by Helen Hardt
It gave me something to think about while I was banking airline and hotel points on my three-week junket for CFA.
“Ready, Britt?” Seymour rambled into the conference room, slicked up for the meeting; he’d swapped out his usual flannel shirt for a forest-green sports coat. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you put together. I don’t usually let the junior account executives develop campaigns on their own, but most of them aren’t emotionally invested in their subject matter.”
“This wasn’t just another assignment,” I admitted. “If I hadn’t gone to Isla Tortuga Verde and seen their struggle firsthand, I’m not sure I would have had enough depth or insight to create a truly compelling campaign.”
“How’s that li’l fella you told me about?” Seymour took his seat at the head of the long glass-topped table.
For a second, I thought he meant Luka. “He’s—”
“That baby who almost didn’t make it.”
He meant Ana’s baby.
“He’s doing great. He went home a few weeks ago. His mom emails a new picture every week.”
The most recent photo was part of my presentation.
Louella cleared her throat from the open door. “Your guests have arrived, Mr. Drummond.”
“Thanks, Lou.” Seymour caught my eye and mouthed, “Good luck.”
I knotted my fingers behind my back to hide their trembling. I wasn’t worried about the presentation. It was still far from finished, but the core was solid. Successful storytelling marketing required a story worth sharing, and Luka had provided that in spades. Seeing Luka after two and a half months and awaiting his reaction to the presentation was what had me shaking in my Louboutins.
“Hello, Britt.” Alistair Deacons, a public health official with the state of Colorado, was the first through the door. He bent to kiss my cheek.
We’d become well-acquainted during the collaboration between CFA and Drummond, especially after I learned he was expecting his first grandchild. His son and daughter-in-law were due around the same time as Mona and Nick.
“I’d like to introduce you to my father, Stanford Deacons.”
The elder Deacons bore a striking resemblance to his son. Both were tall and rail-thin with kind blue eyes and curly dark hair, Alistair’s significantly less gray that his father’s.
Stanford was deep in conversation with Doc Rodriguez. It was easy to tell the two were good friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time by the way their heads tilted in and the fact that Stanford hadn’t heard his son’s introduction.
“Dad.” Alistair laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “You and Dr. Rodriguez can continue your visit after the meeting. He’s here through the weekend, and I invited him to stay at the house with us. This is the young woman I’ve been telling you about.”
Stanford and Doc swung their attention to me, and I smiled politely, but like them, my attention was elsewhere. Beyond them, in the hallway and at the back of the group, was Luka.
“Where is dat gal? I need a hug and a squeeze.” Martina shouldered her way into the conference room, a wide smile lighting up her brown eyes. “What is dis? Where is my island girl? Dis Miz Business Lady.”
“Let me read your T-shirt, and then hugs.” I straightened the hem so I could read the tie-dyed fabric. “It’s better at the beach.”
I agreed one hundred percent.
“Everyone on da island miss ya.” She threw her arms around me and mashed me into her huge bosom, whispering, “Doctor Man most of all.”
“That’s your place over there.” I pointed to a chair with a large giftbag on the seat. “I wanted your collection to be complete, so you’ve got T-shirts from all of the Denver sports teams and tourist attractions. I think your favorite will be the one from a local vegan restaurant.”
Seymour and I exchanged a look and grinned.
My introductions to Stanford and Doc were perfunctory. They moved to the end of the table and started a chat with Seymour while Alistair moved the line along. Two other board members, the head of public relations, and the chief financial officer. Luka was last.
He looked amazing. Hot and successful and confident. He’d made the transition from tropical island doctor to corporate spokesman effortlessly. He’d gotten a haircut that emphasized his angular cheekbones, now smooth but with a hint of a five o’clock shadow. In his navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, with a hint of something wild and rugged beneath, he could have posed for GQ.
“Hello, Britt.” He didn’t extend his hand or lean in for a hug. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’m glad you could be here, Doctor Stanic.” I held my smile, the tight false stretch taking me back to Mona and Nick’s wedding. I straightened my spine and squared my shoulders. Our reunion was not going down like this. Master Po and I had been having a lot of discussions lately. Convos that sounded like:
Speak your truth.
Love finds a way.
No risk, no reward.
Okay, maybe I saw that on one of Martina’s T-shirts.
Tell the guy you’re in love with him.
That nugget came from Mona.
“If you aren’t busy after the meeting, I thought we could…catch up.” I pictured our tryst on Shark Rock and used my psychic powers to share the memories with him.
It must have worked because the shuttered expression on his face cracked, and I saw a glimmer of my Luka. The man who cared enough to slather my boobs with sunscreen before he fondled them. The guy who drank frou-frou cocktails like mango bellinis with nary a care that some might question his manhood. The doctor who dedicated his life to his patients, and his heart to—
That’s what I intended to find out.
“Hurry. Up.” He spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard him, but there was no missing the heated look he gave me.
It was the first time I gave a presentation with soaked panties.
