by Pennza, Amy
Right. He cleared his throat. “Okay.”
“Okay, you’d like a drink?”
“Yes.”
She stepped into him and retrieved the glass, bringing the scent of coconut oil to his nose. Her silky thigh brushed his, and one pink nipple dipped toward his face. Then she turned and walked to the bar, her ass as tight as a goddamn drum.
His cock pounded. Pressure built in his balls. If someone asked his name, he’d have a hard time answering. Because, right now, every ounce of his brain power was devoted to keeping his basic life functions operational while he watched her pluck a bottle of whiskey from a shelf and top off his glass wearing nothing but oil and sunshine.
Watching her, he couldn’t help but feel like some kind of ancient king, sitting on a throne while a naked, exotic concubine served him. If he snapped his fingers, would she return to his side and await his pleasure?
As she poured, she looked up, meeting his gaze. Her lips curved. Then she swiveled and replaced the bottle, rising on her tiptoes to reach the shelf. Her pert backside flexed, and she bent just enough to offer a glimpse of her plump sex from behind. She took her time, widening her stance and bending over a little more, giving him a direct view of her delicate, pink folds.
More blood pumped to his cock. He smothered a groan.
Drink in hand, she walked back to the table, breasts jiggling. She leaned in again and set down the drink. “Your drink,” she said softly, a little smile touching her lips. “Mr. Salvatierra.”
He swallowed. When she’d claimed she didn’t sleep with her clients, skepticism had reared up, filling him with doubt. Rich and powerful men hired escorts for sex, not some “girlfriend experience.” Seeing her now, though, he believed her. And her striptease explained the pictures his investigators had captured. If she catered to clients who couldn’t do more than look at a beautiful woman, it made sense that she gave them a show worth paying for.
As much as he hated the idea of her entertaining other men like this, he couldn’t help asking, “What happens now?”
She bit her lower lip. “It depends.”
“Depends on what?”
Her brow furrowed, and she hesitated—as if she wasn’t quite comfortable with the direction of their conversation. “Different clients want different things…”
He could only imagine. Jealousy burned through his guts like acid. An outsider would say he had no right to be jealous. Catalina wasn’t his. And, anyway, no man could own a woman in the twenty-first century.
But outsiders couldn’t feel the forces pulling them toward each other. If ownership was involved, the irony was that Catalina owned him—or at least his heart. Living without her had been a sort of exile. For the past eight years, he’d wandered in a frozen wasteland, far removed from the center of his universe.
That center had always, always been her. She burned in his thoughts as fiercely as any sun.
And damn, but he longed to feel warm again.
She stood before him, ready to show him all the things she offered men who paid for the privilege of a pretend girlfriend.
But he didn’t want a girlfriend, and he had no use for pretend. He wanted his wife.
He needed it to be real.
“I don’t want you to show me anything else,” he said.
“You…don’t?”
He held out his hand. “I just want you.”
She stared at his outstretched arm.
Time to take a risk. He’d come to the deck to get answers from her. It was now or never.
“I know you want me, too, princesa. Isn’t that right?”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Yes.” It was a whisper, as if some part of her couldn’t admit it.
“So come here.”
She hesitated for so long, he worried he might have miscalculated. He tensed, ready to stop the game, but then she walked to him and took his hand.
Relief coursed through him. He tugged, and she moved between his thighs. Sunlight touched her skin, turning it golden and highlighting the scattering of tiny freckles across her chest.
She pulled the halves of his tuxedo shirt apart and smoothed her palms over his chest.
Great. Now she could feel just how fast his heart was racing.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Lopez didn’t have any men’s clothing in his guest room?”
“Not unless I shrink six inches and gain about forty pounds.”
A smile lit her blue eyes. “True. You’re a lot bigger than he is.”
Ah. If that was supposed to soothe his ego, it was working fabulously.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, stroking a hand over her hip, savoring her sun-warmed skin. “I’m not that much bigger.”
