Bend

Dedicated to the incredible women of Torreville. You guys make each and every day a joy, bringing me support and laughter. You are the community of women I have never had, and I appreciate you immensely.

Here’s to your wicked and open minds, I love you all.

Chapter 1

I don’t belong here—not in a loud casino, smoke curling up the walls, disappearing into discreet vents. Flip flops sharing space with sequins and diamonds. The crowd a mix of sandy tourists and high rollers, eighteen year old spring breakers polka-dotting the mix with their wide eyes and slurred steps, the available alcohol hitting their virgin systems hard. We’re at a craps table, a game that none of us understand, yet the Asians to our right are grinning and gesturing like we are hitting the mother load, so we blow on dice and move markers and our chip stack continues to grow.

Chelsea. She’s the reason we are all here. Six of us split between three rooms, the four hundred dollar nightly rate generously taken care of by Mr. McCrory, Chelsea’s father and the king of the Atlanta carwash market. Chelsea’s big day is two weeks away, so here we are, in Nassau, bachelorette-partying our country asses off.

I don’t belong here. I belong on my front porch, sunning my toes on the railing of the porch, a sweet tea next to me, a magazine on my lap, Sugarland on the radio. That’s what I’d spend a weekend off doing. Not here, in this loud place, with Tammy’s hand digging into my shoulders, her fresh manicure biting imprints into my sunburned skin. There is a bump of bodies behind me, and the curve of the table cuts into my still-gorged-on-seafood stomach. Ouch. I gaze longingly at the stool holding up the cigarette-smoking female to my right. My feet are on fire, four hours in a-size-too-small-but-they-were-on-sale heels taking their toll in the most painful way possible.

I gather my chips and turn to Megan Gallt, the bit of a girl to my left, her platinum curls bouncing excitedly at some aspect of this gamble that we don’t understand. “I’m gonna head upstairs,” I yell, my mouth as close to her ear as I can manage without swallowing her chandelier earrings.

“What?” She glances down at her wrist, the fake Rolex we all—with the exception of Chelsea—had gobbled up from the first roadside stand the taxi driver had stopped at. It glitters impressively at me, and I fight a glimpse downward to see if my own looks as good. “It’s only ten.”

“My feet are killing me.”

She looks down. “You got a long way to walk to the room.”

She isn’t kidding. My brain groans at the trek before me. Through the casino, through the shops, down a flight of stairs, through a second lobby, up twelve floors via elevator, and then down a thousand feet of hallway. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving while my soles still have a little bit of life left in them.”

She leans in, lowering her voice slightly. “Chelsea will be pissed.”

I shrug, craning my neck ’til I see the future bride’s over-highlighted head. I lean in, give Megan a quick peck on the cheek, then hobble over to Chelsea. “I’m heading up to the room,” I yell.

She waves her hand dismissively, her eyes glued to the table, the movement of our Asian coaching staff leaping in the air dominating her attention, her own voice whooping at an ear-splitting crescendo.

Great. I move before my words register and her attention moves to me, weaving through crowds of people as fast as my raw feet will take me, opening my purse and dumping my handful of chips into it.

Past blackjack. I can do this. It’s not really that bad if I don’t pause long enough for my feet to bitch.

Past poker. Damn, there are a lot of tables. I keep my eyes focused forward, like I do when I feel like I will faint. Step, hobble. Step, hobble. I can do this. Damn, I hope I’m going the right way.

Past blackjack. Shit. Are these the same tables I passed before? Or different ones? Maybe the others were in a high-roller portion of the casino. These must be different. They have to be different. I look for a sign, an arrow, a member of the casino staff. The blister on the back of my right heel is now competing with my left pinky toe, which I’d be willing to bet is bleeding.

Past slots. Okay, I think this is right. I am jostled out of place by an overweight white woman who shoots me a dirty look. Almost turn my ankle and bust my ass. Great. Just what I need. An injury to accompany my pansy-ass feet.

There is an exit before me, and I crane to see over the heads blocking my view. Please lead out of the casino. Please lead into the lobby by the shops, please … Oh, thank God. I almost cry with relief when the crowd parts, and I enter the smoke-free arena that is the rest of the hotel. Bathrooms to my left, a seating area on my right. I walk like my ninety year old grandma and collapse into the closest chair, working off my heels with trembling fingers, and moan when the heavy stilettos drop to the tiled floor. Sweet Jesus. I flex my feet and lean back in the chair. Close my eyes and cover my face for a moment, rubbing gentle patterns into my hairline as I try to massage the headache that has spent the last two hours building. Aspirin. I’ll get to the room, take aspirin, and draw a bath. Soak my feet and create enough bubbles to make Mr. Clean jealous. The prospect brings a smile to my face, and I let my hands drop. Take a moment to breathe, to relax.

It’s quieter out here. Away from the madness of the casino.

I can’t believe it’s only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loud, seeing as I’m the only FA our small town chain has. FA. That’s fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lies right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days are spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’m-not-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that can’t wait ’til Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self will crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM.

I pick up my right foot and examine the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that are uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trash can at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes take up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominate the rest of that said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they help to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rock ninety percent of the year. Maybe I can’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I see a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they look comfortable. They certainly don’t have the engine red feet that are currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly push on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I can almost hear liquid squishing in it.

Fuzzy white. It is thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focus on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’ve never heard of embroidered along the top. I look from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, golden hair light over a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I have previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.

He smiles, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I work my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.

“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.

I swallow. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?

A surprised look crosses his face. “You’re Southern. From … Alabama?”

“Georgia.” I wince. I can’t hide the drawl; it drags through that one word with such ownership, as if the Southern notes are fused through every syllable.

He nods slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moves, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”

I should stand. It’s the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I don’t. I don’t think my feet can handle it. I just reach out, shake his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and meet his eyes. “Riley.”

Bemused. I don’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shiver at the thought and pull my eyes from his. Take the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”

“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”

“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”

If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”

Having no intelligent response, I pretend to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they are on. “Where did you get these?”

He tilts his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”

I laugh. “No, I’m good.”

“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down … How far do you have to go?”

“My room.” I wave a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”

He frowns. “A bit of a hike.”

“It was.” I wiggle my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gesture to the seat next to me. Pull open my purse and dig through the chips there, seeing him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collect all of the green chips I can find. Six total. Sixty bucks worth. I close my purse and hold out the handful, watching Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urge.

He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.

“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I don’t want your charity. Please.”

