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What embarrassing secret was perfect little Mia hiding?

And why did my insides burn at the prospect of finding out?

J: I won’t laugh… too much. I promise x

As soon as I hit send, my hand scrubbed over my jaw in instant regret.

Shit, shit, shit.

Trying not to stare at the dark screen and focus on my chopping proved harder than I’d expected, especially when in my mind’s eye, all I could see was the little kiss I’d added on a stupid impulse.

If impulse meant I typed it and deleted it over and over.

That I’d meant to send it.

M: I have an embarrassing tattoo…

Panic evaporated.

I chuffed under my breath, imagining regrettable tattoos she might have, each one worse than the other: an ex’s initials, a horrid portrait of someone gone wrong, or maybe some silly variation of live, laugh, love.

The fact she hadn’t snapped or reacted in any way to the little “x” both frustrated me and compelled me to do it again.

J: I’m gonna need details.

What is it? When did you get it? How can I best make fun of it? Send pics for inspiration x

I was shameless and I knew it. Mia would never willingly send me a picture—too intimate—but my pulse galloped anyway.

M: It’s a heart. Cheesy, I know!

I blinked a few times. Then, a slow grin spread across my face. Kinda cute, if I had to admit.

M: No pics. It’s not in a spot I display often…

My thoughts screeched to a halt.

I nearly dropped the phone as a jolt of electricity passed through me from the balls of my feet to my nape.

Christ.

I swallowed, hard, and tried to remember what I was doing.

Right. Chopping.

I tried not to let my mind wander, but it was as obedient as a mule. My eyes squeezed shut as an image flashed behind my eyelids: a rustle of fabric whispering off her, familiar hands tugging it up to expose more skin, hungry eyes searching for it.

Was it on her chest somewhere?

Heat pooled south with alarming speed.

I had to fight to keep my hand steady as I resumed chopping with a hard-on, trying to make casual conversation with the housekeeper who’d peeked her head in to ask if we needed help.

I barely managed to sound coherent.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

The solution barrelled through my mind—call someone, take the edge off—but I had a feeling this had nothing to do with needing to get laid, and everything to do with the smart-mouthed woman making my guts do parkour.