27. Reese
Chapter 27
Reese
September 25th
Top Action Director Quits Mid-Filming After Clash with On-Set Diva!
My heart tap-dances at the sight of Dante. He’s at the bottom of the front steps of my LA home, ready to pick me up for our first public outing—Jaxon Elio’s birthday party.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor because he’s even more unfairly gorgeous than he was a week ago. His velvet suit looks like it was plucked off the runway. His dark hair is pushed out of his face.
If I were a stick of butter, I’d melt right here on these steps.
He ascends toward me, extending his hand. His nails are freshly polished, and each finger is adorned with a silver ring.
I internally combust, every neuron in my body dialed up to ten thousand. I don’t just want him; I need him with an aching pleasure.
My fingers interlace with his.
I hear the click click click of cameras. The paparazzi have multiplied like rabbits on fertility drugs, their lenses shoved through my wrought iron gates.
Each flash feels like a spotlight, and I silently rehearse my role. Be bad, be bold, be like Robyn.
My mind races with the potential headlines: Good Girl Gone Robyn Hood Bad. Or maybe just, Good Girl Finally Living Her Life.
“Three-quarter profile,” he whispers against my ear, making it look like sweet nothings. “They love that angle on you.” I’m starting to love him directing me. “Looking sharp,” I say, running my finger down his jacket lapel.
“With you on my arm tonight, had to make sure I earned it,” he drawls, opening the limo door for me. “Sorry, Dad—shotgun’s calling your name,” Dante says to Ramsey, who gives me his patented Are you sure about this? look.
“I’m good, Rams.”
Cars were definitely not designed for women. Nothing kills the illusion of effortless glamour faster than an awkward slide across leather seats, fabric hitching in all the wrong places. Even with his steadying hand, I barely manage to maintain my dignity.
He runs his hand lightly up my arm, appraising the defined muscles with admiration. “The cameras will eat up all this strength. You’ve put in the work, and it shows.”
I shift self-consciously. “It’s not too manly?”
Dante catches my eye with a knowing look. “Where’d you get that nonsense? Strength isn’t gendered.” His words calm me as he helps me adjust my outfit, smoothing out the wrinkles. “You’re going to look flawless for your big entrance.”
“Thank you.” I blush.
“Your home is beautiful, by the way,” he says. ““I’d love to see more of it sometime. Get the full tour?”
“I rarely have people over.” It’s my sanctuary, one I don’t want burdened with memories of people who don’t stick around.
“Keeping your secrets close. I respect that,” he says, hand sliding over my thigh, bunching my pink maxi skirt. “Speaking of secrets…that photo of you in the sundress. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
The back of his hand moves up my neck, and I gasp at the contact.
Ramsey adjusts the rearview mirror, catching Dante’s eye. In one solid motion, Dante slams the partition button, and the barrier slowly blocks Ramsey’s view.
“Finally alone.” He shifts his body toward me. “I’ve missed you,” he confesses. He’s too close. Not nearly close enough. Eight days shouldn’t feel like an eternity.
“I missed you too.”
He grips my thigh with his other hand, his eyes searching mine—not predatory, but questioning.
“May I kiss you?” He cups my jaw in his hand.
“Yes.” I exhale, his mouth sweetly capturing mine, and I forget where I am.
I revel in the kind of silence that only exists when his fingers thread through my hair.I can’t control everything, but it’s powerful to know that Dante will do whatever I ask him to do.
No questions. No judgment.
Who knew dominating men would be such a turn on?
“Fuck, Reese.” My hips press toward him as he pulls me into his kiss, and I nip at his lower lip. “You know I love the pain,” he growls into my mouth, wetness already pooling in my panties. “But so do you.”
The kiss deepens, transforms. No longer gentle, but hungry.
I am neither the good girl nor the rebel.
I am simply myself, longing for Dante Hastings to never take his hands off of me.
I’m more turned on than I thought possible. Maybe he had the right idea about celibacy, because without his touch I’ve become feral.
The party is a vague memory in the recesses of my mind. My eyes flutter, and I yank him closer, aching for him.
That is until I hear, “Ahem,” and a throat clears in front of us. Ramsey. The partition is down, and my bodyguard stares at me like, I can’t believe you . The limo has stopped moving.
“Tried to tell you a few times, Miss Sinclair, but we are here,” he says.
I gulp, cheeks flaring red. Ramsey has never seen me nearly inhale a man, let alone one who’s minutes away from devouring me in return. “Give us a minute, please.”
The partition slides up slowly, Ramsey shooting daggers at Dante.
I clasp my hand over my mouth, suppressing a fit of laughter. “I need to give him a big bonus this year.”