“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.

“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”

I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”

“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”

I sigh. A big dramatic one—one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”

His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”

“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.

I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.

“Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”

“I’ll be fine,” I grin. “Promise.”

He tugs gently, and we move, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I release his arm and grip his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.

Feet, don’t fail me now.

Chapter 2

“Are you here alone?”

I glance over, our hands separating eight paces back, when the awkward contact had become forced. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”

I may be mistaken, but I feel as if he stumbles slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”

The three martinis at dinner make that question much more humorous than it should be, and I giggle. “Me? No.”

“A boyfriend?” We reach the lobby, and he reaches out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I make the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.

I shake my head. “No.” I look over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”

He chews on his bottom lip as he meets my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’ve seen on his face. And damn, it is a hot look. He should rock indecision more. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”

I look away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackle him to the ground and have my Southern way with him. We reach the elevators and stop, his finger pressing the button.

Silence. Awkward silence. I shift in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I’m thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m not a fifteen year old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”

He grins, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors open. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”

I press the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He takes my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raise my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”

Our conversation is interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men step on. Not really men. What appear to be twenty year old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I see Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.

“What floor?” I ask the question when the doors close and their attention hasn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.

Mistake. Their eyes move as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbles, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurs, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who casts a quick look in Brett’s direction.

“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprises me, and I look up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I want to reassure him, not that we are close enough that I would assume his protection. But it seems, from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone, that he is ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys is not looking for.

The doors slide open, and I squeeze through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors once again close. We stand in the empty landing.

“Are you okay?” His eyes are dark, face tight. I glance down and see his fists clenched.

I laugh, press a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”

He grips my forearms, walks me three steps backward, until I am against the wall, and he is close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”

Then he closes the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so tightly there is almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reach my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound comes from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he catches it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turns into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I am on my toes, and the weight of him is pressing me against the wall. In a moment of pause, our mouths taking a readjusting period, I speak, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I know is that I want him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I place a hand on his chest, and he immediately drags his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he takes his own ragged breath of air.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to … restraint.” His hands suddenly release their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sink to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing … wanting … more. He’s not used to restraint? I’m not used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’s been years since I’ve had a cock in my mouth, years since I’ve felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I need to step away from this man. I need to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that eat my soul, his hands that burn like possessive fire across my skin. I can’t control myself in his presence, won’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wider than the Panama Canal.

He takes another step back, rubs his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

I’m not. I blush. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I push off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I want him so badly. What am I doing? My new slippers move me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappear inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stop in front of my room, take a steadying breath, and turn to him. “This is it. Thank you.”

His right hand is outstretched, fist closed. I stare at it in confusion before I realize what he’s doing. I give him an exasperated smile and hold my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”

He chews on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stares at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence draws out, thickness in the air between us. God, I want to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fight the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.

He finally speaks, breaking our eye contact as he looks away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”

I feel ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I am a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He doesn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his six-foot proximity from my body. I shoulder my purse open and dump the chips, fishing out my room key. I look down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”

“Nah.” He leans one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushes off the wall, holds out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”

“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shake his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I am imagining it, and am in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we are one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.

I insert the key, push down the handle, and step in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicks, and I stare at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobs in despair. Okay, this is fine. I made it safely to the room, am now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I am in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumps around and tries to find the place of reason where my decision is a good one. Surely this is the right move. I have retained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s panty-dropping looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I don’t know him, he is a stranger. This is not Macon, Georgia. I do not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I can’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably won’t. I rise to my tiptoes and look through the peephole.

He’s still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He runs a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. I look as far as I can, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I want to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he is striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I don’t. I drop my heels by the door, kick off the slippers, and take four steps, falling into the closest bed.

Chapter 3

I wake up thinking of Brett. The possessive grip of his fingers, the need in his mouth, the press of his body against me, the heat between our touch. The way my body had cried out and his had responded.

Circumstance brings me back to Earth, reminding me, with the cruel pairing of sunlight rays, that he left. Had the opportunity to escort me in, get my contact number or, at the least, rock my world with one more kiss. But instead he ran. Or rather, briskly walked. With a gentleman’s goodbye and nothing more.

Shower. Pathetic water pressure that alternates between hot and lukewarm. Squeezing out a mini bottle of shampoo with a British crest, yet made in Illinois. I dry off hard enough to realize that my back is sunburnt, the itch and scratch of the towel rough against my tender skin. Wrapping the white terrycloth around my body, I walk to the closet. Stare at my open suitcase, then at the clothes hanging. Nothing looks good enough.

I thought I was too old to feel like this. This adolescent, breathless high. Nervous anticipation at the idea that I might walk downstairs and bump into his gaze. The tingling feeling that I may have met my soul mate, kissed his mouth, gazed up into his face and felt his smile touch my skin. Am I one of hundreds? Just another girl, just a brief experience that he will think nothing of? Did I imagine the spark, the connection? My leg is jiggling. Jumping up and down underneath the desk as I apply mascara with a hand that is too shaky, considering my system is drug free. The resort is huge. We leave in twenty-eight hours. I may never see him again. I should have gotten his number.

“Shut the curtains, bitch.”

I ignore the words, examine my blue sundress, and wonder if the deodorant marks skipping along the front will rub out.

“Seriously. What time is it?”

“Nine-twenty.” I toss the dress down, give up on looking put-together, and grab a pair of shorts and a tank top. That’s about as high class fashion as my town gets. It will have to be good enough.

“Fuuuccccckk …” The word is muffled under ten pounds of hangover and one mascara-smeared pillow, but it’s there. I have about five minutes before Tammy not-a-morning-person McGowan rolls her ass outta bed, and I don’t plan to be in striking distance when that happens.

“Coffee is brewed. We’re supposed to be at the spa at ten. I’m gonna run downstairs and grab breakfast.”

A grunt. Muffled curses. A word that I think is curtains. I grab my purse and room key, open the door, and escape.

This hotel’s prices would make a nun curse like Tammy. I order a bottled water, apple, and blueberry muffin from the coffee stand off the lobby and still rack up a thirteen-dollar bill, fifteen percent gratuity graciously added automatically. And for that additional two bucks I don’t even get a smile. I scribble my last name and room number, sign the line, and escape with my tray of food, pressing open the door and stepping onto the balcony, grabbing a table by the railing and settling in.

