out from between my but cheeks—or is it supposed to snuggle in there like that?

  “I ordered it on a whim, told my parents it was an accident, and then ‘forgot to return it.’ Oops!”

  “Mmm-hmmm!” Sam says, swizzling his kombucha, and then handing it to me. It’s tart and sweet and mango-ey. Heaven.

  I follow Sam down the upstairs hallway toward the steps. “Girl. Just a head’s up. My mom is in town and I’m meeting her for dinner, so you’re on own with Dad. This whole-spend-the-week with us came upon pretty fast, so things were planned.”

  I grip the stair rail, blinking. Everything feels spinny, like it did after the wine-a-rita. Only worse. Much worse. Or better? Because me. Him. Alone. Here. Together.

  “That’s fine. It’s no problem. It’ll be nice to see your mom, I bet.”

  Sam sighs. “I guess! Except my two favorite people are going to be here and it’s kind of a drag that I can’t be with you tonight. Just promise you won’t have too much fun without me.”

  Gulp. “Promise.”

  Together we trapse down to the pool, where Mike is set up with his laptop on the teak patio table. Normally he faces out at the big field beyond their property, with its thick woods and fireflies at night, but today he’s facing the pool.

  Which means he’s looking right at me.

  As soon as his eyes lock on mine, the teeny-tiny bikini feels even teenier and tinier.

  And for a moment, I’m a deer in the headlights. Do I like his gaze on me like that? Do I like that fire, that intensity, that heat?

  I’ve never felt this before—never from any man and certainly never from him.

  I take a deep breath, I scoop my hair over my shoulder then up into a messy knot on the top of my head and smile back at him. Looking him right in the eye. Because you’re damned right I like being this deer in those head lights. You’re dammmmmned right.

  With his usual gusto, Sam cannonballs into the deep end on a ‘yee haw’ fit for a Texas rodeo star, and Lagerfeld tumbles awkwardly and happily into the pool behind him, doggy paddling around wearing his custom-made flotation device, looking for Sam amongst the bubbles, smiling and laughing like only little doggos can.

  I’m a devotee of a cannonball myself, but this time, I take it slower sure the teaspoon of fabric covering my bits would not stay put after a good cannonball so I slip down the pool stairs at the shallow end, watching Mike all the time. His fingers are on the keyboard of his laptop, but they aren’t moving. I can see his eyes under the bill of his hat. And they’re right on me.

  I’ve been in their pool with Mike around hundreds of times, but today, everything about it feels different. Buzzing. Alive. As if I’m on display just for him.

  I let the water creep up my thighs, feel it between my legs, against my pussy lips. Up my bellybutton making me hiss as the coolness meets my hotness then up to my nipples.

  Mike swallows, his Adam’s apple sliding up his muscular throat as he drops his head for a second like he’s praying.

  I push back gently, floating on my back, watching him all the time. And in that moment, it’s like everything, everything fades away. He raises his head back, eyes locked on me and he doesn’t move another muscle. He doesn’t give himself away. But even from this far away, I can feel the heat, the desire, the intensity coming off of him. And all for me.

  But before I can give him another sexy glance, Sam swims up under my legs, scoops me up onto my shoulders, and catapults me through the air. My giggle mixes with Mike and Sam’s laughter, and Lagerfeld’s happy-barks, as I splash into the warm deep end, dappled with sunlight, turquoise and white feeling like my life has somehow just started over.

  An hour later, my skin is pruny and tight from the chlorine. Sam gets out of the pool and rinses off Lagerfeld in the outdoor shower, and I slowly emerge from the water. Mike checks to make sure Sam is busy with Lagerfeld and then stands up, bringing me two fluffy hotel-white pool towels. He wraps the first towel around my shoulders, and I inhale his warmth. The scent of cologne, soap, yummy manliness.

  “Thanks,” I whisper my voice barely above a hush.

  His eyes dart over to Sam again, who is currently shampooing Lagerfeld, cooing at him, “Good boy, goooooood boy. Such a good boy…”

  “I hear we’re going to be alone tonight,” I say softly.

  Mike’s eyes meet mine. His teeth are set, and his jaw flexes. Serious and intense. “Careful. You might start something here that you can’t finish.”

  A rush of wetness spills out of me, warming the cold, wet triangle of skimpy swim suit between my legs. “What if… what if I don’t want it to finish?”

  I can’t tell if he likes that or hates it. “You need to practice.”

  I nod up at him. “Yes. Tryouts are tomorrow.”

  “I know they are,” he says firmly. “So how long do you need. Not want. Need to practice.”

  I sigh, squeezing the water out of my hair. “I don’t know. As long as it takes.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not your fucking mother. You’re an adult. Tell me what you need, what you really need, and I will make sure you have peace and quiet.”

  The energy with, it’s the polar opposite than with my parents. So different. Here, there is trust, seriousness, respect, one hundred and eighty from the over-the-top micromanagement I get constantly at home. And I feel a little unsure of how to handle it. I’m like a dog being let off its leash for the first time.

  “If I practice too long, I’ll hurt my fingers.”

