by Ember Leigh
I don’t know if it’s the unexpected self-image boost or the insanely expensive red wine I drank.
But there’s a lot of things pumping through my veins. What’s spreading farther and faster is the fact that I am unbelievably horny.
Weston doesn’t help matters one bit. He is the least helpful person on the face of the planet when it comes to feeling rational and platonic. It’s like he gets hotter every day spent on the island, and tonight? He had to pull the oh let me be creative and helpful at the same time, while also possessing this glorious set of abs card. Which was preceded by the Oh, is your sister too drunk to function? How about I politely escort her home and make sure she makes it to bed safely like a total platonic gentleman card, which I learned about when Harriet let it slip earlier.
I’ve reached my saturation point. He’s driving me into my bed, forcing my hand between my legs, where I will spend the next ten to fifty minutes imagining what our impossibly hot sex would be like. I need a break from the all the people-ing, anyway. Amelia warned me that her not-so-loveable uncle would be in attendance, whose claims to fame include getting into fist fights with florists and fast food workers. Weston stepped in swiftly and discretely. Not at all what I expected from the man who got competitive with intimacy exercises, but hey, I guess we all have our quirks.
I’m sure he was just trying to be helpful, but now he’s gone and made himself even more irresistible.
I hoist my heavy camera bags higher up on my shoulder. My hut is in sight—just a little bit farther in these heels. My calves are screaming from an entire evening spent in these gorgeous weapons. I need an hour to lie down, masturbate excessively, and then maybe sneak in a late-night swim while everyone is off getting tanked.
Excellent plan.
Back in the dark hut, I sigh with relief as I toe off my heels. Then I flip the switch, and golden light bathes the tiki-chic interior. My paradise home away from home. I smile as I unzip my romper and disrobe from the long day of entertaining Amelia’s and Rhys’s family members, shooting pictures, and trying to stop thinking about sex with Weston.
My phone vibrates. If it’s between nine and ten p.m., it has to be Jimmy. The man has been so habitually punctual with his calls and texts that I would actually bet my gram’s life that this is him. I peek at my phone.
JIMMY: I’m heading to bed. Hope you had a great day, doll.
I swear, Jimmy has a sensor that beeps every time I’m thinking about what Weston might sound like when he orgasms. But really, he’s been texting and calling nonstop. And now, he has a new nickname for me in addition to “beautiful.” At the rate this is going, by the time I leave Aruba, we’re going to be engaged without my consent. How did billiards buddies turn into a long-distance relationship?
I frown. I’m not going to respond, because I have something more important to do—get back to speculating about Weston’s intimate sounds. Is he a grunter? Maybe a groaner. Wild hog variety, or more of a hilarious sex talker who says outrageous things in the heat of the moment?
If I ever find out, it’ll be because I overhear him hooking up with someone. Which hasn’t happened. That I know of. Yet.
I lie back on my bed, stretching, ready for a cozy night of rubbing one out. I usually use my tried-and-true vibrator, but since I have an irrational fear of my vibrator turning itself on inside my luggage and being discovered by the security luggage checkers, I never fly with one. And yes, I know I can take the battery out—but then it would still be discovered, surely. And that sort of uncertainty—did some stranger fondle my inert vibrator in the name of border control or no?—is not what I want to live with. Some things are better left tucked behind stacks of unused underwear in the third drawer of your late great-grandmother’s rickety lingerie chest.
Before I slip my hand down my panties, an idea occurs to me. The camera! What an evil genius I am. I lunge for the camera bag, hurrying to scroll through photos to a picture I captured of Weston the day before that has honestly not stopped cycling through my subconscious. It was on the sailboat. He was looking out at the horizon, mouth parted, brows drawn in concentration. I’m clicking the left arrow so fast I’m going to get a blister on my thumb.
And then—wait a minute. I screech to a halt. There are pictures here I don’t remember taking from earlier this morning.
Orangey-pink streaks place the photos at the six-thirty sunrise, but the figure in the photo is not someone I remember being at the beach.
I zoom in, and with a flash of realization that feels more like a fatal lightning strike, I place the person: me.
Weston took pictures of my sunrise dance session and said nothing.
My heart is in my throat as I scroll through the pictures, every inch of my body stiff and horrified and curious. The first thing I notice: holy shit, Weston knows how to take pictures. And the second thing I notice: holy shit, these pictures he took of me are excellent.
I sit in the uncomfortable realization that I am looking at gorgeous photos of my own body. It’s not something I ever thought might happen, I’m sad to say. But it has happened. And Weston caught it. Like a quiet, selfless gift to me. One that means more to me than I can actually let him know.
I abandon my quest to find Weston’s hot picture, jarred by the discovery. Instead, I set down the camera and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, for so long that I lose track of time. It could be ten p.m. or two a.m. I honestly have no idea.
But eventually, the horniness returns. Oh lord, doesn’t it always? Except this time, I don’t need his picture, and I don’t even want to be on my bed. I want running water and the memory of Weston as I saw him this morning, belly crinkled and cheek dimpled as he smiled up at me. These are dangerous thoughts for a girl like me. Because what turns me on the most is not the idea of some erotic hookup with any old hot guy.