Wedge sandals kicked off, my chipped pink toes curl against the stone railing, brilliant blue water sparkling at me from behind one hundred acres of palm trees and resort pools. A pigeon missing the toes on his right foot lands on the railing three feet to my right and tilts his head at my toes as if he might give them a taste. I toss him a piece of muffin, then kick out my foot, leaning back my head once I am convinced that my piggies are safe.

Peel sticker from the apple. Crunch. Chew. Swallow. The sun is warm, even this early. And no humidity. God, I wish Georgia was like this. Heat without the moisture bath that makes sweat bead on my upper lip. Here, I could bake for hours. High enough up for a breeze, the sun warming me with a gentle embrace, I take a swig of water and then screw the lid back on. Loosen the muscles in my neck, slide down a little in my chair, and close my eyes. Good old alone time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then I will need to get my ass over to the spa for three hours of feminine chatter. Go Team McCrory.

A breeze blows from behind, ruffling the light hair on my forearm. Men’s voices. Talking too loud, the scrape of metal against pavers as they settle into the chairs behind me. The click of a lighter as one of them ruins a perfectly healthy set of lungs.

I keep my eyes closed, taking a bite of muffin as my mind wanders, my eavesdropping gene lifting its head when a voice starts that sounds familiar. I start to sit up but stop, not sure if now, makeup free with a face full of muffin crumbles, is how I want to reintroduce myself. I stay in place, slouching a little further, more sure with each additional word, that one of the men is Brett. A smile plays on the corner of my mouth.

“What happened with that girl from last night?”

“The blonde?”

“Yeah. Looked like you were headed up to her room.”

A pause. Soft cough. I almost fall off my chair in an attempt to hear his next words.

“Nothing happened. She’s here with a bachelorette party, and isn’t the type I’m looking for.”

I don’t pay attention to the other man’s response, my toes curling against the railing, body tightening in hurt and anger. Not his type. Maybe that was why he walked away so easily. And here I am, thinking my kiss had affected him as deeply as it had me. I dig my nails into my thighs, watching a curl of forgotten smoke float past, hearing the screech of chair legs as the men behind me move along.

Fuck him. I don’t need a one-night stand anyway. My dusty vagina is perfectly happy with the extensive network of cobwebs it’s spent years creating. Somewhere, in the empty recesses of my mind, my subconscious tears to pieces the ‘I love Brett’ picture and moves on to more official business.

Chapter 4

Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hung over selves will be strapped in and flying back to ATL. I hang an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaning my head back, weight on their shoulders, and bellow the chorus of Sweet Home Alabama, the club singing along, my mouth breaking into a grin too big too contain, the familiar tune never failing to raise my spirits. Never mind that, between the six of us, we’ve set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It is the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we own every syllable of the damn thing.

The last chorus rings out, and I release the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass begins, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.

I slow my hips, glance at our table, seeing Beth and Tammy there, the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I am pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tries to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yank at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and move to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon lit exit sign. Air. I need air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with the fact that none of the men in this club will be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seem worthy of a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too … not who I am looking for.

I bang through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I take two steps to the right and lean against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wish I still smoke. I remember the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I don’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet are enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to I-Can’t-Even-Remember-His-Name-Ville.

I sense the presence before I see it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffen, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it is with my gaze. Then he speaks, and I relax, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lie I’ve told myself is exposed. I need him. My body needs him. Wants more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8^th floor. I had made a mistake. I don’t intend to make another.

“Come here.”

He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping, pulling me tighter. I love it.

“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping, taking it in his mind as his own.

“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.

The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing. His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as he sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.

Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.

Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most. My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head. Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.

Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.

He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there, the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, and I just about lift off the ground in my need for more.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp.

“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands. I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”

He lifts his mouth off of my neck, returning to my mouth, his kisses softening as his fingers take their time, probing, fluttering over my clit, sliding a firm index down the line of my sex, making their way to my ass for a hard press, before returning and starting the insanity again. I am shaking, wanting, dying for another touch of his skin, wanting the silk tease of my panties gone, wanting the raw feel of skin on skin. Even with that need, I am not prepared when it happens, my mouth freezing against his kiss, brain function gone, motor skills impaired, every intelligent thought I ever had fleeing my body as his thumb presses against my clit and two of his fingers push inside my body.

Holy Jesus Hell.

He groans, his forehead on my own, pushing my head back against the wall. “Fuck, I wish you were open before me on a bed right now so I could see this.” The words tear from him, and the blurred vision of my senses sees the couple glance our way, a whispered discussion beginning, then ending; the club door opens.

“If we were on a bed right now, your cock would be out.” It is a difficult sentence to formulate, my hips thrusting, trying to help the push and withdrawal of his fingers, my eyes closing despite my best attempts to keep them open.

“Is that so?”

I can hear his need despite the cocky drawl of his question. I have my leg wrapped around him, can feel a tremor in his legs, can feel the stiff ridge of his cock that is anything but unaffected.

“I’m—” The word ‘close’ never makes it off my lips. It can’t, never has a chance at life, my orgasm eating it for dessert with a ravenous need that takes hold of everything else in its path. I tighten around his fingers, my body shuddering as delirium moves in needy waves, radiating from the center of my universe, which lies in the slick breath between his fingers and my everything. I don’t catch the first of his words; they disappear in my full body experience. But then later, I hear them as I fall back down to Earth, the vowels stretching out my grip on insanity, taking me to an additional plane I have never reached before.

“… beautiful creature. You feel so perfect. So open, so willing. I want to take every piece of you with my cock. Open up your world, and make you mine. Taste you on my mouth. Feel this sensation against the bare skin of my cock. God, I want you so badly. Have thought about you all day.”

His mouth stops moving, stops talking, crushes back on mine, communicating the most with its desperation, his fingers thrusting and then slowly halting their movement, and just staying in place, buried inside, my sex fuller than it has been in a long time. I drop my hand off his shoulders, let the one that has been digging lines of need into his back fall as a wave of sexual contentment moves in.

His mouth slows, and he slides my leg down, tugs my dress back down, keeping our kiss uninterrupted, his hands moving to cup both sides of my face as his legs straddle mine, my push against the wall less intense as our interaction changes to something less dirty. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against my own as he lets out a long breath that is half groan in its makeup. “God, Riley.”

He sounds so pained, so remorseful, that I almost check for a wedding ring, almost push against his chest to look into his eyes. But I don’t. I don’t do anything but enjoy the scent of his cologne, the view out of the bottom of my lashes, one of expensive fabric and a peek of tan skin.

