All I Ask

by Tamara Lush

  “Mother? I need to go. Someone’s at the door.”

  “Get the staff to answer it,” she says.

  “There’s no staff, remember?”

  She exhales and exasperated sigh. “Fine. I will speak with you later. Au revoir.”

  I hang up and go to the door. Like before, I press my face to the peephole.

  And this time, the man on the other side is exactly who I want to see. My heart thrashes against my chest as I fling the door open.

  “Tate,” I breathe, stepping aside to let him inside the suite. He strides past me.

  He’s wearing a midnight blue business suit, a white button-down, and that red tie I like. No shoes and there’s sand on his feet. Now that I study him, he looks a little rumpled. But handsome as hell.

  The door shuts on its own spring, and I follow him into the middle of the room. We stand near the cream-colored sofa, the orange light of the sunset streaming in from the balcony doors, which are open.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  He stands before me, his brows in a slight frown.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?” I reach for his hand.

  His nose twitches. He bites his lip. He blinks rapidly.

  “Oh. Sorry. I smell like turtles,” I say, plucking my gross t-shirt with my thumb and forefinger. “I was just about to take a shower, but—”

  “I love you,” he blurts. “Will you marry me?”

  My eyes grow huge as he reaches into his pocket, extracts a black velvet box and kneels at my feet.

  He cracks open the little box, and there’s a glittering diamond. Somehow, he knew exactly what style of ring I’d love: modest and simple. I gasp.

  “We only met a little while ago, but I’ve never been so sure of anything, Bella. I’ve never felt more compatible with another human being. We share the same values, we both have a passion for wildlife, you love Chunky, and I can’t stop thinking about your naked body. We—”

  I press my finger to his lips. “You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to offer oral arguments. Yes.”

  “We make a great team, and I offer that we’re even compatible at home, dividing up chores in the kitchen.”

  “Yes. Tate. Yes. I don’t need convincing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, love, I’m so sure. I’ve never been surer of anything, than I am with you right now. I want to be yours. Forever.”

  His bottom lip trembles, and then he grins. He fumbles for the ring, nearly dropping it as he takes it out of the box. I wipe tears off my cheek with one hand as I offer him my other. The ring slides on easily.

  “I love you,” I say, when he stands and scoops me into his arms.

  “I love you. I planned on asking you at dinner tonight. Then I got home and received your note. Realized we had some cross communication, and then I came here. I was about to knock on your door when I saw you kiss a guy in the hall.”

  “That was Jacques,” I grin.

  “I figured that out after I drowned my sorrows in a couple of drinks. I read your Facebook post. I was so worried you’d moved on, though.”

  “I’m sorry about that note I left at your house. I panicked instead of talking it out with you. I needed a few hours in my own space.” I sniffle.

  He hugs me tight. “Don’t apologize. It’s understandable. I’ve also come to another conclusion.”

  I pull back, practically trembling from joy. “What’s that?”

  “I’m not running for office.”

  I squeeze his biceps through his suit and frown. “What? Why?”

  He shakes his head. “I told myself that if you’d have me—if you said yes—then I wouldn’t.”

  “But Tate, I don’t want you to give up something so important to you. The environment here needs you.” That familiar feeling of dread seeps into my gut. “Is it because of me and the Bar investigation? Because of the potential scandal I’ve caused? I don’t want my issues to prevent you from doing what you want.”

  He kisses my forehead, sending a shimmer through me. “No. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He traces my cheek with the back of his fingers. “Running for office isn’t compatible with getting engaged. I want to focus my time on you. On us. I don’t want to be out late at debates when I could be home with you, reading on the sofa. I don’t want to be knocking on doors asking for votes when we could be kayaking. I don’t want to shake hands at campaign events when I could be home making love to you. Get it? You’re my priority.”

  “You’re willing to sacrifice your dream for me?” I ask in disbelief.

  “I don’t think of it as a sacrifice. I think I’ve already won by you saying yes to my proposal. I’ve found my person. Maybe in a few years we can talk about whether I should run, and we can approach it as a team.”

