I swallow, shifting against the sheets. I press my palms over my eyes. “Nope. Not doing this.”
I roll onto my back, trying to will away the memory, trying to remind myself that Theo is just Theo.
But then I remember the way Theo had leaned back in the hot tub, water droplets trailing down his chest, disappearing into the rippling surface. The way his voice had sounded, low and amused, when he’d caught me staring for half a second too long.
My thighs press together instinctively.
What if we had been alone?
The warm water wrapping around us like a soft caress, while his lips meet mine with a touch that is both gentle and insistent. His hands roam over my skin in slow, deliberate strokes, sparking a deep, burning desire that feels like it is setting me on fire from the inside out. He pulls me onto his lap, and I straddle him, the heat between us almost something you can physically feel.
His kisses trail up and down my neck, leaving a tingling wake, and he whispers in my ear, his voice husky with longing. His thumbs softly teasing my nipples through the fabric of my bathing suit before sliding the straps down to reveal me, and his eager mouth follows. I can’t hold back a cry—a raw, honest sound of need and total surrender. When he asks me what I want, I barely manage to whisper that I need to come.
He slowly eases a finger inside, then another, each movement full of purpose and care. One hand begins to stroke me while his thumb traces rhythmic circles over my clit. The sensations build up like a tidal wave, drawing me ever closerto the edge until I finally explode in a shattering release that leaves me utterly breathless.
I open my eyes and I am back in my bedroom, the reality of the moment settling in. My fingers, still sticky with my own arousal, serve as a clear reminder of that intense, vivid fantasy.
Fantasy… yes.
It is all just fantasy.
20
Austrian Baking Logic
Theo
The coffee house isbuzzing, the warm scent of freshly brewed espresso mingling with the sweetness of pastries. It’s the kind of mid-morning rush that keeps my hands moving without thinking—pulling shots, steaming milk, placing orders on trays with automatic ease.
Then the door slams open.
Ivy storms in like a woman on a mission, her T-shirt slightly askew, flour smudged across her cheek, and something suspiciously brown smeared down the front of her top. It looks…questionable.
At the far end of the counter, Jasper—who’s been lazily scrolling on his phone, sipping a melange like he owns the place (which, technically, he partly does)—snorts so loudly that a few customers glance over.
I look at Ivy, torn between amusement and something much more dangerous, much more instinctive.
She looks cute.
Flustered, messy, lickable.
I shove that last thought somewhere deep and unspeakable as she stomps up to the counter, planting both hands firmly on the surface.
“I have failed,” she announces, chest rising and falling dramatically. “I am a failure.”
I set down the portafilter. “Elaborate.”
Her shoulders sag. “The cake. It’s a disaster. I tried. I really tried. But it turns out baking is some kind of black magic and I was clearly not born with the gift.”
Jasper snorts again, barely trying to hide his amusement. “Tell me you at least set something on fire?”
She scowls at him. “No, but I may have broken a whisk, curdled some butter, and created something that looks—and I cannot stress this enough—exactly like cat vomit.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Ivy—”
She grips the counter tighter, leaning forward. “I need you.”
I suck in sharply.