“I don’t know what to do with you.” He finishes the statement with a brush over my lips, his hands lifting my face until it is turned up to him, our eyes meeting for the first moment since I lost all sense.

Damn, I could look in this man’s eyes all day. Could get lost in them, move for them, lie, steal, die for them. I stare in his eyes and fully accept that I am a woman. Vulnerable, emotional, delicate, easily overcome. I don’t know this man. Have shared less than a hundred sentences with him. Have just given him a piece of my virtue in the form of a finger fuck on a dirty Bahamian street in the dead of night.

I stare in his eyes and say nothing. Memorize the dark depths of them. The thick fringe of lashes that I’d accuse of being mascara enhanced had he not radiated masculinity from every pore on his body.

“I don’t need to ask if you do this often. Your body betrays you of the impossibility of that fact.” He speaks tightly, his hands keeping my face up, my eyes arrested by him, not that I have any plans of looking away in this lifetime. “I don’t. I can’t. This … is not normal.” His eyes drop to my lips and he bends, takes a long draw of my mouth, as if it is the last time we will ever kiss. He groans, and my shoulders are suddenly pushed back against stucco. “Fuck,” he swears. “God, I need you underneath me.” He releases me, steps away, rubs his mouth as he turns, half in the light, the shadows protecting me from the meat of his stare.

“So take me.” The voice coming out of my chest is not my own. It is of a confident woman who admits what she wants, takes what she needs.

He drops his hand, stares at me. “You don’t mean that. You’d regret it in the morning. And I don’t do one-night stands.”

“Meaning?” I stay against the wall. He can come to me if he wants something. I don’t know if, at this point in time, my legs have the capacity to move anyway.

He does come. Is in front of me in three strides, his hands on either side of my head, flat against the wall, his eyes intense, inches from mine. I smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. I notice the angle of his body, his hips too far away when all I want is them pressed against me. Is he still hard? ’Cause I am still wet. Desperately so. “Meaning,” he growls, “that if I have you, you will be mine. You will not return to life as you know it. You will not flirt with men around the water cooler at work. You will bend for me, spread for me, allow me to have every inch of your surface, all while screaming my name and shuddering into my heart. That is what I mean.”

Holy shit. I try to breathe normally. Try to stop my pulse from jumping through my skin. Try to speak in a way that doesn’t cause my voice to shake. “We don’t have water coolers.”

He smiles, and the change pulls me off of whatever ledge I am gripping onto. Oh my word. White, perfect teeth. A goddamn mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I can’t figure out if I like his intense side or smiling side more, but I try and hold on to this look for as long as I can. “And the rest?”

“I don’t think that’s a decision I can make without having your cock first.”

He tilts his head. “Worried I will disappoint?”

Hell to the no. “Girl’s gotta be safe.” I release my own smile, one with much less potency, but the best card I have in this the situation.

His face darkens, the grin disappearing as intensity steals back over. “I’m not joking, Riley. About having you.”

I watch his eyes, the shudder in them as they look from my lips to my eyes to the door. All minute twitches of his pupils, his head unmoving, his entire body so still it may be made of steel. Controlled intensity. I don’t doubt his words. I also know that there is no way I can anything say but yes to this man. My body won’t allow any other response. “Then take me.”

Confirmation in the set of his face, the fire that comes to his eyes, the forward press of his pelvis as he gathers me back, pulling me tightly, his mouth coming back down to claim me. Yes, he is still hard. I smile against his mouth.

Chapter 5

The driver’s name is Leo. White Escalade with custom rims, tinted windows. I step into the backseat, Brett’s head following me inside, his long legs cramped in the backseat. I clutch my purse, smile at Leo as he shuts the door. I had parted with the girls, their protective nature insisting on a face to face with Brett before letting me disappear into the night. Jena had taken it one step further, getting his business card and verifying his cell. He smiled through it all, relaxed and at ease, the intensity of our alley romp gone as he shook hands, oh my god, those fingers were in me, remembered names, and stole all of their hearts.

The SUV moves, rocking over cobblestone steps that pirates once roamed, the movement of the car tossing me slightly. Brett’s hand finds me in the darkness.

“Sorry about the interrogation in there.”

“I’m not. They’re watching out for you. It’s the smart thing to do.”

I bite the edge of my smile. “You say that. Jena Crawford has your number. You might regret that in the wee hours of the morning. I think her second major was drunk dialing.”

He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I can handle it.”

I glance to the front. To the Bahamian man less than five feet away. “What you said in the alley, about what this will mean …”

“Yes.”

I shrug. “I just want you to know that I’m a big girl. I’m not gonna attach anything to this. If it doesn’t turn out to be anything.”

He looks out the window. Tugs at the front of his dress pants, adjusting himself, he says, “I may have spoken out of turn. I’m not used to this.”

I lower my voice. “We can have sex. Without it meaning anything.”

“I’m not seventeen, Riley. I’m familiar with the concept.”

I shut my mouth. Do my own turn of looking out the window, trying to decide if I should bail on this man when we hit the hotel lobby. It is easier when I look out the window. When I don’t see the line of his jaw and imagine how it tastes. When I don’t look in those eyes and fall further into trouble. Then he moves my hand, from the armrest where he had held it, to his lap. Pushes my palm flat against him, and I lose a bit of my breath. Wow.

His hand atop mine, he drags my palm—my exploring, inquisitive fingers—from his belt buckle to his leg, letting me feel exactly how much, how hard, he wants me. I dart my eyes, trying to see more, but the dark cab shows me nothing but the glow of his eyes. Watching me, his mouth hidden by shadow. Those eyes closing briefly when I grip him through the fabric. “More,” he breathes.

I fumble with the zipper, my own hand struggling, his hand moving to help, holding the fabric tightly as I drag down the metal tag, holding my breath, hoping the driver’s music will drown out the sound, the man’s head not moving, not turning, when the action ends, my hand stealing in and coming in immediate contact with bare cock.

A moment when my body relaxes as my fingers wrap around it, as if I am finally at piece in a place where I belong and everything else can subside. I am touching it. The thought is a shot of arousal to my body. I move my hand, explore. My first thought, when I wrap my hands around it, the observation that my thumb and index finger don’t meet. That his fingers that had satisfied me so easily in that alley—won’t hold a candle to this organ. I squirm a bit in my seat. Grip him with my full hand and am rewarded with an exhale of breath.

