Page 44 of Passed Ball

I hate you. I have to send him this and he's going to rethink his decision.

Harlowe:

I doubt that.

Hyping myself up, I set aside my computer and take all the advice offered to me today.

I delete and retype three different greetings before I finally settle on using awkward humor to break the ice.

Vivi:

Hey, teach.

Xavier:

I was wondering when I'd hear

from you. Did you do your homework?

The heat rises in my cheeks and I roll over in my bed, burying my face in a pillow. It doesn't matter that he can't see me, he's got me hot with just a text.

Vivi:

I did.

Xavier:

Send it to me.

Vivi:

[Vivi's Orgasm Wish List Attached]

I press my phone to my chest, heart galloping. It buzzes against my chest, his name flashing on the screen. I answer, breathless, and there he is--leaning against the headboard, his tousled red hair and smoldering blue eyes making my flush deepen. He's shirtless, mostly out of view, but the hint of his toned body is enough to send a thrill through me.

His voice is scratchy, sounding as ready for bed as he looks. "Damn, Vi. You look so pretty it hurts."

I glance down. There's nothing overly sexy about the pajamas I'm wearing--tiny flowers dot the cream set. The ribbed tank top is a thicker, fitted material that gives the girls a little support, but it's not lingerie by any stretch of the imagination. The matching bottoms have slits up the side that keep them from being restrictive. "It's just--these aren't--"

His gaze narrows to a pointed glare, cutting my words off. "Don't brush off my compliments. I'm a single dad to a newborn. Extra energy is in short supply and I'm sure as hell not going to use it to say things I don't mean. So when I tell you that you look like a fucking dream, believe me."

"Thank you," I breathe out, sinking into bed, my head falling back against the pillows.

"I wasn't sure if you'd make the list."

I laugh at the irony of that statement. "The little assignment you gave me has been all I can think about."

"I'd apologize for your suffering, but I'm not sorry." There's heat in his stare when he adds, "Should we open this list together?"

I groan because that might be more than I can handle. "Really?"

"You're not shy about asking for what you want outside the bedroom. Channel that same energy here. I know you can."

"Okay," I say, faking confidence. "Open it."

I wait for a second as he opens the text I sent him.

"Fuck." There's a desperation in his tone that's so unlike him. I've seen him when he's on edge before, but it's always been about his daughter. This is a different kind of urgency, and it tugs at the thread of need between us that's so tight after the last few days. "This list, sweetheart . . ."

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