She straddled him, nestling her thighs on the outsides of his. The position put her breasts at his eye level and offered him a tantalizing view of her spread sex. Then she reached between their bodies and grasped his cock.
His mind blanked.
She leaned down and whispered, “It feels plenty big to me.”
Madre de Dios. He groaned and let his head fall back against the chair, closing his eyes against the sun.
She stroked him through his shorts, running her hand along his length. His cock jumped. She slid her hand lower, palming his sac.
“Careful,” he murmured, slitting his eyes open. “I’m still recovering from the judo chop you gave me last night.”
She stilled. “Not judo. Capoeira.” The Spanish rolled off her tongue, the “cap-where-a” dark and spicy in her native accent.
Events from the past couple days suddenly made a lot more sense. The way she ducked away from him in the drugstore, her body fluid and graceful. Her quick reaction time when he grabbed her arm last night. The famous Brazilian martial art was perfect for a woman taking on a man, as it emphasized throwing an opponent off balance or tricking them into making a stupid move.
Goodness knew he’d made plenty of those over the last forty-eight hours.
She must have seen amusement in his face, because she leaned back. “What?”
He brushed his hands down her arms, soothing her ruffled feathers. “Nothing, except that I’m a fool.”
She seemed content with that answer, because she resumed her stroking.
His cock tightened, pushing against his shorts. If she kept this up, he was going to finish in his pants like a teenage boy. He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Not just yet, bonita,” he said against her slim fingers. With his other hand, he toyed with a strand of hair that had escaped her bun. “Let me enjoy you a little longer.”
Sunlight sparkled over her shoulder as she gazed down at him. The deck was silent except for the gentle shushing of waves rolling languidly in the distance. Sitting like this, it was easy to imagine they were the only two people in the world. All the cares and problems that plagued them no longer mattered.
Just this mattered. Just this.
She cupped her hands over his cheeks, then leaned in and kissed him. The rich, exotic scent of coconut filled his senses.
He opened his mouth under hers, taking her in, tasting the sun. Desire unfurled inside him, spreading and stretching. Her soft breasts brushed his chest, her nipples dragging across his pecs. Little zings of sensation shot to his groin.
Her lips were soft, but firm against his. Her position put her in charge, allowing her to direct the ebb and flow of their kiss. Where a man might barge in, thrusting his tongue in bold strokes, her style was lighter. More delicate. She eased back and brushed her lips against his—like a naughtier version of a butterfly kiss. Then she slid her tongue along his lower lip, teasing and taunting until he strained forward, eager for more.
He had to touch her. How could it be that having her nude in his lap wasn’t enough? He needed more. Closer. Deeper.
She must have felt it, too, because she snuggled her body against his, wriggling her hips so her sex brushed his shaft. The heat of it burned through the heavy cotton of his shorts. She sucked in a breath and gave a little crow of d
elight, as if she just discovered something wonderful. She rocked her hips, grinding her clit over his crotch.
And just like that, he was wearing too many goddamn clothes.
He broke off the kiss. She sat back, bracing her weight on the chair’s arms while he undid his fly. Her sex glistened with moisture, and her nipples jutted out from her breasts. His cock swelled, the shaft straining so hard he had to push it down before he could lower his zipper.
Catalina raised an eyebrow. “No underwear?”
“Not when Lopez might have worn them first,” he panted.
Her soft laughter jiggled her breasts, and he almost came on the spot. He stifled a groan and freed his cock. It sprang up, the shaft knotted with veins as desire pumped through his blood. The head bobbed inches from her entrance.
He fastened his gaze there. Dios, what a sight. Her tiny clit peeked between plump lips that were shiny with her arousal. Cream pooled at her entrance. She was exquisitely smooth, all blurry edges and pink curves. He gripped his shaft in one hand and met her gaze. “Are you ready for me?”
She nodded.
“Show me, princesa. Show me how wet you are.”