  I melt into his arms, hugging him as tight as I possibly can. No one’s ever put me as an emotional priority before. Sure, I’ve been part of a royal family and have been fussed over and served. But servitude and organic love are two different things. One is hollow and forced and this? It’s real. Honest. Raw.

  I’ve found my person.

  I sigh contentedly while Tate takes an audible sniff. “Did you say you were going to take a shower?”

  Laughing, I wriggle out of his arms. “Yeah, I’m a little stinky from cleaning the turtle tanks.”

  “Want company in that shower?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Yes, please,” I say quickly, grabbing his hand.

  I pull him into the bathroom, my mood giddy. I don’t wait for him to undress me; I shuck my clothes immediately after I turn the shower knob. He does the same, yanking his tie off and allowing his expensive suit to lie in a heap on the floor.

  Now, the showers in the Paradise Beach suites are exquisite. They’re separate from the tub, massive, rectangular shaped glass stalls. The one in my suite has a square dinner-plate sized nozzle that hangs from the ceiling, allowing the water to flow like rain.

  We’re both laughing as the hot spray hits us. I rinse off first, figuring that I should out of sheer politeness, given how much I smell.

  “You asked me to marry you even though I smelled like turtle,” I giggle.

  Tate grabs a bottle of shower gel and squirts a dollop into his big hands. “Come here. I’m going to make sure you’re nice and clean so we can get really dirty.”

  His hands go to my breasts, and my eyes go to his thick erection. I lean against the tile wall, out of the direct spray, moaning as he soaps up my chest and belly, then my arms. His hands return to my breasts and stay there for a long while.

  “You know how to instantly relax me and turn me on. It’s like magic.”

  He kneels and skims the suds down my legs, teasing me by skimming the seam of my sex. I work the water into his hair as he slides his finger into my folds and moan.

  “God, yes,” I whisper, hoping he will soon use his tongue on me.

  “Not yet, babe.” He rises, and I whimper.

  Taking me by the shoulders, he turns me around so I’m facing the wall. I allow my eyelids to flutter shut as he soaps my entire backside, sliding and gliding down my body. For a few delicious moments, he presses himself against me, his cock rubbing against my ass while he rains kisses and bites down my neck.

  I arch my back, pressing my ass against him.

  “Not yet,” he says again.

  I let out a noise of impatience that dissolves into a mewl of pleasure. He’s working shampoo into my hair. Oh God. This is a close second to an orgasm. My entire body tingles as he massages my scalp.

  “Tip your head back,” he says in a gentle voice.

  With a correspondingly soft touch, he rinses my hair. It feels so good that tears leak from my eyes. All my life, I’ve been catered to. Every whim, every desire, every bodily function. If I want something, it’s at my beck and call as a royal.

  But this is the first time I’ve been cared for. Tate is caring for me.

 
; “There,” he says, turning me around again.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply as the water streams down his muscular back. “I love you,” I murmur against his mouth, “to the stars and back.”

  I reach for his erection, taking his hard length into my hand. He grins. “I’m not finished with the clean and dirty stuff.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

  “Sit.” He sweeps the seven little bottles of shower gel and shampoo off the wide tile shelf that serves as an in-shower bench. I sink down, and he drops to his knees.

  My fingers comb his wet, dark hair back and we lock eyes. There’s only pure love reflected to each other, and I grin.

  “I always thought my engagement day would be a stiff, formal affair,” I say. “There would be an announcement, tea and crumpets, and awkward photos for the media.”

  “You didn’t think you’d smell like a turtle?”

  I giggle. “Nope.”

  He kisses my knee. “Or that your husband-to-be would take you into the shower and wash your hair and soap down your body?”

  “Nope. But I think that’s an amazing engagement tradition that should commence immediately for women across the globe. It gives a new meaning to the words bridal shower.”

  We laugh and kiss sloppily.

