Let's try Swimming

I remained frozen on the bed, the words still hanging in the air between us.

“You must do your absolute best to seduce him.”

Emily’s careless advice echoed in the quiet room, bright and catastrophic. My face burned so fiercely I felt light-headed. He had heard. Dominic Blackwood had stood there in the open doorway and heard my best friend tell me to seduce someone while the someone in question was him. The man whose gaze still lingered on my skin like a brand.

Mortification crashed through me in waves. Beneath it, the leftover heat flared hard and low, pooling between my thighs until I had to press them together. My wolf gave a restless, needy roll that left my pulse uneven and my breathing shallow. I wanted the floor to open. I wanted to disappear. I wanted, traitorously, to know what his voice would sound like if he had stepped inside instead of walking away.

He had stayed in the doorway longer than he should have. I felt it: the heavy, certain surge of his wolf answering mine, the deliberate provocation of my unfinished scent wrapping around him. For one dangerous heartbeat it seemed like he might actually step inside, close the door, and end the distance that had been burning between us since the party. Then the impulse vanished. His face settled into the same cold, unreadable calm he wore when ending territory disputes. Mild. Unbothered. As if he had interrupted nothing more interesting than idle morning talk.

“Breakfast is being served downstairs,” he said, voice even and low. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Then he turned and walked away, every step measured, every instinct locked behind fifteen years of ruthless control. Only the faintest shift in the air told me what he allowed himself once he reached the stairs: that I smelled like claim and innocence at the same time, and his own daughter had just handed me a suggestion that made his blood run hot.

Emily stared at the empty hallway for two full seconds. Then she burst into bright, helpless laughter and collapsed sideways onto the bed.

“Oh my god.” She pressed both hands over her mouth, eyes wide with delighted horror. “Did that just happen? Did my father actually walk in on me giving seduction advice?”

My voice came out thin. “Emily-”

“No, wait, this is fine.” She sat up again, still grinning, the rebellious spark already lighting her expression. She reached over and poked my burning cheek. “He’s heard worse from me. I once told him I was thinking about getting something questionable pierced and he only said ‘not on my credit card.’ He’ll survive.” Her voice softened into pure bestie reassurance, though the teasing never fully left. “And look at you. You’re the color of a tomato. Relax. My dad knows you’re too innocent for actual seduction plans. That alone should scare any man off, right? You’re safe. I’m safe. The universe is safe.”

Great. That was supposed to make me feel better.

I let out a weak, mortified sound that was half groan and half broken laugh. “I want to sink through the mattress and never come back.”

“Too late.” Emily hopped off the bed and held out both hands, bouncing a little on her toes. “Breakfast is calling and we are going to face the awkward like the resilient women we are. Or at least like women who need more coffee. Resign to the fate. Move.”

We went downstairs together.

The long dining table waited in quiet morning precision: fresh fruit, eggs, warm bread, the soft clink of silverware already laid out. Dominic sat at the head, newspaper folded neatly beside his plate, expression exactly as controlled as it had been in the doorway. He glanced up when we entered, gave a polite, distant nod, and returned to his coffee as if the last ten minutes had never existed.

It somehow made it worse.

I slid into the chair Emily indicated and kept my eyes on my plate. Every shift of fabric felt too loud. The bond hummed under my skin, low and constant, and sitting only a few seats away from him made the unfinished heat pulse in slow, humiliating waves. I could still feel how flushed my face was. I probably looked ridiculous: overheated, embarrassed, transparent. My fingers tightened around the fork until the metal felt warm.

Emily, of course, recovered at light speed.

She buttered a piece of toast with cheerful force and launched into conversation as though nothing in the world could shame her. “I’ve been thinking. The weather is perfect and I’ve been dying to use the pool before the season turns. We should swim later. Invite a few of the girls and boys from school and make an afternoon of it.”

She took a bite, chewed, then added with the same casual brightness, “Also I need new swimsuits. Mine are tragic. I was already planning to spend an irresponsible amount of money today. new sandals, that jacket I liked last week, definitely sunglasses I don’t need. We should go shopping first. Lily needs options too.”

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. The idea of trying on swimsuits while the memory of Dominic’s eyes still burned across my skin made my stomach twist with fresh heat and dread. I was about to refuse, but Emily stopped me with an outstretched hand. Then she did the unthinkable.

She turned to her father with zero self-preservation and the bright, reckless confidence of a daughter who had never once been successfully intimidated.

“Dad. Help us? You have better taste than both of us combined, and you can tell us if something is actually flattering or just expensive. We need a neutral, brutal opinion on bikinis.”

Silence stretched for half a heartbeat.

Dominic set his cup down with quiet precision. His gaze moved from his daughter to me and stayed there, resting on my still-reddened face with the same unreadable calm he used in pack negotiations. The air between us tightened. I felt the bond pull taut, felt the heat under my skin surge so sharply I had to press my knees together beneath the table. My pulse stuttered. Mortification and something far more dangerous tangled until I could barely remember how to breathe.

Then the corner of his mouth tilted into an almost imperceptible smile.

“I would gladly do so,” he said