Hot Boss - Anne Marsh Page 0,40

saw that listed on the schedule as one of the many activities we can sign up for.

Hazel tugs her fingers from mine. I don’t want to let her go. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Only if you want to.” I don’t know how to salsa dance. Anything other than the white-boy shuffle and a bad wedding waltz is outside my bailiwick. “Just temper your expectations.”

“Tell me something you’ve never done before,” she says.

“Are we talking about dirty things? Or dancing things?”

I twirl her in an exaggerated circle just in case she needs a demonstration of my lack of dancing skills.

“I think it involves more—” She gestures at her hips and gives an exaggerated wiggle. “Name three favorite fantasies.”

I’m equal opportunity when it comes to sex. I like it all, sweet or dirty. You need a complete stranger or a whole lot of trust to ask for your favorite dirty fantasy because the truth about fantasies is that they don’t always make sense once you speak them out loud or try them. They’re half-formed, sexy, dirty thoughts that you get off to when you’re alone, but now you’re inviting someone else in and it’s risky. Especially if you’re going to be looking your partner in the eye tomorrow, the next month, the next year. I realize that I’m more than willing to answer her question and that it’s not because I won’t be seeing plenty of Hazel in the future.

“First fantasy is sex in a cabana. We pull the curtains, but there are people walking by on the beach.”

I give a hip thrust my best shot and she snorts.

“You know those nineteenth-century French dresses that scoop a woman’s breasts up like ice cream in a cone? I want you in one. One deep breath and I’d have a handful. That’s my second fantasy. I get turned on by all those secret layers underneath. Add the garter, and I’m a goner.”

“You think we can order up historical dress from room service?”

I try to gauge if she’s serious or merely joking. Her eyes are still closed, which doesn’t help. Nor does the image of dressed-up Hazel that my brain promptly supplies. Could the hotel help me out with this? French maid, probably. Full-on Marie Antoinette dress? Not a chance. The concierges here are very, very good at their jobs, but they’re not miracle workers.

“Number three, I fantasize about you letting me in.” I drop my hand and tap her butt lightly.

About you giving me control.

About you.

“No Christian Grey spanking fantasy?” Hazel’s voice sounds breathy and a little far away. She’s running my fantasy playlist through her head, probably making a few adjustments and improvements because that’s just how Hazel’s wired.

I shrug. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not even as part of a game. Is that making your top three?”

I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s got a secret hard-on for bondage or spanking. I press the palm of my hand against her clit. Yeah. I know exactly what I’ll do. I’ll learn how to be the best dom ever because I don’t want her to ever feel like she can’t tell me something.

“Or we could just salsa dance. Naked salsa dance.” I swirl her in a big, loopy circle around the balcony. It’s safe to say there’s no disco-ball trophy in our future. Even the lizard who’s popped up on top of the balcony wall looks unimpressed with our moves.

Hazel squints out into the darkness at the shadowy shape of the nearby villas. “Is Maple watching?”

Since Maple danced professionally for the San Francisco Ballet, I assume Hazel’s feeling competitive. Fortunately, both Dev and Max suck at dancing.

I point to the lizard. “You’re a private dancer. You never wanted to be a ballerina as a little girl?”

Hazel makes a scoffing sound. “As if. I started a lemonade stand and then franchised it to the neighborhood kids.”

Yeah. That would be Hazel.

“I ran a crew of lawn mowers.”

“And never mowed a lawn yourself.”

My sisters have already pointed this flaw out to me. “I ran the company. I brought in the business. I was the brains.”

Hazel’s grin lights up her face, crinkling up the corners of her eyes. I didn’t bring up my middle-school business empire on purpose, but I like swapping stories with her. It’s true we’ve known each other for years, but there’s still a lot I don’t know about her.

“Dip,” I warn her, bending her backward over my arm.

We bumble around the balcony, arms wrapped around each other. It’s silly, but