  “Did you imagine your fiancé would do this minutes after proposing?” He puts both hands on my knees and opens my legs. With a maddeningly slow cadence, he trails his tongue up my thigh, licking the droplets of water on my skin. His stubble sends pleasurable sensations across by body, giving me goosebumps and sending a fresh flood of wetness to my core.

  When his mouth goes between my legs, his tongue on my now-throbbing clit, I inhale sharply.

  “No. I didn’t imagine my fiancé would do this after proposing. But I love it. And I love you.”

  Epilogue

  Isabella

  I stretch my legs onto the bow of the sailboat, then ease back onto the towel, the Florida summer sun warming my face.

  We’re with Tate’s brother. This is his 28-foot boat, a Benetau that’s basically Remy’s floating apartment. He stays here most nights, but occasionally sleeps at their parents’ home on the island when he wants to do laundry.

  It’s a comfortable boat, in need of a bit of repair. But it’s equipped with the perfect deck for sunbathing. “Maybe we should get a sailboat,” I say in a soft voice to Tate. “This is lots of fun.”

  One of my hands reaches for Chunky, who is wearing a red life vest specially made for dogs. He has the appearance of a tomato with a handle, and my heart can’t handle the adorableness. Every time I look at him, I make a cooing noise.

  My other hand finds Tate’s. I turn my head to look at my fiancé, who is stretched out on his side. “This was such a great idea, coming out here today with your brother.”

  “We’ve been working too hard. You know I like to play as hard as I work.”

  A growl escapes my mouth. “I know how you like to play. And what you like to play with.”

  “Don’t tempt me, princess,” he murmurs, leaning in so he can press his lips to mine.

  We laze and kiss in the hot sun. If Remy wasn’t at the stern, navigating the boat gently through the electric blue water just off Paradise Beach, we’d probably drop anchor and make love right here. As it is, every time Tate traces the triangle of my bikini cups and dips his finger between my cleavage, I feel a pool of desire between my legs.

  “Stop that,” I whisper. “We’re going to have to control ourselves.”

  He chuckles. “You know that’s not in my wheelhouse when I’m around you.”

  The feeling is mutual. We’ve been engaged two months, and I can’t get enough of him.

  After he proposed, the following weeks were a whirlwind. Tate announced that he wasn’t running for office, and several of his backers were disappointed. His brother, Max, was one of them, but relaxed when he saw how happy we are together. Even uptight Max isn’t immune to the charms of love. I’d also like to think it’s because I’ve become quite close with his fiancée, Lauren.

  Also, the Bar investigation against Tate was dropped with no reason given. Tate maintains it was a would-be political opponent, which filled me with anger. If there’s anything I hate, it’s bullying and injustice. Not angry enough that I wanted him to get back in the race, though.

  I adore having him all to myself.

  When he’s at his office, I’m at the turtle sanctuary. Once my community service hours were complete, the organization brought me on as a paid volunteer coordinator. The paycheck isn’t much, but that’s fine with me. It’s important, interesting work, and the more I read about turtle habitat in Florida, the more fascinated I become. I’m thinking of collaborating with Lauren on a coffee table book about Florida turtles to raise money for the sanctuary—she’s been taking photos, and I’ve been documenting this year’s hatchlings.

  And if things couldn’t go any better, Mother and Father arrived for a royal visit. They announced to the press that even though their daughter renounced her title, she’s still the love of their lives. They used that phrase, shockingly.

  They met Tate and his family, and while Mr. Hastings grumbled about how Americans don’t kowtow to royalty because it goes against the foundations of the U.S.A., he and my dad bonded over a shared love of European soccer. Mother was a little puzzled when Mrs. Hastings gave her a tarot card reading but whatever. We all just laughed.

  Now, on the boat, life seems to be slowing to a pace that we both love. At least for the afternoon. I doze in the warm sun, a content smile on my face. A few moments later, I wake, alone. I look up to find Tate, Remy, and Chunky at the stern. The boat isn’t moving, and we’re softly bobbing in gin-clear water.

  “We’re dropping anchor,” Tate says. “Wanna swim?”

