He could hear her breathing before she even spoke — soft, uneven, ragged.
He inhaled, steadying himself. "Ivy," he answered, "to what do I owe this… pleasure?"
She probably wanted to cuss him out some more. But what he heard was silence.
He frowned, straightening from the headboard. "Ivy?" he said. There was breathing — soft, uneven, trembling. His first instinct was to go to her room immediately, because for all his shamelessness, fear for her safety always came first.
He was just about to stand when he heard a little moan.
Did she butt dial him?
But then he listened closely.
And everything inside him stopped.
Was she… was… what the fuck?
It was unmistakably pleasure — drawn-out, breathy, laced with frustration and want.
His own body reacted instantly, violently, his cock shooting up as if it had been waiting for her voice all along. Heat punched through him.
"Fuck," he whispered, pressing his palm against his thigh.
And then came the moan that broke the camel's back.