  His eyes tighten, like with a flash of buried anger. “So let’s not have you practice too long. Give me a time limit and I’ll watch the clock.”

  A limit. A limit. Never has that word come out of my mother’s mouth. “If I put in ninety minutes, that should be the sweet spot.”

  His eyes flash. “I like that. The sweet spot.”

  God. “Me too.”

  He hands me the other towel.

  “Ninety minutes then. You shower. Eat something—as much as you want, whatever you want, but there’s no fucking celery in this house. Then get to work. And dinner will be waiting when you’re done.”

  I wrap myself up tight in the terry cloth. My skin prickles with goosebumps, but I’m not at all sure it’s from the cool breeze. Because this chemistry between us? Ka-boom.

  “Thank you, Mike.” I emphasize his name and see his brow knit together, an inhale sounds rough through his throat.

  He traces my face with his eyes. I can tell he wants to touch me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, all deep and dark, “Anything for you, Jess. Anything.”

  Just as I’m getting settled in the beautiful, spacious den to practice, Sam pokes his head in to say goodbye.

  I rub rosin gently on my bow. “You’ll be back later?”

  Sam nods, winks, and blows me a kiss. “Yeah, probably late. Be good.”

  He says that all the time, but this time it hits me differently. I wonder if he can sense the energy between his dad and me. Maybe, maybe not. But if he can or no, it’s there. Like smoldering embers. In my stomach, a hundred butterflies spring into flight.

  “You too,” I say, doing my best to keep cool and calm.

  I focus on the notes on the page, and hear Sam say goodbye to his dad. The door swings open, and then shut, and I hear the deadbolt lock behind him.

  “Ninety minutes, Jess,” Mike says firmly. “Starting right now.”

  Right. I stretch my neck side to side, fully expecting Mike to come in and watch me. But he doesn’t. I can hear him moving through the house—now up the steps, now out into the garage. He is giving me my space, and for really the very first time in as long as I can remember, I feel relaxed as I begin to practice. Relaxed, and safe, and comfortable.

  I go through both the Paganini and the Tchaikovsky, not once but three times. As I play, I feel the deep hush and comfort of the house, and also the liberty to make decisions to play how I want to, without my mom meddling, without her constant tuts and inhalations and the aura of anxiety that follows her everywhere through our house. When I am at home, so much seems to be riding on every note. But here, it’s just me, and my violin, and the music. And it makes me so very happy.

  I come up on a tricky part of the Tchaikovsky—measure 26, frustrating as all get-out. But instead of my mom tip-toeing outside the room, I hear the soothing sounds of football recaps quietly playing from the kitchen, and the sound of Mike rinsing something in the sink. The click-click of the gas burner coming on.

  And just like that, like magic, I make it through measure 26 without a hitch.

  As the minutes pass, I let myself trust myself. I let myself enjoy the music. And let myself decide that I won’t know which piece I’ll play until I sit down for tryouts tomorrow. I won’t have to explain it to my mom over dinner; I won’t have to justify it. I can decide. Me. And only me.

  The light grows lower, and the den lights come, without Mike coming into switch on the lamps. As I slide down a tumble of triplets, I find myself smiling, glancing at a smart outlet.

  And then, as I’m nearing the beautiful decrescendo at the end of the Paganini, I smell a wonderful smell from the kitchen. The smell of…could it be?

  Oh yes. Oh it is.

  Moroccan lemon chicken. My very, very favorite thing in the world.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mike

  I’m just finishing piping the last frosting petal on the last rose on her birthday cake when she comes into the kitchen.

  “Oh my goodness,” she chirps, pressing her hand to her chest. “You…bake?”

  Awww yeah, I do. My fondant is the fucking bomb. But I fucking love the surprise in her voice, the flush in her cheeks. Truth is, I’ve been prepping for her 18th for a year, minimum. But when I bought my first set of frosting pipettes, I had no fucking clue how bad I’d want her now.

  “I’ve got all kinds of secret talents.”

  Her eyes flash. She presses her lips together. Her cute pink-painted toes wiggle on the tile floor. “But doing frosting roses. Mike. Seriously?”

  I slide my eyes up and down her body. She’s wearing comfortable clothes now, sun-kissed from being out in the pool this afternoon. Her hoodie is zipped up just to the best part of her cleavage. That little zipper is just begging to be undone. With my teeth.

  “You sounded great. You’re going to knock it out of the park.”

  She smiles a little, picks up an apple from the fruit bowl but then glances at the time and puts it down.

  “Eat the fucking apple if you’re hungry.”

  She shakes her head and puts it back in the bowl. “You’ve made dinner, too, I think. I can smell it.”

  I nod taking in every succulent inch of her as she stands in my kitchen all eighteen and ripe for picking.

  “Your favorites. Sam said you didn’t have a party or anything and I fucking hated hearing that. It’s not every day a girl turns 18. Not every day a girl becomes a woman…”

  She blinks quickly, watching me close. The words hang there in the space between us. Because age is one thing. But only I can really make her a woman. I’m going to make her a woman. Deep dick her until she knows just how long I’ve waited for her.

