23. Dante
Chapter 23
Dante
Making Reese 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 smoothly along 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.
“But aren’t you uncomfortable?”
I snort. “You mean blue balls?”
She shrinks in on herself. “My ex used to claim it was this huge deal. I’ve read conflicting things online, but most articles by men insist it’s absolutely real. I don’t exactly have a lot of guys I can fact-check with.”
“Your ex was a manipulative ass,” I say bluntly. “And blue balls isn’t a fucking medical problem. There’s an art to anticipation.”
“Oh, is that what I should call my three-year dry spell?” She leans against the bathroom counter, arms crossed. “The art of anticipation?”
“After my Olympic win, I went fucking crazy. Parties, people, pleasures. You name it. Ended up so spiritually bankrupt I signed up for this intense silent retreat. Forty-five days. No talking, no pleasure. No solo adventures.”
Her lips part, and the steam curls around us, making the space feel more intimate. “You went that long without…?” The way her words fade, her cheeks flushing, is unfairly adorable.
“I discovered I like the tease of waiting,” I say quietly, moving closer. I haven’t touched myself in thirty-six days, haven’t sought comfort in anyone else either. There’s something perverse in this calculated restraint, but watching her process the implications makes every second of waiting worthwhile. When I get to share a release with her, as long as she’ll have me, it’ll be earth-shattering. My finger traces the curve of her arm. “Makes everything more…intense. When you finally let go after all the buildup? It’s transcendent. Tantric, even.”
“Tantric?” she squeaks.
“Ancient practice of prolonging pleasure. Building energy. Making every touch…” I let my voice trail off. “Here.” I grab a fresh, fluffy towel from the shelf, setting it on the counter along with a new bar of lavender soap. “Take your time. Think about it.”
She shyly closes the door, and I return to the living room.
In the armory, she’d looked at me with this raw vulnerability, pupils blown wide, lips parted. Like she was seeing something new.
She trusted me. Wanted me. Not the version I show at parties or competitions, but the real thing. When I’d touched her, she’d made these small sounds, arched up against my hand. She’d let me kiss her neck while her skin burned against mine.
Soon Reese joins me in the living room, wrapped in my towel, smelling like my soap. The domesticity of it hits somewhere deep and animal. I want to press her against the wall, but I don’t. Every will in my body hates me for it.
“You know what sticks out most to me about your retreat?” she says, patting her hair dry.
“What?”
“That you didn’t talk for forty-five days.”
I laugh and pass her some clean clothes. She tugs my black Prada T-shirt over her head. It hangs loose off one shoulder, the fabric swallowing her frame. I love seeing her in my clothes.
She moves through my space like she belongs here, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the edge of my desk, pausing to glance at the row of books stacked haphazardly on the shelf. There’s an ease to it—like she’s been here a hundred times before. Like she could be here a hundred more.
“You don’t want to go next?” she asks, pointing at the shower.
“No.” The thought of washing her away makes my chest tight. I want to keep her on me, in me. The taste, the scent, all of it preserved. “I want to savor the moment. Including…” I press my tongue against my teeth, remembering. “Well. Some memories deserve to stay fresh.”
I catalog the water sliding down her neck in clear rivulets, the suggestion of her perfect breasts beneath the cotton, her unconscious humming. She exists in a state of unaware performance.
There’s something different about her. A softness that belies strength. She makes me want to be good, which is precisely why I shouldn’t be allowed near her. But I don’t listen to that voice.
We migrate to the kitchen, the worn wooden floor creaking softly under our steps. It’s old and lived-in—sturdy pine cabinets, a stained farmhouse sink, and an oven that takes twenty minutes to preheat, but it’s perfect for what I need today.
“Now, before we got sidetracked, I had something else planned,” I say, lifting a towel from a silver bowl. Her face brightens with recognition.
“Is this what I think it is?” She peers in, inhaling deeply. The rich scent of vanilla and yeast fills the air between us.
“Authentic Cafe Du Monde beignets. Had the ingredients shipped here specially.”
“Just for me?”
“I don’t see anyone else here.”
She looks around, a playful smile on her face. “I guess not.”
The small cabin kitchen fills with her memories as she works the dough, her movements precise and practiced. “Haven’t made these since Christmas with my grandma.”
A soft dusting of powdered sugar drifts onto the butcher block counter as she dips a finger in the bag, sampling it with a pleased moan.
Her lips are sweet when she kisses me. Her laugh echoes off the walls when I make a mess. And I realize, with startling clarity, that this isn’t just another night, another casual encounter. This is Reese Sinclair. In my clothes, beside me, under my hands, making my kitchen smell like beignets and possibility.
Reese, who doesn’t know the darkest parts of me yet, the parts I’m terrified will send her running.
Reese, who I’ve wanted for so long I can’t remember what it felt like not to want her.
Being with her is different than I imagined.
I’ve had her poster on my wall since I was thirteen—lying in a field of magnolias, hair spread out like liquid gold. I used to trace the curve of her smile with my finger, wondering what it would be like to kiss the lips those magazines always described as peach-perfect. They don’t taste like peaches at all.
They taste like sugar and something darker, which makes my head swim with want.
The reality of her surpasses any imagined versions I’ve dreamt up.
“You’ve got flour everywhere,” she says, brushing it from my nose. Her fingers are cool against my skin.
“Worth it.”
“When did you get so sweet?”
“I’m not sure.” The words come out flat, honest.
I fucking hope this film doesn’t get cancelled now that she’s opened up. It doesn’t matter. I have her number saved. This thing between us has weight now, momentum.
I’m not going to lose that.