Miranda didn’t miss the thickening of his cock. “Down, boy. You have to wake up early.”
As he grabbed his boxers from the chair near the bed and pulled them on, his gaze shifted to the alarm clock on the end table. One fifteen. Crap. He had to be up in five and a half hours. And if he showed up exhausted again the way he had a few days ago, Becker would rip his head off. So, a quick smoke and then some sleep. Those were the only two items on the agenda for the rest of the night.
Of course, it would be easier to stick to the schedule if Miranda wasn’t parading around naked in front of him.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” he groaned as she bent over to pick up her discarded shirt.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, oblivious.
“Baby, you’re presenting your ass to me like a mare in heat. For the love of God, put on some clothes before I fuck you again.”
Her resounding laughter only succeeded in making his dick harder. “Next time,” he croaked.
She slipped her T-shirt over her head, the cotton fabric falling down to her knees. “Next time what?”
“Just that there’ll be one,” he reminded her. “Your words, babe.”
She visibly swallowed. “I know what I said.”
Their gazes locked. The air between them heated, crackling with tension.
“So when?” he asked huskily. “When can I have you again?”
Her voice came out a little husky too. “Whenever you want, Seth.”
Hot fucking damn.
He stalked toward her, catching her around the waist with both arms. She gave a rapid intake of breath, then squeaked in delight as he covered her mouth with his and kissed her long and slow.
When he pulled back, he studied her glazed expression, pleased with what he saw, and then he moved his lips close to her ear and said, “I’m holding you to that.”
Chapter Eleven
Addicted. She was addicted to Seth Masterson. And after three days of hot, passionate sex, Miranda was past the point of trying to convince herself this was about combating stress. Granted, the regular orgasms were a fantastic stress-buster, but forgetting the worries of the day was the last thing on her mind when she snuck in Seth’s room at every available moment.
She craved him. Craved his kiss and his touch. His wicked tongue and talented hands. His cock buried deep inside her. The pleasure he evoked in her was unbelievable. Unfathomable. How was it possible to feel that good?
“So you’re okay with the Lil Wayne track?”
Miranda’s head jerked up. “Huh?”
“For the hip-hop number. Lil Wayne. We good with the song selection?” Andre Howard, one of the instructors, watched her with expectant brown eyes.
“As long as it’s the edited radio version,” she answered.
“Of course, sweetie. Do I look like I want a bunch of outraged parents on my back?” Andre slung his gym bag over his shoulder and grinned. “By the way, my girls did good today. They’ll bring down the house on show night.”
They’d better, Miranda thought. The parents of those kids paid a lot of money for these classes, and if she wanted them to enroll their kids for the fall session, she had to give them a good show. Her own group, the girls in beginner ballet, were making progress too, including Sophie, who had a natural talent that made Miranda proud. But she suspected her daughter wouldn’t stick with ballet for much longer. Sophie was too smart for her age, too analytical and she could charm the bees right out of their honey—Miranda wouldn’t be surprised if her daughter became a politician someday.
“Oh, and Elsa’s in your office. She wanted to talk to you about one of her students,” Andre added as they fell into step with each other and headed for the door.
The school housed three large studios, two locker rooms with washrooms and a shower area, and a small office Miranda hardly ever used. Ginny, one of the other instructors, handled enrollment and payment, and Miranda had hired a business manager to deal with anything else that needed to be dealt with. Although she had a good head for business, she didn’t enjoy the business side of running the school. She would much rather focus on the creative aspect of it and let others handle the rest.
Andre, the forever-smiling African American with a flair for the dramatic, was the first teacher she’d hired. He was a recent Juilliard graduate who’d decided he preferred teaching to performing, and he taught mostly hip-hop, including a coed class that was growing in popularity—he already had a waiting list for the next sessions.
As she and Andre entered the hallway, he flashed her that big, dimpled smile of his. “You tending bar tonight, boss?”