Dante and I slowly, reluctantly peel apart, both of us panting heavily.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you all week,” I admit. “I thought about more than kissing you.” He nestles his head in the crook of my neck and inhales. “Fuck the party,” he whines. “Come back to my hotel.”
The offer is too tempting to pass up, but this is work. I need to focus.
“We have to go,” I remind him.
“You’re right, but I think this is the first party I don’t want to go to.”
“Let me fix you up.” His lips shine with my lipstick, smeared like watercolor across his mouth. He lets me gently swipe away at the color until it fades.
Through the tinted glass, the partygoers pass, women in dresses that seem to defy gravity, all plunging necklines and strategic slits. My outfit feels too much like the old Reese Sinclair in comparison: a boatneck pink shell top, arms exposed, and a matching maxi skirt with a layer of lining beneath a gorgeous see-through lace above it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, reading me like a book.
“I'm second-guessing my outfit. I wish I’d put on something more sexy.”
“I think you look lovely.”
That’s the problem.
I scan my outfit, and it hits me. If I pull the lining out, it’ll look a lot more daring. A set of lace over my exposed, toned legs. I work, pulling away the lace layer and grabbing the lining of my maxi skirt, bunching it between my hand. My attempt to tear it fails miserably. The second attempt manages to pull a slight hole into it.
Dante’s hands cover mine. “Allow me.” With one swift motion, he rips the skirt cleanly across my mid-thigh. The tear echoes through the limo.
“Well, I can’t deny that looks quite seductive,” he says, his eyes darkening as they sweep over my newly exposed legs.
I can already see tomorrow’s headlines: America’s Sweetheart Shows Off Her Robyn Hood Muscles. The thought makes me smile, especially knowing they have no idea what happened in this limo.
“But something’s still missing.” I spot Dante’s rings and remember the conversation we had at Paulie’s jewelry shop.
How something as simple as a few accessories could change people’s perception of you.
“Give me one of your rings,” I say, strategizing. I unclasp my pearl necklace.
“You want to wear a piece of me?”
“I want to wear a piece of your armor.” He extends his hand. A ring glides off his finger, and I thread it onto my necklace.
“Can I?” he asks. I nod.
He clasps my necklace back on, the cool metal of his ring sliding against my throat. His touch lingers longer than necessary, sending a jolt down my spine.
“What do you think?”
“So fucking—” He adjusts my lipstick with his thumb, cleaning up the evidence of our kiss. “Perfect.”
Okay. I can do this.
As if Dante can read the plume of nerves billowing in my head, he asks, “Want to do your breaths before we go out there? Four. Seven. Eight.”
“But they’re waiting.”
“They can wait all night for all I care.”
He’s right. I inhale, and he mimics me, and we make our own little moment feel precious and ours before stepping out of the limo. The usual parade of lights and shouting comes, but when I place my hand in Dante’s and he squeezes once—a quick, private thing—I know I can do this.
I gulp, tilt my chin up, let my lips curve into the kind of smile that will be dissected in tabloids by morning. Dante’s hand slides to my waist, firm and possessive, leading me while Ramsey flanks us.
Let’s make some headlines, bury Felix, and sell my movie.
The Gallery is exactly what it sounds like, a too-cool-for-school art space in an old bank vault where beautiful people come to pretend they’re not desperate for attention. Tonight, it’s been decorated for Jaxon’s birthday, which means the pretense of sophistication has been replaced by straight-up debauchery. Inside the vault’s massive circular door, which is very James Bond, if Bond shopped at Supreme, neon art installations throb in time with a string quartet that’s doing weird things to Taylor Swift songs.
Dante and I step out of the private elevator, and the air seems to hold its breath as we emerge into the champagne-soaked atmosphere. We navigate through a sea of perfect cheekbones and Academy Award winners.
Dante offers me a glass of champagne with a hibiscus flower floating in it, and I take it. The event photographer swarms, and I freeze instinctively, but his hand rests on my lower back, steadying me. I flash my brightest smile for the camera.
“What’s next on your rebellious agenda?”
“Causing trouble, obviously,” I whisper.
“You’re getting dangerously good at this,” Dante hums, his fingers ghosting across my back like he’s teaching me proper form again.
I spot Jaxon weaving through the crowd. His shirt’s already half undone, drinks sloshing in both hands as he staggers toward us. Even drunk, he carries himself with that particular brand of invincibility, the kind that makes me want to roll my eyes and hide in the bathroom simultaneously.
Can’t exactly ghost the birthday boy whose party we’re crashing for our own agenda.
“ Sinclaaaair !” The nickname feels like nails on a chalkboard.