12
Luka
I stood outside the glass office building where Britt worked. The Drummond Agency had a suite of offices on the twentieth floor with a stunning panorama of the Rocky Mountains west of downtown Denver. It didn’t compare to the view from Corcova Mountain, though.
My head was spinning. From the fact that Britt was close enough to touch, from the campaign presentation, but mostly from Alistair Deacons’s invitation to come work at the Care For All Denver headquarters. I felt like I’d killed a case of Red Stripe at high noon in August. Heat and alcohol don’t mix. It’s a crappy buzz followed by a hangover that’s the equivalent of lying in a puddle of puke with flies buzzing up your nose.
Don’t ask how I know. Just trust me on this one.
“Isn’t Friday game night with your family?” I stood next to Britt, waiting to see what happened next.
“I told my family I had other plans.” She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. “Whew. I’m glad that’s over. Are you hungry? There’s a microbrewery down the block that has a great IPA. If you want steak, I’d recommend Guard and Grace.”
I didn’t know this Britt. This woman in high heels and a fitted silk suit, hair elaborately coiled, nails manicured, and artfully applied makeup asking me about IPAs and steakhouses was a Stepford version of the playful, uninhibited woman who’d whipped off her bikini top and pranced into the Caribbean Sea and then got on her knees and sucked my cock.
Maybe I’d misinterpreted her signals. I thought “catch up” was code for make love. I thought the intense eye contact between us as she narrated the presentation was an indicator of where her attention lay. I thought the diamond sheen in her eyes was happiness when I was the second person to give her a standing ovation after viewing the TV commercial she’d created to promote public donations to CFA—the first person being Martina, of course.
“I don’t have much of an appetite.” I shoved my hands in my pants pockets.
“Hmm, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I think I’ll head back to my room.”
The Drummond Agency
had reserved rooms for Martina and me at the Ritz-Carlton. “On the concierge level,” pointed out Martina to six or seven other guests when we first arrived.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Britt tucked her arm through mine.
I was stunned—a little confused and a lot hopeful—as we walked the three blocks to the hotel. She kept hold of me the entire way, burrowing closer when a group of young women, one wearing a pink sash that read “Bride,” crammed into the elevator. Neither of us said a thing as we walked the length of the hall to my room.
Once inside, Britt slipped out of her shoes and did something that sent her hair spilling over her shoulders. I relaxed in response to the change in her appearance and toed off my own footwear. It had been years since I wore leather dress shoes and a suit.
“How are your sister and brother-in-law? Did you find out if they’re having a girl or boy?” I sat on the edge of the bed, sweat trickling down my back despite the air conditioning.
I didn’t know where to start. The lines I’d rehearsed were nothing more than a word salad in my cranium. It would be so much easier to have this conversation with a plate of fish tacos and round of bellinis.
“Oh, Luka. I don’t want to talk about my family or the clinic or the campaign or anything else right now.” She stood at the window, backlit by the setting sun, hands loose at her sides, eyes dark with longing. “I want to talk about us.”
“Is there an us?” I so wanted to create something with Britt—an us, a home, a life together, a baby.
“There could be.” She crossed the room and knelt between my legs.
God, she was so much braver than I was. If she was willing to start the conversation, I’d better find the balls to keep it going. The problem was that so much was riding on this discussion. If she didn’t feel the same or if she wasn’t willing to meet me halfway, there was no way we could make a relationship work. Hoping was safer than failing.
But hoping wouldn’t get me Britt.
Just do it.
Martina had been wearing that T-shirt a lot lately. It suddenly made sense.
I bolted off the bed, sending Britt onto her ass. She landed on her elbows, skirt hiked, knees wide, giving me a splendid view of her pink thong. I forced my gaze away.
“I love you. I want to spend my life with you, but hell if I know how to make that work when you’re a Denver city girl and I’m a doctor on a small tropical island.” I realized I was shouting and toned it down. “Alistair Deacons offered me a position here in Denver. If you’re serious about us, I’ll take the job.”
“He what?” Britt’s eyes widened.
“He didn’t get into specifics. Just said they’d love to add me to the team at headquarters.”
She started laughing. Not a snicker or chuckle but all-out can’t talk, can’t breathe, can’t stop belly laughs.
Right then, I wanted her more than I ever had.
Levered up on her elbows, head tossed back, wine-red hair brushing the floor, throat arched, knees spread, she was everything bold and vibrant and glorious. I didn’t know why she was laughing but it didn’t matter.
“Alistair…he…” She started giggling again. “He…offered me…a job, too.” Britt looked at me, and I realized she was crying. “He offered me a job on Isla Tortuga Verde. Care For All wants to open a series of regional offices. It’s part of the new campaign. A boots-on-the-ground sort of thing.”
“Fuck. Does everyone know we’re in love except us?” I liked Alistair Deacons a whole lot more now than I had earlier when I saw him kiss Britt hello.
“I know I love you. And you said you love me.” She sat up, expression sobering. “We’d have to make some big decisions, but we have options.”
