Getting Hotter

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 f**king 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 c**k 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?”

“Unfortunately.” She let out a weary sigh. “Weekends are supposed to be lovely and relaxing, aren’t they? So why are mine always jam-packed with activity? By Sunday night, I’m ready to collapse.”

In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d make it through tonight’s shift without falling asleep in the middle of pouring a drink. She’d gone to bed at five in the morning, after Seth cajoled her into a quickie when she got home from the club. The resulting orgasm had been delicious—but getting only four hours of sleep, not so delicious. To compound the exhaustion, she’d spent the entire morning and afternoon at the school, teaching three back-to-back classes.

And her day wasn’t even close to being over. She still had to take the kids out for their Saturday pizza dinner, drive home, get them bathed and in their PJ’s before Kim got there, go to the club, and then tend bar until two in the morning.

Someone kill her. Now.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Andre remarked. “I swear, you’re Superwoman.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early. I’ll be the one asleep at the barre.”

Andre laughed. “See you tomorrow, Superwoman.”

They parted ways, Andre heading for the front door, Miranda continuing down the hall toward the back office where Elsa Fisher was waiting.

Elsa was in her midforties, a ballerina who’d immigrated to the States after touring the world with a renowned German dance corps. She taught advanced ballet and contemporary dance to the older students, while Miranda worked with the younger ones. Ginny and Andre, who rounded out the teaching staff, worked with all ages.

“Hey, Elsa, what’s up?” she asked as she entered the office.

Elsa rose from the desk chair, a frown pinching her thin lips. “The father was here again. He wants to discuss Catherine’s future at the school, but he refuses to talk to anyone but you.”

Miranda shook her head in annoyance. “But Catherine is your student. I already explained to him on the phone that you’re the one to talk to in regards to growth and development.”