Odd. She and I generally only communicate twice a year, when we discuss our HR policies, look for ways to improve them and figure out ways to better train and retain our workers. She usually handles most of it on her own, but prefers a collaborative approach for major overhauls, and biannual meetings turned out to be the most efficient way for both of us. The subject reads Andy Brown. I tap on it, wondering what’s happened with my cousin.
The email is short and to the point. Andy Brown turned in his resignation yesterday. No reason given, and we have no issues with his performance. Thought you should know.
/> Hmm. Normally she wouldn’t bother me with something like this. Andy wasn’t an executive, and filling his position won’t be that difficult. But Natasha probably felt I should be informed, since I’m the one who gave him the job in the first place.
Shrugging, I file the email in another folder. He isn’t my problem, but my aunt’s and uncle’s. Maybe they got him a job working for Uncle Chuck’s campaign—who knows? I did Aunt Dorothy a favor by hiring Andy in the first place.
“Ta da!”
I shove the phone into my trunk pocket and turn to the door of the walk-in closet. Elizabeth steps out, her arms spread wide.
Holy mother of God. I almost swallow my tongue. I expected her to be in the semi-modest bikini she wore in Hawaii. Instead she’s in the skimpiest teal thing I’ve ever seen. The top is barely big enough to cover her nipples, and the bottom is just a couple of strings and a triangle so small a sneeze would—
“Nice, right?” She twirls, and I bite my lower lip. I can’t decide if I’m anticipating or dreading the possibility that yeah, her bottom might definitely slip at any sudden movement and expose everything to the world.
“Let’s go. Time’s a-wasting!” Elizabeth says.
She puts a gauzy white wrap around herself, which doesn’t do anything to hide what’s underneath. It’s revenge for last night. She plans to blue-ball me to death—
Wait a minute. She had that in her suitcase all this time. Did she wear it in St. Cecilia? How many assholes have seen her in it?
Images of her talking and laughing with over-moneyed, over-tanned morons by the pool at Aylster Resort flip through my mind like a PowerPoint presentation from hell, and my jaw tightens until I feel like my molars are about to crack.
“Come on, let’s go,” she says. “I do want to get some sun. I’m a little pale, don’t you think?”
I take in the smooth, creamy skin covering all her luscious curves. Lust thickens in my veins. “You’re perfect,” I say, my voice a lot tenser than I wanted. I’m not mad at her over the images in my head. It’s anger at myself and at the men who ogled her.
You could’ve been the only man she’s ever known. You could’ve been the only man to see every one of her amazing slopes and dips, but you blew it.
Yeah, I fucking blew it. And I didn’t realize how much that would infuriate and disgust me until now.
Grabbing a pair of beach towels, she hops out of the room. Hopefully she hasn’t noticed my mood. I don’t want to put a damper on things because of my issues. She doesn’t remember anything. She thinks I’m her loving fiancé, and that’s the only reason why she’s spending time with me. I should accept that and behave like a proper fiancé…except for the sex part. That I can’t do no matter what. It’d be like sleeping with a woman so drunk she can’t exercise her agency properly.
My hand around a bottle of suntan lotion, I follow her out. She already found the sun loungers I set out on the sand earlier this morning, and places the towels over both. I put up a huge parasol to give us some shade.
“Oh, good! You have the suntan lotion.”
She takes it and starts slathering all over her body. I watch her small hands working the pale, coconut-scented liquid into her bare skin. She doesn’t do the kind of exaggerated “look at me, I’m being really sexy on purpose” application I’ve seen from a lot of women before. Her focus is on herself, making sure she covers every square inch of her exposed body to the sun. But it’s still hotter than hell—more so because she’s so oblivious to her own natural attractiveness—and it’s all I can do not to place kisses on her shoulders and the base of her neck and inhale the coconut mingled with vanilla and lavender.
“I can’t reach my back,” she says after contorting her body a few different ways. “Do you mind?” She drags her hair forward around her slim neck, out of the way.
I squirt some lotion in my hand and very slowly run it down her warm flesh. Her back is elegant, with lean, beautiful lines. I never thought a woman’s back could be sexually provocative…until now. My fingers glide over a small knot of muscles underneath her right shoulder blade, and without thinking, I massage it.
She moans, low and throaty. I know she isn’t making that sound out of arousal, but it hits me the same anyway, and my balls tighten as though she’s cradling them in her sweet little palm.
Stop this. You’re heading into dangerous territory. The warning goes off in my head as she leans into my touch and lust sizzles in my gut. My fingers dig in deeper, and this time, the moan is louder—and throatier.
That sound should be illegal. It makes my head spin with want, and I haven’t even kissed her.
My fingers keep going because they can’t stop. And I keep telling myself she’s appreciative of the massage, she isn’t feeling anything sexual, and I really need to jump into the water and hope the sea can cool me off.
“That feels so good, Dominic,” she whispers.
I swallow. I should say something—you’re welcome, glad you like it—but I can’t speak. She looks at me over one shoulder, her storm-gray eyes smoldering. Her tongue darts out to lick across her full lower lip, and my gaze follows it in absolute mesmerization.
Suddenly she twists and leans forward, catching me before I can move.
She flicks her tongue over my mouth in a teasing invitation to open up. My breath catches, and I feel raw lust unfurling, spreading in a dangerous rush.