A squeal of brakes. I look up and realize we are stopping. At a toll booth, Leo leans out the window, the street lights of the toll plaza casting in full light, my hand on Brett’s ohmygodthatisgorgeous cock. He leans forward quickly, pushing my hand gently to the side, and my ears hear the faint sound of a zipper closing.

“Royal Towers.” He puts his hands on the front headrests, resting his weight on them as he speaks to the driver, and I fight the urge to run my hand over the line of his back. It’s been so long since I touched a man in a loving way. So long since I was in a role other than that of professional friend—sweet ol’ Riley.

I don’t touch his back. I sit, my hands between my knees, the heat of my fingers remembering the lines of his cock. The ridge between his shaft and his head. How it moved slightly in my hand when I grabbed it. The warmth of his skin.

Then the truck stops, a burst of air brushes over my bare legs, and I accept Leo’s hand and exit the vehicle.

“Thank you.” Brett’s hand is on my arm, taking over from Leo, firm pressure in his touch as he guides me toward the entrance, his steps quick, my heels almost struggling to keep up. I tug on his hand, and his head turns, notes my agitation and he slows his gait. “I’m sorry.” He loops an arm around my shoulders, presses a kiss on the top of my head. “Do you want to grab a drink at the bar?”

Do I want to grab a drink at the bar? I don’t think I can handle the wait to walk down the hotel hallway, much less sit out the agonizing process of ordering, sipping, then paying for an unneeded drink. I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”

He holds the door, our eyes catching for a moment as I pass through. Just that catch, that brief hold of two stares … it relights the fire that didn’t need any additional fuel. I don’t know why I’m going to fuck this man. There is no sense or reason in the decision. But there is need. There is need, and there will be satisfaction. I don’t know what is about to happen, but I know it will be different than anything I have ever had. Anyone I have ever fucked. I feel like I did when I was a virgin. Nervous. Apprehensive. Excited. The hand on my back guides me to an unfamiliar elevator, and I wait as he presses the button.

Chapter 6

Brett Jacobs watches her. Thinks. This is a mistake. He should be back in that alley. Or in the smoke of the club. Drinking. Watching. Entertaining himself. He doesn’t take strange women into his bed. His head, his heart, doesn’t understand that. Fucking should have a purpose, should contribute to an end goal. There is no end goal that will work in this scenario. She is from Georgia for God’s sake. Here on a bachelorette party, surrounded by a group of friends with eyes of hawks and sex drives of donkeys. A fuck with her will accomplish nothing—lead nowhere. The words his idiotic mouth had uttered in that alley will never work. What did he expect? That after a few hours in his bed, she will commit to him? Fill the hole that has existed for as long as he can remember? This woman who moves before him, the one who smells of lilies and brown sugar, has her own life. One he knows nothing about. A life that breathes fire and independence. One with roots and commitments and, for all he knows, its own leading man. He watches as the elevator doors open and she steps out, his hand reaching out, snagging the delicate warmth of her wrist, and dragging her to the side, rougher than necessary, his sudden need to know more asserting its dominance. He releases her wrist when she stumbles sideways, catching her weight and pinning it against the closest wall.

“Jeez.” The word comes out as an annoyed huff, her eyes flashing as he moves closer, places a hand on the wall beside her head, and stares into her eyes. “What is it with you and walls?”

“What’s it about you?”

“Me?” She lifts her chin, looks at him head on.

“I can’t stop myself. I want to pin you and fuck you against every surface I come to.” He swallows. Refocuses his agitation. “Are you in a relationship?”

Her body tightens. Breath shortens. Eyes focus on his mouth. All reactions he is familiar with. Can read as easily as a financial statement. Lust. A struggle against the reaction, her mind arguing with her want, her eyes losing focus as she licks her lips to wet them. Good God. He barely hears her response, hears the two-letter word sigh out of her lips as she leans against the wall, and he lets himself do what he’s thought about for the last fifteen minutes. Taste that sweet fucking tongue. Reach down and lift her up. Wrap her legs around his waist and carry her the short distance to his door, his hand fumbling with the key, mouths fighting in their frantic quest for more more more. Brett turns the handle, pushes the door, steps into the darkness and carries her to the bed. Tossing her off him, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Collect his wits. From behind, he hears the click of the closing door and, for the first time since meeting her, they are truly and completely alone together. He sends a short prayer upward for strength, restraint, the ability to touch her and be gentle.

Chapter 7

“Stay here.” His breath seems harder than necessary, the wild look in his eyes enough to keep me in place, my own lust aiding in the desire to speed this process along. He steps away, running a hand through his hair, moves to the doors at the end of the room, opens the slider fully. Standing there for a moment, his hands high on the doorframe, his head hangs slightly as he appears to think.

I prop myself up. Make a conscious decision to ignore his directive and stand. Walk across the room until I am behind him. His back straightens, and he turns, his face dark, silhouetted by the lit night before him.

I stop. Look up into the darkness that is his face. His hand reaches forward, toward my face, and I flinch, his hand stopping a few inches away.

“Relax.” His hand moves slowly, brushing down and covering my eyes. “Close your eyes.”

I do. I close my eyes and feel his hand drop. Keep them closed as I turn every other sense to high alert. “Good girl,” he says softly. “Keep them closed.”

I do. I keep my world dark and try to relax. Feel the heat of him as he moves closer. I inhale, but only smell ocean, the breeze from the open door washing the scent of salt and sea across my face. Then his hands, brushing over my shoulderblades, tugging down the spaghetti straps of my dress. Swiping back across my collarbone as firm fingers tug at the front clasp of my dress. Silence as he parts the fabric and slides it down until my bra is the only thing on my upper half.

Closer. I can feel the brush of his chest against the soft pillow of my breasts. Both of his arms wrap around me as he unclips my bra in one movement, the garment dropping, my breasts suddenly loose and free. His arms drop and the hard comfort of his chest leaves me. My eyes flip open.

“No.” He is before me. Staring. Close enough that the shadow is lifted; I can see the reflection of the bathroom light in his eyes. They are tight on me, a warning look in them. “Keep them closed, Riley. For now.”

For now. I release a slow breath. Drop my eyelids until I am back to relying on touch, smell, sense, hearing. I don’t know why I opened them anyway. This way is so much better. I don’t have to worry about the look in his eyes. I can let my imagination go wild. Imagine what I want. Enjoy what I—oh God. A breeze blows, the cool air causing my skin to awaken, the caress of the outdoors making this suddenly so erotic in its voyeurism. I don’t remember which floor we are on. Don’t know if it’s the second or twentieth, but knowing that the balcony door is open before me, feeling the soft brush of his fingers as they return to my skin … it is enough to make my nipples stand on edge, the weight in my pussy heavy with its increased need.