“Happy birthday, Jaxon.” I dodge his attempt at a hug with the grace of someone who’s had plenty of practice. Before he can respond, Dante steps forward, his presence commanding immediate attention.
“Dante Hastings,” he introduces himself, his handshake firm and purposeful. "Olympic fencer and combat coordinator for the film.” His voice carries a quiet authority that makes Jaxon’s previous posturing seem almost childish.
“A new…friend?” Jaxon’s gaze slides over him like he’s sizing up competition, though Dante’s presence fills the room in a way Jaxon’s never could. He turns back to me. “Quite the crew change-up. First a genre jump, now this.”
“I’m taking my new role very seriously,” I counter. A small part of me cringes at how eager I sound, but I can’t help showing off a little. “You should see what an accomplished gold medalist can put you through. Proper swordplay is quite the workout.”
Jaxon’s smile tightens at the corners. “I didn’t realize you were so serious about your new role.”
“She’s mastering it beautifully,” Dante interjects. “Natural talent combined with dedication. It’s rare to find both. Surely you understand.”
Jaxon’s jealousy practically radiates off him. “Rough break about Felix jumping ship. Word is he walked because of you.”
Dante tenses beside me, but I brush my shoulder against his—our own private Morse code. “That’s not why Felix left the project,” I say, using my PR voice. “Creative differences, you know how it goes. As executive producer, I had to do what was best for the story. Bless your heart for keeping up with all the industry gossip, though.”
Jaxon’s chest puffs like a peacock’s. “EP? Since when?”
“Since last week. It’s a little overdue if you ask me.” I straighten my spine. “Thanks for having us, darling. Save the date for Robyn Hood’s premiere in July?”
He grunts. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Dante’s wink is pure mischief. “Nice meeting you, Jason.”
“Jaxon.”
We slip away, and I’m buzzing with the kind of giddy rebellion I haven’t felt since sneaking out of my first Hollywood party at sixteen. Maybe it’s rude to snub him at his own birthday, but after all the PR stunts he dragged me into during Love and Loathing , turnabout feels like fair play.
“How’s that for sending Felix a message?” I grin up at Dante, feeling light as champagne bubbles. “Jaxon’s the biggest gossip in town; this’ll be everywhere by morning.”
“He’s quite…what’s the word I’m looking for? A dick.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it,” I laugh. “I’ve never been so bold with him before.”
“And?”
“It feels like…” I pause, savoring the moment. “Like I’m finally writing my own lines. Oh look, liquid courage!” I snag two shots from a passing tray, the amber liquid glinting in the low light. “Care to join me?”
Dante shakes his head. “Sorry, fighter. New training program means I’m sticking to water tonight.”
“Such discipline,” I tease, but secretly, his restraint makes my pulse quicken. “Well then, more trouble for me.” I raise both shots in a mock toast. “To making headlines!” The liquor burns sweet and dangerous down my throat.
“To the real Reese.” His words carry more weight than he probably realizes.
The second shot blazes down my throat, making the party lights swim and dance. The crowd vibrates around us. Designer clothes and perfect faces, camera flashes popping like stars. There are snippets of whispers and curious stares.
“I never actually dance at these things,” I admit to Dante.
“That’s a shame. We could change that.”
If tonight’s about erasing Felix’s slander and shifting the focus to my evolution, it’s time to give them something to talk about.
“You’re right, come with me,” I say, tugging Dante toward the writhing mass of bodies.
Knowing every eye follows our movement, we slip between the people until we’re safely hidden in plain sight. The music wraps around us, and I let my body sway with the same freeness I felt at Wizard Island.
A group in the corner turns their attention toward us, whispers rising over the clink of their cocktails. Their stares prick against my skin, sharp and uninvited.
I straighten, chin lifted—the practiced stance of someone who’s always been told how to present herself. It makes me seem taller, more confident than I feel. But inside, I shrink with every glance.
Dante sees it instantly. His gaze locks onto mine, and I relax. “Hey,” he says, loud enough for me to hear over the music. “Look at me. Just me. Ignore them.”
“Okay.”
“Like we do in training,” he adds, his expression softening in a way he reserves for only when nobody else is looking. “Focus on your partner.”
Something in me loosens, remembers how to breathe. I relax into the rhythm of us, into the careful space he creates, the one where I don’t have to be anyone but myself.
I’m caught between worlds—powerful under his gaze yet vulnerable under everyone else’s. Half of me wants to shrink away while the other half wants to shine brighter.
“I’m out of my realm here,” I say, letting the confession fall between us like a small, fragile thing.