  Remy attaches a ladder off the side of the boat, and Tate climbs overboard and submerges himself. When he surfaces, he beckons with his hand. “C’mon in! It’s perfect,” he calls out.

  I follow, climbing down the ladder. The water’s not too deep—chest high—and I paddle around in the soothingly cool water, diving down to touch the sandy bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. When I’m satisfied, I swim over to Tate and climb onto his back. He cuts through the water, with me riding him.

  We spend an hour splashing around, even coaxing Chunky in for a few minutes. “Oh god, he’s like a floating tomato,” I squeal, watching his dog paddle.

  Back on the boat, the three of us eat sandwiches and drink beers in the cockpit, under the shade of the boat’s white canopy awning. Chunky gets two of his special diet cookie bones.

  “It really is Paradise,” I say softly, looking out over the blue water.

  “See over there,” Tate points to a spit of sugar-white sand that’s punctuated with a few scraggly palm trees. The entire island is about six hundred yards long and half as narrow. “That’s called Beer Can Island.”

  “It’s where we used to boat to in high school and get fucked up,” Remy adds. “Do you know how many times I puked under that palm tree?”

  “That might be why it’s dying,” Tate says. “They’ve cracked down on the parties, and it’s more of a family spot now. I’m surprised we don’t see anyone out here today.”

  “Yeah, I am too, it being so close to the mainland. I wonder if that’s an abandoned kayak, or what.” Remy gestures on the far end of the sandy spit, where a blue plastic kayak lies on the shore.

  Just then, something in the water catches my eye. I turn in my seat so I’m sitting on my knees, looking over the boat’s rail. “Is that a manatee?” I ask, excited.

  Tate mirrors my stance. “I doubt it. Usually they only come in these waters in the winter.”

  I push my bottom lip into a pout. “You know how much I want to see one in the wild. I feel like I’m the only person who hasn’t seen one.”

  “We’ll go up to Crystal River and swim with them in January. Promise. Hey, what the hell is that, anyway?” Tate
points in the distance.

  Now Remy’s looking over the side, too, and Chunky’s next to him, balancing on his hind legs, his front paws on the rail, looking like a tomato with legs and bulging eyes. He whimpers, and I stroke his head.

  “What is it, bear prince?” I ask

  The form in the water is blue and green, shimmering and undulating like a mirage. I blink rapidly. Could it be a dolphin?

  “That’s odd. It looks like a person with a blue mermaid tail. Am I hallucinating because it’s so hot?” I wonder aloud.

  “No, that’s a person swimming with a mermaid tail. A woman,” Remy says. “Wearing a bikini top.”

  “Of course you’d notice that detail, you perv,” Tate teases.

  The swimmer comes toward us. Her long hair is a dark gold color and fans in the water as she swims, face down, in our direction. Then she surfaces at an angle to where we’re sitting, bobbing and slicking her tresses back. I don’t think she notices us, or if she has, she’s not acknowledging.

  I giggle. “It’s a mermaid, indeed.”

  “What the hell is she doing out here? Is that her kayak?” Tate pauses, then snaps his fingers. “Maybe she’s one of those people trying out for that kitschy new bar on the island, the one that’s going to have the live mermaid shows in a tank. Have you heard about that?”

  She bobs in the water, then dips under the surface, swimming closer. Her fake tail starts at her hips, and is molded perfectly to her body, allowing her to slip through the water with a grace I can only dream of. Her tail whips and flicks underwater, exactly like a fish. She swims fast, back and forth, turning with serpentine movements. She’s like poetry in the water, and I’m thoroughly entertained by this little bit of magic here off-shore.

  “Amazing,” Remy whispers. “Holy shit. She’s gorgeous.”

  The woman pops up again, this time closer to the boat, and grins up at the three of us. She bends her knee so her tail’s behind her, and her arms make little movements so she’s treading water. Her eyes are the color of the Gulf—electric blue. Her lips are a cherry red, which must be the world’s most waterproof lipstick. I suspect she’s also wearing fake eyelashes and ponder how she manages that while also admiring her bikini top, which is the same shimmery blue-green color as her tail.