“You are so beautiful.” He almost groans the words, the sentence cuts off my own gasp as both of his fingers circle and squeeze my breasts. Lifting them. I feel the rough prickle of his cheek as his mouth moves across their surface. Wet suction as my right nipple makes its way into his mouth, his soft play of tongue against delicate skin probing and teasing, a low moan coming out of me when he bites the tip of it gently. I sag a bit in his hands, my knees shaking, and my desire to have him making a persuasive argument against the one to have him never stop what is occurring right now. “Wait, Riley.” His mouth moves lower, his hands release my breasts, and I feel the bump of cloth against my legs.

His mouth presses kisses along my stomach until it reaches the line of my dress, and his hands are suddenly at the back of me, fumbling over and then finding the zipper, yanking it down in one movement, and the fabric falls, leaving me one wet pair of panties away from being naked, in heels, before him.

“God.” A reverent whisper from his mouth. A mouth that is wasting no time in moving lower. “Spread your legs a bit.”

I obey. Moaning softly when I feel the press of his finger moving aside the silk and pushing inside of me. One gentle push inside that breaks any chance of restraint I have left. I open my eyes, look down to find him on his knees, and reach down, grip his hair, and pull back until our eyes meet. “I can’t,” I gasp, his finger pushing deeper, curving inside of me, his eyes watching me darkly, the edge of his mouth curving a little when my legs buckle.

Thank God the man listens. He moves to his feet, pulling his finger from me and moving it to his mouth. Sucking on his forefinger, he stares down at me. It might just be the most erotic thing—wait, it is definitely the most erotic thing I have ever seen. I step forward, pull his finger from his lips and replace it with my tongue, the man taking my mouth as if he owns it, his hands gripping me to him, his kiss hard and dominant.

I fall back on the bed, his body above me, knees moving to either side of me as he takes a final pull on my mouth before sitting up, skimming his fingers down my breasts, the lines of my stomach, hooking into the sides of my panties and dragging them over my hips, his body rolling off me enough to free my body from the last bit of resistance.

“My turn,” I breathe, sitting up and reaching for his belt.

He obliges, rolling onto his back and letting me unbutton his shirt.

I am nervous. I realize it as my fingers loop buttons through holes, each minor accomplishment revealing inch after inch of strong chest, covered by a thin layer of hair. He is a man, more man than anyone I have been with. My last boyfriend was a leftover from college, a frat boy turned pharmacist, who never let go of the shaggy haircut that every boy from the South seems to don like a badge of honor. This man, whose chest is strong and wide, his eyes dark and heated, his touch, which trails patiently down my back, is firm and confident. I know, with no degree of uncertainty, this will be different than any other experience I have ever had. That this, however fleeting and short in commitment, will rock my world.

I pull at white material, tugging fabric from pants until abs are fully exposed, a line of thicker hair leading down the ripped path of his stomach to a belt buckle, a break of skin against dark fabric. I slow down, pull hesitantly on the leather, the cold metal of the clasp so foreign in this hot bed of sexual tension. Then his hands push me aside, three quick movements having his pants undone, zipper down, belt open, and cock out.

The groan out of me is unstoppable. It rumbles, turns into a hiss, and then my hesitation is gone, and I pounce on it, diving with greedy lips, my frantic fingers trying to pull him down the bed, as I slide down his body and onto my knees on the carpet. I need it all. I need to feel the slide of skin against bone, need to feel it respond on my tongue. I want to taste every inch of it. Suck on his head until he gasps. Take him as far down my throat as I can, damn the gag reflex. Obsessively worship him with my mouth until he is half as hungry with lust as I am.

I can’t believe I am doing this. On my knees, in a stranger’s hotel room, his body following my lead, sliding to the end of the bed, sitting up, his hand settling on the back of my head, pushing with encouragement as I take his gorgeous cock in my mouth. I am naked in front of this man, any prior relationship with modesty having jumped ship, his eyes nothing but worshipping in their perusal of my curves.

He is almost without taste, my mouth working hard, yearning for a response, the squeeze of sweet hitting my tongue. And, despite my subservient position on my knees, it is empowering to have his most sensitive organ in my mouth. I look up at him, my eyes watering slightly as he takes the moment to pull me further onto his cock. God, the look in his eyes. Singular focus on me. His mouth dropping open slightly as I increase the pressure of my suction. The ownership of his stare even as his lids drop slightly, my name coming out as a hiss on his lips.

“Get up,” he growls. “I need to be inside of you now.”

Hands suddenly on my wrists, stopping my motion on his cock. Lifting me to my feet, I am on the bed before I can think, my back dragging across the duvet as he puts me into place.

A slowing of time. His hands firm and patient as they spread my legs, open me before him. Any concern I have over my naked body, the pounds I really should have shed before hitting vacation mode in a bikini … everything is swiped away by the shudder in his sigh, the look in his eyes as he drinks me in, his fingers opening me up, his mouth lowering for a few back-arching seconds as his tongue dips inside of me.

Then he withdraws. Drags his fingers down my legs and stops at my ankle. Works the strap with his fingers, caresses the curves of my foot as he pulls off the stiletto.

“Is this what you want?”

“My shoes to be taken off?”

The heel drops to the floor with a soft thud. I look down, past the V of my legs, at the naked man before me, a hand settling on the outward jut of his cock, wrapping around its base, stroking it as he stares at me, meets my eyes, for one silent moment. Salt air sweeps over my skin, my legs still spread, fingers of coolness softly brushing over my open sex. I am so wet I can feel a drop sliding down the crack of my body.

“This. What I’m about to do. Is it what you want?”

“Yes.” I don’t need to hesitate before speaking the words. I don’t need to think, to analyze. I threw reason and safety and good decisions out the window as soon as I walked through the door to this suite. I traded logic for a touch that I desperately crave, a connection that is dropping that perfect cock and moving to my other foot. Working the straps to that heel. Fingers teasing the arch and ankle there.

The heel comes off in his hand, and he tosses it away. Grips my ankle, moves his knees on the bed, until he is before me, his cock placed against the wet mound of my sex. His hands on my inner thighs, delicate movements that are turning rougher, stronger. He presses on the back of my knees, lifts my legs until my thighs brush my stomach, thrusts forward with his hips, dragging his hardness back and forth over my clit.