“Then pretend, Reese,” he says. “Act the part. Act the volition.”
He’s right. I can play a part. I’ve been playing parts my whole life.
So I let my arms go up in the air, moving my body with a new freedom, keeping my eyes on Dante. There’s something holy in the way he looks at me—like I’m both completely seen and completely safe. Every accidental brush of his fingers sends quiet lightning through me, threatening to pull me right into his gravity.
We maintain my PR-approved bubble of space between us, enough to look casual to the people watching. But the space grows smaller with each beat of the music.
He grazes my arm. Totally innocent, except the touch lingers longer than necessary, and I find myself leaning into it, wanting more pressure.
My hip bumps against his. A coincidence, I tell myself, though I know better.
Oh goodness.
It feels so good. To be here with him. So good that I let the room fade away completely until we’re the only two people left in it.
“I feel like I’m getting away with something terrible in the best possible way,” I blurt out, immediately wanting to slap my own forehead.
“You danced at a party. Revolutionary.” His mouth quirks up at one corner, but his eyes stay soft. “But it looks good on you, being yourself.”
A camera flash ignites his profile, and I notice—again—what I always do. The curve where his jaw meets his neck, the mess of dark curls, untamed from dancing. He moves through spaces like this with effortless confidence, never imposing, always aware.
His shirt clings to his shoulders, hinting at the quiet strength beneath. He smells like damp wood and something unmistakably him. It’s a scent I’ve searched for in rooms he’s already left.
The memory of his lips on mine in the limo crashes back—how gentle he was at first, until he wasn’t. My skin burns hotter than studio lights. Every shift of his body, every twitch of his hands against my waist, pulses with restraint. And I want to be the one to break it.
The crowd surges, pressing us together. His body is solid and too familiar. My fingers brush damp cotton, catching on the heat beneath.
“Careful, Reese,” he says. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might forget we’re supposed to be keeping our distance.”
I should step back. Instead, my gaze catches on the hollow of his throat, the constellation of beauty marks beneath his jaw—ones nobody else gets close enough to see. Sweat glistens there, and something dangerous unfurls inside me.
I imagine tracing that line.
He spins me, his hand a whisper at the small of my back and pulls me back in with just enough force to steal my breath. It’s the same precision he wields in the training room—measured, intentional, but with something wilder simmering underneath.
I want to drown in him.
It terrifies me how much I want him when I’ve spent years training myself not to want anything off-script. I calculate the distance between us, not to maintain it but to erase it.
His grip tightens on my hips, lingering a beat too long. And I smile—real and reckless—as another flash goes off to our left.
“Think we’ve given them enough?” My eyes hold his, asking a different question entirely.
“What, are you bored of me already?” he asks.
“Of you, never. But maybe, if we got what we needed, we could go…somewhere else. Somewhere private.” The boldness in my suggestion surprises me but I keep playing the part.
Dante leads the way as I trail behind him. He moves with the same fluid grace he shows in everything—effortless but purposeful, creating a path where there seems to be none. We reach a secluded corner in the VIP section, hidden from view. I press against the wall.
“All I did was brag a little and have a shot in public. But why does it feel so good?” I say.
“Technically, you shared your achievements, and you should be fucking proud of them,” he teases, and I swat at his muscled chest. “And if feels good because you’re showing everyone Reese Sinclair can cut loose.”
He moves closer, measuring the space between us—not touching but radiating heat. His arm plants beside my head. I catalog everything about him: the callus on his thumb from years of fencing, those absurdly long eyelashes, and the way he holds something back, like he’s saving himself.
“The cameras won’t see us here,” I acknowledge. Even in the dim light, his eyes hold a comfort I’ve never found anywhere else. The careful restraint in them makes me want to tip forward into the space between us, to see what happens when his control breaks.
“That means we’re just Reese and Dante now,” he says, and something in me shatters quietly.
I don’t wait to kiss him. I’ve waited too long already.
I don’t overthink it—everything else in my life has been overthought.
The kiss starts as a question before it turns into a statement, a paragraph, a full essay. His jaw rakes against my skin as I press closer, clutching his velvet suit jacket like it’s tethering me to reality. When he deepens the kiss, a small, embarrassing sound escapes me—half surprise, half relief, like scratching an itch I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
His hands move with the precision he brings to everything, mapping my body like territory he intends to claim. And in that moment, I realize I’ve never felt more myself than I do when I’m with him.
“Dante,” I whisper, his name catching in my throat as my body ignites.
“Yeah?” He makes a half-hearted attempt to create distance between us, though his palms still press gently into my waist.
