She disappears from view, and the screen goes dark. I thumb the screen of my phone, wondering if we lost connection. “Babe, are you still there?”

Her voice calls out from somewhere off-camera. “Hold on. Be patient.”

My pulse kicks up, anticipation tightening in my chest.

Patient? Not a fucking chance.

A second later, soft, sultry music hums through the speakers. Low. Slow. Hypnotic. I recognize it straight away. “Glory Box” by Portishead. One of her favorites. One of my favorites now as well—because of her.

The screen shifts, and when she steps back into view, my entire body goes tight.

She props her phone up at the perfect angle, giving me a full view. She moves with the music, slow and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world.

Fuck. I love where this is going.

I grab the landline phone off my desk with one hand and hit the call button for Courtney. She picks up on the first ring.

“Hold all my calls. And I’m not to be disturbed for any reason. Not until I say otherwise.”

A pause… because I never make demands like that.

“Of course, Mr. Sebring.”

I hang up and shove out of my chair, crossing the room in only a few strides. The door locks with a loud, satisfying click that feels a hell of a lot like throwing away the last bit of self-control I have.

I sink back into my chair, the phone gripped tight in my palm, every muscle in my body coiled so tight it’s a miracle I’m still breathing.

“Sounds like someone doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You better fucking believe it.”

My American beauty begins with her hair, reaching up to unpin it, letting the chestnut strands tumble down over her shoulders. My grip tightens on the phone, my breath coming slower now, heavier.

She moves to the buttons on her shirt, undoing them one by one—so painfully slow it feels like she’s trying to kill me.

The fabric slips down her shoulders, revealing the delicate lace of her bra and golden glow of her skin, still tanned by the Samoan sun.

My cock twitches, my free hand already moving to rub the hard length through my trousers.

Her hands trail down the front of her body, slow and teasing, fingers flirting with the waistband of her skirt. Eyes locked on the camera—on me—like she knows good and damn well what she’s doing.

A slow, deliberate shimmy sends the skirt whispering down her hips, puddling at her feet. Lace and bare skin are all that’s left.

Fucking stunning. Ethereal. A dream I can’t touch—no matter how badly I want to.

Her fingers skate up her stomach, then higher, cupping her tits as she bites her bottom lip and moves her hips to the rhythm of the music.

I groan, my hand sliding into my pants, wrapping around my thick, aching length.