I whimper. I can’t help myself. I can feel the loss of control, feel the breakdown of my mind as pleasure takes over and I become a loose mess of want before him. I am so close to begging, need his cock an inch lower so badly I’m two steps away from taking that matter into my own hands. “Please.” The word slips from my lips as he continues, the underside of his cock now slick with my juices, the steady drag on my clit so perfect that my plea is suddenly counterproductive seeing as the only thing I want to do right now is stay in this moment until I break.

Shove, pull. Shove, pull. I prop myself up to get a better look, the eroticism of seeing his bare cock, head and shaft tight to the point of ripping, the muscles in his stomach sliding under the tan skin, the evidence of my arousal, my need growing. His skin in the moonlight, reflections of white in his eyes, the groan from his mouth that tells me his self-control is as stretched as my own.

I don’t want to come like this. From just the rub of his cock. How tightly stretched is my arousal that just this brush with him can bring me to my knees? I push against his chest, squirm underneath him. “Please, I can’t. I’m about to …”

“I need it.” His gruff voice is close to my ear. The consistent firm strokes continue, the pump of his cock back and forth back and … OH MY.

I stop it somehow. Gasp for breath. Try to focus. Try to fight a battle I am seconds from losing. I don’t know why I am fighting it. How I am managing. But all I know is that every second of this is incredible, and I don’t want to lose it—can’t lose it. Not right now. Not just yet. I need another ten seconds, or fifty, or five hundred. I need this man to never stop anything he is doing, to—

My elbows give out, and I collapse, my back bucking, every muscle in my legs contracting as the purest form of ecstasy blinds my world, grips my heart, and shudders through my body.

A metallic scrape. The rip, crackle. I see a bit of gold flutter to the scrunched fabric of the white duvet. Moving my eyes to between my legs, I see the hot brand of his cock lifted, busy in his hands, wrapped and secured, then his hands still, and I drag my eyes up, over his stomach, which moves slightly with heavy breaths. Up over the strength of his chest, the defined muscles in his shoulders, the shadow on his face, the swollen breath of his lips. His eyes, blazing with intensity, watching me carefully as he growls out a sigh. I don’t move, don’t pull my eyes from him, but feel the weight of latexed cock against my sensitive clit as he leans forward slightly, a finger surprising me when he presses it through the seal of my sex.

A moan sighs through my lips at the change in his eyes that occurs, the drug of arousal moving through them, dulling his spark, his mouth opening further. He closes his eyes for a moment, his finger moving slowly and deliciously inside of me, and then reopens, control reestablished. I don’t want his control. I want him ravaging me, taking me harder, rougher, his strength untapped, sexuality grabbing ahold of him and dragging him by his lapels to the throne of me, where he will forever be my sexual slave.

“Are you sure?”

I groan in response, his finger cupping, stroking. My pussy so wet I am shaking for him.

“Answer me. I need to hear it.” His voice is rough. Control shaken. Good.

I open my eyes. Reestablish contact. Let him see the resolution there. “Yes. Please. Now.”

He leans forward, braces himself above me on the bed, his face a foot from mine, my vision filled with the beautiful look of Brett, and shifts his hips down slightly and thrusts.

Mother of—I whimper, reach up and grip his shoulders, pull him closer as my mouth opens in silent exclamation. It has been too long. I can’t go without it for this long ever again. On second thought, maybe the reason this feels this incredible is because I have been without. But either way, the stretch of my muscles around his cock … the heat inside me as he slowly thrusts, in and out, back and forth, my silent cries turning a little louder, becoming words, moans, begs, pleas. “Don’t ever stop … Brett—I … “

He gives it to me slow. Letting me adjust before his speed picks up, thrusts roughening right at the moment when I am ready for it. I wrap my legs around his waist. Dig my heels into the lickable meat of his ass. Squeeze the heat of his skin with my legs, stare up into his face as he buries his cock in repeated succession, the quickened pace containing an edge of desperation, of wild inhibition.

“Right there, I’m about to …”

I bellow, the howl of a woman overtaken, and he groans at the sound, lowers his face to my neck, inhales my scent as my voice breaks. I lose all focus, all ability to understand anything but that he hasn’t stopped, hasn’t slowed, is carrying me on this high which is not, will not stop, until it takes ahold of my soul and makes me his own.

He pulls me back to life, gripping my face with both hands, lowering his face to mine, and diving into my mouth. Kissing me strong. Ragged breaths between deep kisses, his cock continues its steady thrust, my hands greedy against his chest, scraping across the ridges of his side, scratching lines of need into his back. Then he breaks the kiss, his hands tightening a little on my face, our eyes holding until a groan drags from his throat, his eyes closing, head dropping, thrusts slowing and deepening, until he is buried and still inside of me. His hands drop my face, my name rolls off his lips as he eases down, his body flush to mine, and it feels, in that moment, like we are fused—souls, bodies, and mind—completely together.

Chapter 8

My cell is ringing. I hear the familiar tune, the beats dragging me awake, my hand fumbling over the empty bedside table. I wake more, hanging half off the bed as my fingers trip over carpet until they encounter my purse. I answer it a second short of too late. “Hello?”

“You slut!” The screech of Mitzi’s voice is way too loud, and I pull the phone away from my ear. Blink in the darkness. Try to figure out where I am. One bed, not two. Room twice as big as the one I spent last night in. Movement comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see well over six feet of dark gorgeousness watching me, on his side, the dawn light contrasting with the intense look that he rocks so well. ‘Good morning,’ he mouths, his hand reaching out, wrapping around my waist and pulling me flat on my back. He is on one side, head propped up on one hand, eyes on my face.

“What do you want?” I mumble into the phone.

“I just got back to the room. I know your prude ass can’t be shacking up with that delicious piece of man you left with last night.”

“I can’t talk right now.”

“You know wheels are going up in three hours.”

“Then you should get some more beauty rest.”

A snort. The beginning of some lecture. I hang up the phone, lock it and toss it onto the floor in the direction of my purse, before rolling toward Brett and closing my eyes. I try to memorize the look of him in morning shadows. It’s a good look. Way too good of a look. “I’ve got to go back to my room.”