“We want them to speculate, not confirm,” I remind him quietly, trying to summon responsibility. But my fingertips betray me, already tracing the hard lines of his chest beneath velvet.
“Right,” he says, scanning the room with practiced discretion, but my eyes have already found our salvation—the VIP bathroom door standing ajar, an invitation I know I should decline.
The old Reese would never consider pulling a man into a bathroom at a party. The old Reese calculated outcomes, measured risks, avoided headlines.
But something changed in that boardroom.
Something in me woke up.
The door clicks shut behind us with a finality that sends a tantalizing shiver down my spine. Dante lifts me onto the cool marble vanity with an effortlessness that makes my stomach flip.
Am I really doing this?
A knock at the door startles me, but Dante smirks against my neck, finding that spot below my ear that makes me forget how to breathe. The forbidden nature of it all—the risk, the secrecy—only intensifies everything, reminding me of the armory when nobody was watching.
“Excuse me?” a voice says from outside. The handle jiggles. “Is someone in there?”
“Last chance to be sensible,” Dante says softly. His hands continue their careful exploration, gentle but insistent. I’ve never known that safety could feel like freedom, like falling.
“Sensible is overrated,” I whisper, drawing him into me as my thighs encircle his hips. Something primal awakens beneath my skin, a version of myself I’ve kept caged until now. The risk of discovery sends lightning through my veins.
I unravel against him, my consciousness narrowing to each point where his fingertips claim me.
“Then I’m going to make you forget there’s a world outside this door,” he promises, teeth grazing my throat, tugging at his ring around my pearls.
His lips brush my pulse point as his hands slide higher. His warmth moves through me like a current, and I surrender completely.
“You make me feel so good,” I gasp, my palm sliding over the impressive length straining against his slacks. My boldness surprises me, but there’s a raw, thrilling freedom in it.
“It’s so natural with you.”
More knocks come, but I shut them out. My blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything but the sensation of his skin against mine. I’m burning up, fever-hot, each point of contact between us sending tiny earthquakes through my body.
“I want to be selfish again,” I say. My hands tangle in his hair, directing his mouth down my body.
“Fuck, that makes me so hard, Reese.”
He parts my thighs with deliberate slowness, pushing up my skirt.
“Please do what you did to me last time,” I beg. A blush spreads across my chest, up my neck, painting me in shades of want.
I buck toward him as he yanks down my panties, my behind pressed against the counter. The cool marble sends a shock through me, contrasting with the heat of his touch. I’m caught between embarrassment and desire, the thrill of doing something so forbidden making me dizzy.
He cups my breasts, squeezing my hardened nipples, then he’s trailing up my throat. He spins the pearl necklace around his pointer finger before bringing his polished index finger to my lips.
“Spit.”
“What?” My eyes widen.
“You heard me.”
I do as he says, dampening his fingers.
“Look at you,” he says. “Always so perfectly put together. Now I get to make it all come undone.”
His hand disappears beneath my ripped skirt, and I gasp as two of his fingers find my sensitive spot. My back arches involuntarily against the faucet. “Oh my god,” I breathe as he circles my clit. The tension in my body is already begging to be set free, like I’m simultaneously expanding and contracting, my whole world reduced to his touch.
“You’re…” He pauses, watching my reaction. “There’s nothing like you. Nothing comes close.”
I barely recognize the sounds coming from my own throat. My usual overthinking dissolves into pure sensation. “Dante, I—” But I can’t finish, can’t find words for this feeling.
I’m too lost in my pleasure.
Too lost at how he knows my body like the back of his hand.
“That’s it, stay with me,” he instructs. “Just like that.” His authoritative tone commands my full surrender, and I trust him to guide me through this.
Euphoria consumes me. I’m so close.
“I’m gonna—”
“Yes, you are,” he demands. “Come all over my fingers. Come for me, Reese.”
His touch is everywhere at once, featherlight kisses trailing fire down my neck while his fingers work their magic.
The pressure builds exquisitely, intensifying until it breaks over me in waves. Everything else disappears—the persistent knocking, the party beyond the door, my carefully constructed public persona—leaving only this brilliant pleasure.
My head falls back against the mirror as he finds that perfect spot, and I have to bite my lip to keep from announcing to the whole party how amazing this feels. The orgasm crashes over me with stunning intensity.
His movements soften as I come down, and he places more tender kisses along my neck, each one sending tiny aftershocks through my still-trembling body.
The banging on the door seems distant now, comical in its irrelevance.
I rest my forehead against his shoulder, inhaling him in as my heartbeat gradually slows. “Wow…” I lift my gaze to his and find something unexpectedly tender there. “I may become addicted to how good you are at that.”
“Please do.”