[Oliver’s POV]
The ceiling offers no answers. I've been staring at it for two hours now, watching shadows shift as cars pass outside, and still nothing resembling clarity arrives.
The pool encounter replays on an endless loop. Her body against mine in that heated water. The way she moved—involuntary, desperate, immediately ashamed. That tiny shift of her hips against my thigh that she couldn't control. The small sound she made before catching herself.
I've spent a decade perfecting control. Reading women became second nature. Anticipating needs before they articulated them. Never losing myself in the process. It was a craft I refined until it required no emotional investment whatsoever.
Lottie undoes all of it.
When I pulled her into the water, something cracked. When I pressed her against that wall, felt her pulse racing beneath wet skin, I wanted her with an intensity that genuinely frightened me.
Not the practiced desire I've performed countless times before. Something rawer. More dangerous. Something I haven't felt since before I learned to fake it professionally.
Still want her. Hours later. My body refuses to settle into anything resembling calm.
This is dangerous territory. The stepsibling situation is a minefield. Pursuing her risks my father's marriage. Risks whatever fragile peace our families have carefully constructed. Risks exposing everything I've buried about who I was.
I should leave her alone. Walk away completely. Let the tension dissipate into awkward holiday dinners and carefully maintained distance for years to come.
But I cannot stop thinking about her expression. Furious and desperate in equal measure. Her pulse visible in her throat. Her body responding even as her words pushed me away.
The way she looked at me like I was simultaneously the problem and the solution to everything wrong in her life.
The clock reads eleven. Late enough to be inappropriate. Early enough to claim insomnia as excuse.
I pick up my phone before reason intervenes. Her number—obtained from Helen under the pretense of "family coordination"—glows on my screen. My thumb hovers over the call button for three full seconds before I press it.
She answers on the third ring.
"Hello?" Wary. Guarded. The voice of someone who checked caller ID and answered anyway.
"Can't sleep."
A pause. "How did you get my number?"
"Helen. She thought stepsiblings should be able to reach each other in emergencies."
"Is this an emergency?"
"Possibly." I shift against the pillows. "You're awake too."
"Observant." Her voice carries tension. The particular kind that comes from lying in darkness, thinking too hard about things that refuse resolution.
"What are you wearing?"
The question lands in silence. I can almost hear her rolling her eyes through the phone.
"That's a cliché line, Oliver."
"Completely. I still want to know."
Another pause. Longer this time. I picture her in that hotel bed, phone pressed to her ear, deciding whether to hang up or continue this particular form of exquisite torture.
"T-shirt," she says finally. "Grey. Nothing special."
"And beneath that?"
"Why are you calling me?"
"Because I haven't stopped thinking about the pool. About your face when you realized you'd moved against me. The way your body betrayed every word coming out of your mouth."
Her breath catches. Barely audible but unmistakable.
"Oliver—"
"Touch yourself."
The command hangs between us. Direct. Unapologetic. The kind of instruction I've given countless times before—but never while my own pulse raced like this.
"I'm not going to—"
"You are. You've been lying there thinking about it. About me. About what would have happened if I hadn't stopped in that pool." My voice drops lower. "Put your hand beneath that grey t-shirt."
Silence. Then fabric rustling. The sound of surrender disguised as curiosity.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Probably. Is your hand moving?"
"Yes." Barely audible.
"Where?"
"My stomach. Just... resting there."
"Lower. Slowly. Don't rush—you never respond well to rushed."
I hear her breathing change on the line. Shallow. Controlled. Fighting the sensation even as she chases it.
"If I were there," I continue, "I'd start with your neck. That spot where I left my mark at the wine bar. I'd bite down until you gasped exactly like you did then."
A soft sound escapes her. Encouragement enough.
"My mouth would move lower. Across your collarbone. Down to your breasts. I'd take my time there—circles with my tongue until your back arched off the bed."
"Oliver..." My name sounds different in her mouth now. Rougher. Like something she's been holding back for days.
"Are you wet?"
The pause tells me everything. She doesn't need to answer verbally.
"Touch yourself there. Two fingers. Slow circles."
Her breathing fractures audibly. I grip my phone harder, imagining her hand slipping between her thighs, her face flushed, her body finally responding without the interference of her overthinking brain.
"How does it feel?"
"Good." The word comes out strangled. "Too good."
"There's no such thing." I close my eyes, letting her sounds paint vivid pictures. "Faster now. But not too fast—I want you desperate before you finish."
She moans. The sound travels through the phone and settles directly into my bloodstream. My cock strains against my boxers, aching with need I refuse to acknowledge aloud.
"I'd use my mouth on you," I tell her. "Exactly where your fingers are now. Long strokes with my tongue until your thighs shook. Until you begged me not to stop."
"Please—" She catches herself. Embarrassed by the plea that escaped unbidden.
"Please what?"
"Don't stop talking."
I smile in the darkness. "Never planned to. Add another finger. Press harder. Find that spot that makes your hips move."
Her gasp confirms she found it. The sounds she makes now are ragged, uncontrolled. Nothing like the composed woman who spars with me over breakfast and pretends complete indifference.
"I'm close," she whispers. "I'm so close—"
"Then let go. Stop fighting it. Stop thinking about why this is wrong or complicated or impossible." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Just feel."
Silence. Then her breath catches completely. Holds.
She comes apart with a sound that makes me grip my phone hard enough to crack the case. A broken moan that contains my name somewhere in its desperate syllables.
The sound of her release echoes through the line, raw and completely unguarded. Beautiful and devastating in equal measure.
I listen to her breathing slowly return to normal. Ragged exhales becoming steadier. The aftermath of release settling over us both through phone lines and hotel walls.
Part of me wants to say something real. Something about how her sounds affected me more than any encounter I've had in years. How listening to her unravel felt more intimate than anything in my entire professional career.
Instead, I choose safety. The familiar retreat into charm and distance.
"Goodnight, Lottie."
I hang up before I say something I cannot take back.
The ceiling still offers no answers. But at least now I know she'll be lying awake too—thinking about what we just did. What it means. What happens next between us.
Tomorrow will be impossible. Breakfast across from her. Pretending nothing changed while everything has shifted irreversibly between us.
I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at shadows until something resembling sleep finally arrives.