  Fuck. The need to claim her is so strong, it almost knocks me back. I shouldn’t be thinking this way. I should not be thinking this way. But she’s there. And I’m here. And I want her so fucking much I’m going to explode.

  She looks away, breaking the tension. Her eyes land on the table, set for two. “Did you know Sam would be gone for dinner tonight?”

  Fucking right I did. His mom planned this conference months ago. But I don’t answer. Sometimes, silence is the best thing of all.

  She takes a step closer. “I can tell the answer is yes. Isn’t it?”

  Now I can smell her. And she smells like lilacs again. Goddamn it, this woman. She’s setting me on fire from the inside out. “You should go get changed for dinner.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Very Downton Abbey of you.”

  Shit. Her, me, in some big house with nothing but time, money, and riding crops? Not a bad idea at all. “Nah, but it’s a nice dinner. And even though you look cute as hell in that hoodie…”

  She nods slowly, trailing her finger along the granite, letting her fingertip linger in a little pit in the stone. “What do you want me to wear?”

  Those words, they take me from hard to throbbing. Me. Dressing her? Fuck. “You sure you want me to answer that?”

  “Mmmhmm,” she says, eyes growing darker, breath coming quicker.

  “I want you to wear something that shows off that body. However you want me to see it.”

  She comes back down wearing this tiny little dress; white, made of some gauzy white fabric that shows off her nipples, her curves while making her look like some innocent wide-eyed bride unsure what’s about to happen. And proves once and for all what I’d known already—she’s not a girl anymore. She’s blossomed into a woman.

  Almost.

  I like sitting across from her at dinner a whole fucking lot. It feels so fucking natural, so fucking easy. And even though she’s only eighteen, she’s got an old soul—always has had one. She’s thoughtful, kind, and I feel connected to her now in a way that isn’t just because I’m her dad’s best friend.

  It’s because of her. And me. And whatever this is between us.

  Dinner is slow, soft, sensuous. We eat Moroccan style, which I know she loves—no utensils, only fingers. And that means I get to watch those pretty lips suck her fingers clean. Again and again and again.

  Halfway through the main course, I’m so fucking hard that I can barely see straight. She looks up at me, sucking her thumb clean.

  “You okay?”

  Okay? I’m in fucking heaven itself.

  “Yeah. I just… I like that you’re here. With me. Like this.”

  She takes a slow sip of her wine. I like that too; she’s eighteen now, and there’s nothing stopping her from getting lit if she wants to, but she doesn’t. Such a good girl. “Me too. So much.”

  The noise of both our phones dinging at once breaks the moment. Our eyes connect, and I can tell she’s as annoyed as I am that life is intruding.

  “It’s got to be Sam on the group chat.” I sigh feeling the tension break.

  She nods. “I’ll go check.”

  I hold up a finger. “Don’t you dare. I got this.”

  My phone rings to life with a call before I can even unlock it. Sam, as I suspected. I answer the call and the noise a busy restaurant comes through the line.

  “You alright, bud?” I ask him.

  “Yep, but tipsy! So I’m going to stay the night with Mom in her suite. She doesn’t want me to leave. That alright?”

  I feel my balls tighten. That means that Jess and I will be alone. All. Fucking. Night?

  Is that a very good thing? Or a very bad thing? “You know she’s here to work, Sam.”

  “Pffffft. Work, schmerk!” he says. “We’ve split a bottle of wine and now she’s trying to con me into an Irish coffee. Imma probably have to peel her off the floor.”

  Probably right. Things with his mom are so far in the distant past, it feels like a lifetime ago. I hear her laughing in the background, and it only confirms what I knew already. I never felt for any other woman what I feel for Jess. Not even fucking close.

  “Love you, Dad! Gotta go! Back tomorrow.” Sam says and ends the call.

  I turn to face Jess. She’s already standing. Blinking slowly, taking a step toward me. “Tomorrow.”

  As she comes toward me, all the pent-up passion of the last year starts to shift from molten lava to a raging fucking volcano inside me. She’s got no fucking clue what I’m feeling. If she did, she wouldn’t be looking so cute and sweet.

  But she ignores the warning in my eyes. She shifts her hair over her shoulder, revealing the creamy line of her neck, the shell of her ear, the edge of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.

  “Remember what I told you, little girl.”

  That makes her perk up in a new way. Like I’ve dared her. Like I’ve taunted her.

  But she doesn’t back down. Instead she takes another step into me, getting closer. Closer to my desire. Closer to the fucking danger.

  She’s right up against me now. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. I inhale her sweetness, her warmth. And she gently, so fucking gently, runs her fingertips up my forearm.

  “Remember what I said too, though. What if I don’t want to finish what I’m starting?” Her words tease but her eyes are all in.

  Like a fucking pistol going off inside me, I grab hold of her—hands to her hips, grabbing her thighs, pulling her close and shoving her back onto the dining table. Dishes crash, glasses break, and I don’t give a fuck.

  “This what you want, little girl,” I growl at her, shoving my rock-hard dick against her open legs through my pants. “You wanna drive me crazy? You think a good hard fuck is going to set you straight?”