She hesitated, but only for a second. Eyes on his cock, she slowly lowered one hand to her sex.
“That’s right.” He fisted his shaft, sliding his grip up and down. Precum beaded at the crown. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His balls were heavy weights, hot between his thighs.
She dipped two fingers into her entrance, gathering moisture, then spread it over her lips, darting up to her clit. Her wetness hit his ears, the sweet, damp sounds making him impossibly hard.
Such a long time. It had been so fucking long since they were together this way. Over the years, he wondered if they ever would be again. People said “dreams come true” in a figurative sense. But this—Catalina on his lap, wet for him—was literally his dream made flesh.
Her fingers played over her folds, slipping up and down the swollen flesh. She shifted her weight, spreading her thighs wider as she masturbated for him, working her clit faster and faster. A flush spread over her chest and breasts, darkening the tips. Smacking sounds drowned out the waves. Coconut, mixed with the heady sex of her arousal, swirled around him.
An ache built at the base of his cock. Much as he would love to, he couldn’t keep this up. One day, he’d make slow, leisurely love to her. But right now, he needed her hard and fast. His voice was a hoarse croak. “Now, baby. I can’t wait.”
She got him. Time hadn’t diminished her ability to understand his needs with a glance. She braced her hands on his shoulders, then lifted her hips and positioned her opening over his dick.
“God,” he gasped. He’d never seen anything like this. He held his shaft steady, his cock like an arrow, the head dripping for her.
Her nails dug into his skin, and she bit her bottom lip as she lowered her body onto him.
They groaned together, and she glanced at him, wonderment in her eyes.
Heat enveloped his cock. Her sex gripped him like a tight, hot glove. He clenched his jaw against the urge to thrust.
She rocked her hips once, twice, straining to accommodate him. The flush on her chest deepened, and her nipples were like little pink spears. Her opening stretched around his cock, taking him inch by inch.
He held still—just for a moment—transfixed by the sight of him halfway inside her, her entrance a taut, shiny ring around his shaft.
She lifted up, then down again, a soft grunt escaping her as she struggled to take him all the way inside.
“Let me help, baby.” He rubbed a thumb over her clit, slipping over the tight point.
Primed from her own touch, she went off like a rocket. A tremor rippled across her body as her release took her. She cried out and threw her head back. Her sex clenched around his shaft, and she rocked again, scooting her hips forward. He kept up the pace, working her clit over and over. She rocked again, and again, and then she was in a steady rhythm. His chair shifted, then squeaked as the legs scraped against the deck. A low, plaintive wail rose from her throat. She squeezed his shoulders as she rode out the orgasm, screwing her hips down over his shaft until her pelvis bumped his.
Heat. Her sex was like a little furnace, rippling all around him, milking his cock. It took him a minute to realize he was rocking, too, thrusting up and up to meet her frantic movements. He gripped her hips, his thumb slick and hot from her juices. Holding her tight, he bounced her on his shaft, making her tits tremble inches from his face.
Her mouth opened on a soundless scream as another wave of release crashed over her. Her sex spasmed around his cock, sucking at him with each frantic thrust.
Just when he thought she was incoherent—too lost in her lust to register him at all—she dropped her head down. Her blue gaze seized his and held.
They rocked together, locked in a frenzy that felt both old and new. Skin slapped skin as the world seemed to flex and tilt in sync with their movements. The chair swayed. Or maybe the yacht swayed. Maybe they made the whole damn boat shift across the sea.
Pressure built in his balls. He squeezed his ass together, struggling to make everything last, even as an orgasm threatened to rip from his shaft like a bullet.
Through it all, Catalina’s stare burned into his, the blue sizzling through eyes narrowed in passion. Her breaths came in pants, punctuated here and there by cries as he thrust up and up and up into her sex, jolting her over and over again, her pert bottom smacking against his thighs.
She gave as good as she got, digging into his shoulders. Sweat snaked down her chest, slipping between her breasts.