“No you don’t.” He bends over, pressing a kiss on my collarbone. Pulling at the sheet, he reveals a breast. He exhales, moves his mouth to that spot with soft kisses until I push him off. Cuddle into the crook of his shoulder. Rest my head on him when he lies back against the pillows.

“I have to go back to Georgia.”

“When?” The word vibrates through his chest, and I roll closer into him. Run my hand over his chest.

“One. Which means I need to pack, and shower …”

“… and eat breakfast.”

I look up at him. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at ordering room service.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at eating it.”

We eat on the bed like kids, cross-legged, cartoons on the TV, trays on the crumpled sheets before us. I lean over, swig a generous swallow of mimosa from the flute and then return it to the bedside table. “So … Mister …” I tilt my head at him. “I don’t know your last name.”

He scowls. Brings a forkful of omelet to his mouth and chews thoroughly before swallowing, the clench of his jaw as he chews drawing my attention to the strong curves of his face, the way dark stubble makes the green of his eyes pop. The gulp of his throat is somehow sexy. “Jacobs.”

“Jacobs. Why the Bahamas, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Isn’t that a question you should have asked me before you …”

I raise my eyebrows as he struggles for words. “Before I what?”

He meets my playful gaze. “Trusted me with your body.”

I shrug. “Jena has your business card. She makes a practice of digging into every aspect of my life. I’m sure she has your blood type and latest draft of your resume by this point. She hasn’t called to warn me of anything, so I think my body is safe in your hands.”

When his eyes darken, they become hunter green. A heart-stopping change. Intensity looks incredible on this man. “I’m here for pleasure. I enjoy the fishing.”

My eyes pick up on his tan, the flex of his forearms as he reaches forward and snags a piece of toast. I suddenly want to see him. On the deck of a boat, wearing only swim trunks. The flex of his muscles as he battles a fish. The break of his smile when he catches a prize. I’ve never seen him during the day. When the sun reflects in those eyes. I look down, scoop up a spoonful of grits, and bring them to my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Look back to find him watching me.

“Have you caught anything this trip?”

His mouth twitches. “Been too busy with a certain blonde to get any time in.”

“Ahhh … sure. Blame your bad luck on me.” I shoot him a look that he finds humorous, his mouth splitting into an easy grin.

I am digging out grapes from the fruit bowl when he speaks. “Stay a few more days with me.”

I pause my quest for red ones. “I can’t. I have work tomorrow.” As I speak the words I realize how out of character they are for me. Blaming work. Not the fact that staying here, with a stranger, is foolhardy enough to say no. I want to stay. The warm buzz, the state of euphoria that seems to accompany every moment in this man’s presence … it is a high I haven’t experienced in a long time. New love. Love that—at previous interactions—skipped along on its merry way after a few weeks. My last experience with this heady, butterflies in my tummy, elation in my heart feeling was … high school? Almost twenty years ago, when I had fresh, unwounded eyes. Before I realized the selfishness and deceit that we, as adults, hold. The ugly truths of life that pull apart love and make relationships obligation centers that carry us from year to year, life transition to life transition.

“What do you do?”

His question brings me back. I pop an elusive red grape in my mouth before answering. “I’m a financial advisor. I work at a small bank in a town called Macon.”

“Why Macon?”

I shrug. “It was my hometown. After college I spent a few years in Athens with a guy I was dating. When that ended … I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Didn’t want to stay in Athens. So I came home.” The super exciting story of my life. I change the focus of the conversation. “What about you?”

He leans back. “Fort Lauderdale. The bank can’t do without you for a few days?”

I shake my head. “No, they can’t. Why Fort Lauderdale? What do you do there?”

“I sell boats.”

God, this guy is a regular chatterbox. I let my eyes float over the suite, the dining room table we seem more likely to fuck on over eating at, the watch draped over his wallet, a brand I don’t recognize, but one I can guarantee is worth what I make in a year. “You sell boats.”

He chuckles. “Yes.” He slides over, pushing his tray forward, so close to the edge of the bed that I watch it nervously, my attention redirected when his lips close over my neck. “Stop thinking,” he whispers, taking another taste of my neck, this one more aggressive, one that will probably leave a hickey. Super classy, Riley. My mother will be thrilled. I close my eyes. Lean into his mouth. Let his arms slide me up the bed and roll me atop him.

“I was overdramatic last night. What I said to you. About owning you.”

“I figured it was for effect.”

“But this isn’t something I do. I don’t make a habit of fucking strangers.” His words tumble awkwardly over the expletive, as if he isn’t used to swearing.

“Neither do I.” Hell, I live in a town where strangers don’t exist, and I still haven’t done any fucking. Shows what happens when I try to brave life outside of our dirt roads.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

“Nothing.” The lie comes out convincingly. Kasey Craig, my second cousin on some distant family member’s side, is actually having a baby shower on Saturday. Her fourth one in the last six years, yet there will be serious repercussions if I am not present. It is the South, after all. Not to mention, I also have plans to spray the garage for bugs. Super important stuff that my lie pushes to the side. I want this man. I know little-to-nothing about him, but I crave something outside of my world. I’m sick of pantyhose and mutual funds. Potluck dinners and familial obligations. This weekend is the most alive I’ve felt in a decade. Part of it is the location; the majority of it lies atop me. Had moved inside of me. Had woken me at four AM begging for five minutes inside of me, then blessed my world for twenty.

I am thirty-two. I am not dead. I am not in a relationship. I am bored. I am tempted to say, had he asked me to pack up my house and move to Florida right now, I would say yes.

“See me next weekend. I’ll send you a plane. It won’t be the jet you girls flew in on, but it’ll get to Lauderdale easier than commercial.”

I look at him. “How do you know what we came in on?”

“Don’t get too excited. I was at the private airport when you arrived.” He runs a hand through my hair. “Pretty blondes always catch my eye.”

I let out a huff of air. “We’re almost all blondes.”

He smiles, that grin tugging hard at my vulnerable heart. “You leave them all in the dust.”

The blush hot on my cheeks, I lift my mouth, stopped from a kiss by his hand on my chest. “Next weekend?”

I smile. “Next weekend. I’m not promising anything more after that.”

My words may not have promised, but my heart? It is toast. It is already booking wedding venues, picking out baby names, tying unbreakable knots in the bond between his heart and mine. I feel his hand relax, the resistance gone, and he closes the distance between our lips. Surrendering myself to him, I feel the crush of our souls, as our touches say what our lips are not ready for.

I came for vacation. I found, in those hours, the other half of my soul.

The End