No, what turns me on the most is the image of Weston as I’ve come to know him over the past few days. Annoying bits and all. With his cocky heartbreaker smiles and his endless abs and that way he can get under my skin with just a scoff or rolling his eyes.
The shower is spraying warm water, and I’ve shucked my bra and panties. I step into the stream, and my head lolls back. I press up against the cool tile of the shower wall, my hand venturing between my legs as the water washes down my chest and legs. My pussy is wet, and not from the shower. I’ve been in a permanent state of arousal since discovering Weston here, and it’s a miracle I haven’t knocked on his door in the middle of the night, demanding we violate a noise ordinance together.
I bite at my bottom lip as my middle finger slips back and forth over the tight nub of my clit. My entire body jolts, sending my back arching. I start to moan but I swallow it. It already feels too good, too necessary. I spread my legs, rubbing my fingers in long, looping swirls around my clit. I buck my hips, loving the teasing, even if it’s coming from me. My nipples have turned into tight points, and just imagining Weston’s pouty lips on one sends a moan tumbling past my lips.
Oops, I couldn’t hold that one back. But it’s okay. The ocean is so loud, and nobody is here anyway. I could probably stomp my way through an aerobics workout without any of my hut neighbors realizing. I slip a finger inside myself, fantasizing about Weston’s cock. How thick. How long. What his favorite position is.
The mere thought of Weston’s fully naked body on top of me sends my head thumping against the wall. In my head, I’m moaning Oh, Weston. Oh, Weston. Imagining his rough hands cupping my breasts. My core tightens—I’m fucking close, and I haven’t even fantasized about having sex yet. That’s how hot the man is.
Another thump comes, registering distantly. My head lolls to the side as my fingers slip in and out of my pussy easily.
And then I hear a tentative bass say, “Nova?”
Everything screeches to a halt, like someone pressed pause on the movie. Finger buried inside myself, I stare at the showerhead. Maybe I imagined the voice. Like how I imagined Weston’s nakedness and hot kisses on my nipples.
My eyes flutter shut again. There’s nobody outside. You totally heard that in your head.
“Nova, did you call me?”
My eyes shoot open again. Fuck fuck fuck. There is most definitely someone out there, and there’s a 100% chance that it’s Weston.
“Uh…” I push to standing, the water hitting my shoulders as I look around, trying to figure out where to go from here. I turn off the water, stepping carefully out of the tub. “Who is it?”
“Weston.”
I stand in the middle of the bathroom, hands covering face as my embarrassment drips down and pools beneath my feet with the water. There’s no way this is happening. What did he mean by “call me”? This has to be one of his little jokes.
He thumps on the door again. “Nova.”
I clear my throat, finally reaching for my towel. “I’m sorry, do you need something?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay in there. You called my name.”
Oh god. I’m living in the worst-case scenario. That Oh, Weston was not only in my head as I intended. It leaked out of my goddamn lips.
“Uh…” Every cell of my body is doubling over with humiliation. I would just melt onto the floor and drip into the sand beneath this hut if I could. I press my hand over my eyes, struggling to remember how to think. What breathing feels like. If there’s any protocol for being interrupted during a masturbation session by the subject of the masturbation fantasies.
If there are guidelines for this included in the handbook of womanhood, I certainly never got the updated version. Or even the damn handbook itself.
“I heard some noises.” Jesus, this sexy man just will not take a hint. I need him to leave, so that I can complete my transformation into a mortified beet without any witnesses.
But no. He insists on adding more. And this time, when he speaks, my stomach dislodges from my body and shatters into pieces on the ground.
“Actually,” he adds, “It sounded like you were masturbating.”
Chapter 12
WESTON
If Nova were anyone else—and I literally mean anybody else on the face of the planet—I would have just kept walking.
I would not have lingered around her hut, listening intently to the sexy whimpers and occasional moans escaping through the high vent window of her bathroom.
Hey, we all need private time in the bathroom. I’m no exception. I’ve jacked off four times in three days, each time with Nova’s creamy legs in mind and imagining burying my face in her lush cleavage. But up until now, I wasn’t convinced that Nova saw me as anything other than an irritating addition to the wedding party whom she was forced to tolerate.
And hell, maybe she still believes the annoying part. But there’s a very important new dimension of her little game here that has been scientifically verified by the power of observation and measurement.
She fucking wants me.
She wasn’t calling out for her boyfriend, who I’m not even convinced she has. She wasn’t moaning any other guy’s name. No. She fucking said “Weston.”
Checkmate, Nova. You lost.
Now it’s time for both of us to win.
When Nova doesn’t say anything, I repeat myself. “Did you hear me? I said it sounded like you were masturbating.” I’m being brash. So unforgivably bold. But I’m sick of her cowering. Not when we both want it and there’s a measly two inches of palm-frond tiki hut separating us.
“God, Weston! Go away!”
A grin stretches across my lips. The exasperation in her voice is amusing. Yeah, I’d be pretty exasperated if someone interrupted me before orgasm. She just doesn’t understand how much I want to be there when she reaches it.
