I hang up the phone as soon as she tells me goodnight. The radio is turned down, so I can't hear her close the show, but I know what she is going to say. It's the same thing she says every night. And every single night for the last six months, I've been listening.

To her voice.

Her words.

Just her.

I don't know what possessed me to finally make the call. But once I decided to do it, I just had to go for it. I hadn't anticipated sharing quite as much as I did. I could have confessed something mundane, something as vanilla as her little admission. That was the plan – simply to call and talk to her. But there was something in the tone of her voice, a slight quiver. Someone who didn't listen to her as often probably wouldn't pick up on it.

But I did.

And the moment that I heard her nearly-breathless laugh, blood rushed through my body, making me dizzy, making my cock ache.

I could picture her sitting alone in the dark booth listening to my words. I imagined the same blush that so often covered her cheeks was there again. And maybe this time, it dipped lower, covering her slender neck, spreading across her chest, her breasts…

So I gave it to her.

Just a little.

Just enough to put it out there. Not just into the universe, but to her. I was saying those things to her, deliberately lowering my voice so that if I closed my eyes, I could pretend I was whispering in her ear and not speaking into a phone.

It didn't matter that others were listening.

It mattered that she was.

In truth, I'm not just some random caller. And the woman in my fantasy wasn't some nameless brunette with dark eyes and a willing, wet pussy. I know Isabella Swan. Well, I've met her, watched her, and listened to her show religiously. Not because I have some voyeuristic need to hear the anonymous confessions of her audience, but because from the moment I saw her enter the sound booth six months ago, she's captivated me in a way that no woman ever has.

And she knows me. But the thing is - she knows me as Edward. The man who produces the shock jock show that airs just before hers every night. The unassuming, generally quiet man who never has that much to say. And it's not that I'm shy. I'm usually not at all. But there's something about her that makes me forget how to form words, and without words, I have no way of convincing her that I'm not an idiot who can't communicate in complete sentences.

I've been a radio producer for ten years, and I've seen a lot of talent come and go. So, I wasn't expecting much when I found out the station was adding a call-in show after our time-slot. The concept is an interesting one, fascinating even. Enough that in a world where legitimate radio has been consistently replaced with iPods and Pandora, her show was offered a syndication deal on a satellite network. But syndicated hosts are notoriously difficult. The men are generally pompous assholes and the women bitchy divas.

Isabella Swan is neither.

It's her quiet confidence, the sweet, sincere way she carries herself and interacts, not just with her callers, but with the people she works with, as well. I don't work directly with her, but I see her when we turn over the studio between shows. She's always polished and crisp – black skirts and jackets designed to make women look like men. But on her, there's nothing masculine about the look. Not the way the skirts fit over the swell of her ass, or the way her jackets stretch across full breasts concealed by woven shirts unbuttoned just enough to give you the tiniest hint of cleavage. It doesn't matter what she wears. Everything about her is curved and soft and feminine. She's the smart, sexy librarian, the kitten with a whip.

She's every man's fantasy.

And for the last six months, she's been the center, the star of every single one of mine.