He darted forward and licked it away, then jerked his hips forward and wrapped his arms around her. His cheek pressed against her breasts. Hot, damp skin stuck to his. The pressure in his balls reached a peak, and then he thrust one last time and held, buried deep in her delicious heat as he shot his release.
Breathing heavy, she rested her head on top of his. With his head against her chest, her heart thundered like a drumbeat, matching the pace of his own.
Still inside her, he tightened his arms around her waist and heaved himself to his feet, her body curled around him. He stumbled to the chaise and lay them both down. Something hard dug in his back, and he lifted up enough to shift her laptop out of the way.
She sprawled on top of him, her thighs tucked between his, her head on his chest.
He was too exhausted to move, but he moved his fingers anyway, sifting them through the silky strands that had fallen from her bun.
The sun had climbed even higher, and now it spilled its light all over the deck, the rays so bright he had to close his eyes.
No matter.
He didn’t need to see. He had everything he needed, right here in his arms.
17
Catalina jerked awake. Sunlight blinded her. She put up a hand—
—and smacked Juan in the face.
Holy shit. She was naked and lying on top of Juan.
He groaned, opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut. “Fucking sun.”
A laugh bubbled in her throat. She scrambled up in an awkward tangle of limbs and sticky skin. Fortunately, the blazing sun stopped him from witnessing her unglamorous exit from the chaise. By the time he sat up and opened his eyes, she’d wrapped the sarong around her, knotting it above her breasts.
Disappointment crossed his features as her chest disappeared from view. For some reason, that sent a little shiver of desire zipping through her.
She whirled and scooped up his shorts from the deck, then turned and tossed them in his lap. “Here.”
He held them in front of his dick, which at half mast, was still on the enormous side. The twinge between her thighs was reminder enough of that.
She glanced at the chair they’d, uh, cavorted on. It was about two feet away from its original position. The heat in her cheeks blazed hotter. It was like there was a flashing arrow over her head that read, “I just screwed a chair across a yacht deck.”
When she decided to offer Juan a little honesty, she’d meant to clear the air about her escort work.
She’d ended up giving away a whole lot more truth than she bargained for.
“You all right?”
Juan’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He shielded his eyes with one hand, his bicep a defined curve in his arm.
Okay, looking at his body wasn’t helping. At all.
“I’m fine,” she said. She moved farther back on the deck, where a roof offered protection from the sun.
Juan stood and pulled on his shorts. Fortunately for both of them, their Spanish blood meant they tanned rather than burned. Even so, his face and shoulders were red. Her back was already starting to feel tight.
He picked up the laptop and carried it over. “Probably best to keep this out of direct sunlight.”
She took it. The case felt like it had been baked in an oven. “Thanks.”
“What were you typing before?”
She hugged the laptop to her chest. Normally, she might blurt something like “nothing” or “none of your business.” But there was really no point in deception—not when he was bound to discover the truth eventually.
Assuming they ever got off the yacht.
“I was writing,” she said. “For work.”
He glanced at the laptop. “Work?”
“I’m a travel writer. An aspiring one, at least. I’m freelance, but a few of my articles have been picked up by some prominent travel sites.” Pride burst in her chest like a tiny firework. She never got over the thrill of seeing her name in print. Or “in digital,” so to speak.
Juan looked stunned. “How long have you been doing this?”
“About two years.”
“But your clients.” He frowned. “The out calls…”
“Walter Rawlinson was my last client. I’m leaving the business. I just needed to ramp up my writing jobs enough to replace my income, which I’ve done now.” Another little surge of pride fired through her.
“Don’t you have to travel to be a travel writer?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Who says I don’t?” At his look of confusion, she added, “I focus on Spanish-speaking countries for obvious reasons. It’s not always easy traveling alone as a single woman. Rafe’s been a big help in that regard. No one messes with me as long as I have one of his security guys carrying my luggage.”