“I wanted to talk—”
“About what? Jesus, this is mortifying.”
“What’s mortifying?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?” she wails. Footsteps stomp through the hut. I can just imagine how flustered she is. The pink creeping across those cheeks. The wild tousle of her hair—or maybe those red locks would be hanging damp down her back. My cock is swelling the more I think about it.
“If I had to choose a word,” I say, my heart pounding as I assess the ridge showing in my swim shorts. “It wouldn’t be mortifying.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could come up with a hundred other words for it, all synonyms for ‘hilarious,’” she spits.
I drag my thumb across my bottom lip. “No, I would call it pretty fucking sexy, overhearing that. Which, by the way, was an accident.”
There’s an unnerving silence from inside the hut. She’s probably disappeared into the shower to wash away the humiliation.
“You should come out here,” I say, firmer this time. My ears are ringing, I’m listening to the silence so intently. But nothing comes. No stomping. No sighing. No quiet trek to the door, which she will eventually open to invite me inside.
I can’t be imagining this attraction. I’ve seen the heat in her gaze. I know she can feel how bad I want her. How hard it is for me to keep this attraction under wraps. I’m at her door, practically begging for it. Will it be enough? Or does she need me to lay it balls out and obvious for her?
I look behind me, maybe searching for some backup. Some moral support. Someone to say, No, no, keep going Weston, this is totally a great and sane idea.
“I’m actually going to stay inside my hut until the earth reclaims my body,” she says. “So if you could just leave now, that’d be great.”
I laugh. “Promise me you won’t deprive the earth of your amazing body.”
More silence thuds between us. And then she says, “You must be high.”
“Not high. Not even drunk. Just a red-blooded male with a pair of eyes.”
There’s more silence, and now the reality of the situation is setting in. Does this qualify as harassment? Knowing somebody wants you, but the only obstacle is actually herself? Maybe this is as far as Nova and I will go. Being horny for each other from opposite sides of a palm-frond wall. Forever wondering just how well we might get along, underneath the bedsheets and beyond.
“Listen. I get the sense that you have no idea how fucking hot you are. Which is hard to believe, but I don’t know, I guess it’s possible.” My heart is thumping, and I press my forehead against her door. “But more than that, I think this is my chance to lay all my cards on the table, Nova. So yeah. You’re hot. Big deal. But you’re weird and funny and a really fucking great photographer, and I like you.” All the breath whooshes out of me with that line. I take a moment to recoup. “So if you change your mind…you can find me at the pool. I’m serious. And wear the green bikini. I’ll be waiting.”
I wet my bottom lip, wondering if she can hear from in there how hard my heart is pounding. I listen for some sign that I got to her. Some sign that she has any interest at all in exploring the sexual and emotional connection that has always sizzled between us, even when we didn’t realize it.
“You’ll be waiting a long time, because I have some decomposing to do now,” she says, her voice fainter.
“Decomposition is sexy too,” I say, then tear myself away from her door. Everything is dizzy and wild. I would spend the next twelve hours at her door, trading quips and conversation until I couldn’t stand on my own two legs anymore. But I need to go. I have enough sense to know that if Nova doesn’t want it, then I need to leave her be.
I left the metaphorical door open for her. All I can do is hope that she runs through it.
I stop at my hut, flick on the light, and rummage through my big backpack for my notebook. I’d been in the middle of readying to go to the pool for a late-night, low-people swim when I overheard her in her hut. But then all that happened, so I need to focus my energy on something or I’m going to snap.
So sketching it is. Tried and true method of handling intense energy. Like when the woman you’ve been fantasizing about non-stop for the past three days is fantasizing about you too but won’t do anything about it.
I don’
t expect her to show up, not even a little bit, even though every cell of my body is vibrating with hope. So that means I bring everything with me. Including a condom, because I’m trying to be positive. My phone, my sketchbook, all my pencils, my camera, a second notebook. I shove it all into a little hippie tote bag I picked up in Morocco years ago, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the pool closest to our neck of the resort.
Each footstep away from the huts is a reminder of what I’m walking away from: Nova, possibly naked, definitely turned on, probably with her hand between her legs thinking about me. I falter in my quest, ready to turn around and make a second attempt at convincing her to replace her hand with my mouth, but no. I force myself to keep walking to the pool.
The small kidney-bean pool set off in an alcove of gardenias and palm tree cover is one of the less-used pools here, probably because it doesn’t have a bar attached to it, or a diving board. I drop my bag on one of the cushioned lounge chairs and start pacing. Who am I fucking kidding? I’m not going to be able to sketch. I need to burn off this sexual energy. I tear off my clothes down to my swim trunks and slip into the pool.
This warm water at the end of long, great day—it should be exactly what I’ve been waiting for. But when the water fails to soothe me in any discernible way, it’s because the truth that has been simmering below the surface has now kicked up to a dangerous boil.
I want Nova.
Which means it’s time for laps.
And lots of them.
Chapter 13
NOVA
I’m taking stock of my life in the pulsating and painful eternities that follow Weston calling me out. Thinking back on all the failures and quiet victories I’ve amassed in the three days on this special-though-possibly-cursed island.