I offered Britt my hand and helped her up, circling my arms around her waist. “There’s only one thing I need right now. That’s you. Naked. On the bed. Over the back of the chair. In the shower. Tits pressed against the window while I take you from behind. Take your pick.”
“You know I like it when you talk like that.” She unbuttoned her blouse, slow and deliberate, teasing me.
I spun her around and unbuttoned her skirt, shoving it over her hips. I helped her out of her jacket like a gentleman would, but my patience ran out. Hand between her shoulder blades, I bent her over the bed, so she was leaning on her palms. I shoved her thong out of the way so I could slide two fingers inside her as I fumbled with my belt and zipper.
The succulent sound of her wet juices made me harder. I pulled my cock free and guided it into her, sinking as deep as I could. It wasn’t enough. I gripped her hips and pulled her closer until I felt my balls nestled in the heat of her slit. She contracted the muscles in her vagina, holding onto me, tightening around me until it felt like the only thing tethering me to the world was this intimate, erotic connection.
I began pumping in and out of her, slow and shallow at first, rubbing the sensitive crown against the rim of her opening. When my balls tightened, I curved an arm under her hips and pounded into her. Again. Again. Again.
“More, Luka.” Braced on one arm, she began fingering her clit. She spread her legs wider so I could go deeper. “Harder.”
Her command gave me permission to not hold back.
I closed my eyes, insatiable lust and expansive love insistently demanding release.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.” Each love came with a powerful thrust of my hips that made her ass and tits jiggle. “I love you…ahhhh!”
Her scream followed my shout as we came together. Her walls spasmed against my cock, our hearts a crazy duet of ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. My legs gave out, and we tumbled onto the bed. She wiggled her backside against my groin so my still-hard cock remained inside her.
“I didn’t plan our reunion sex to be like that.” I smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her earlobe. “I wanted it to be slow and romantic.”
“Fucking can be romantic.” She reached behind and tugged at my dress pants, which rode just below my hips. “A guy who wants you so bad he doesn’t even wait to get his clothes off? And who tells you over and over again how much he loves you while hitting just the right spot as you play with your clit for a whole-body orgasm? I’ll take that over flowers and chocolates any day.”
I kissed her neck and inhaled the scent of perfume, perspiration, and sex. It made me want her again, this time straddling my lap and riding my cock as I stared into her eyes and watched her expression shift from joy to wonder to bliss.
Then a thought came to me. “There’s still time to make game night with your family.”
Her breathing stilled for a moment, then resumed. “You’d trade more awesome sex for Cards Against Humanity?”
“No. I’d delay more awesome sex for the opportunity to meet your parents, sister, and brother-in-law.”
“We have a little bit of time,” she drawled, dragging my fingers to her mons. “I really, really missed your mouth.”
“All you have to do is ask, Britt.”
I waited until she mounded the pillows behind her and opened her legs in invitation.
One taste of her sweet juices, and I knew we were going to be late.
Didn’t matter.
We had all the time in the world.
Mango Bellini
1 cup fresh diced mango
3 tbsp fresh squeezed lime juice
1 bottle Prosecco
* * *
Put the mango into a blender with the lime juice. Blend until it is a smooth purée. If it is having trouble blending, add 2-4 tablespoons of the Prosecco or of water. Note that some blenders will never get rid of some of the bigger pieces. You can put a bowl under a colander with big holes and strain your purée through there to remove larger chunks. Chill the puree if you so desire.
Stir the mango puree. Measure about 2 tablespoons into each of 6 wine flutes. Carefully top each glass with Prosecco.
Proportions: One part mango puree to two parts Prosecco.
Serves 6
Abou
t the Author
EmKay Connor is the author of #sexysassy contemporary romantic fiction infused with quirky humor and engaging characters. Her bright and breezy instalove romances are set in tropical locations and glamorous destinations where her heroes and heroines discover passion and fall in love.
Her manuscripts have finaled and won numerous contests, including RWA's prestigious Golden Heart.
She lives, writes, and drinks coffee in northeastern Florida. Visit her at http://sexysassyromance.com/, and subscribe to her newsletter here: https://www.subscribepage.com/EmKayConnor.
Her Perfect Guy
Lyz Kelley
1
Devon Gaines plastered a smile on her face, because best friends supported each other, even if one was hurting inside.
Her life was about to forever change, and the pending reality made the emptiness inside her expand.
Kayla Lewis, Devon’s bestie, danced out of the five-star hotel lobby, down the steps, and over the bridge toward the pool that wove through the sprawling beach complex. Reaching out her arms, Kayla twirled. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening. We’re in Jamaica, and I’m getting married!”
Devon managed to keep up with Kayla’s skipping steps as they made a beeline for the Caribbean blue-tiled swimming pool and nearest vacant table, which happened to be complete with a white umbrella sitting at the perfect angle to protect them from the intense summer sun.
A cute server wearing white shorts and an untucked polo shirt appeared to take their drink order and was back in minutes with two cucumber and mint detox smoothies.
While the server set the filled-to-the-brim glasses on the hotel’s signature pink flamingo cardboard coasters, Kayla chatted about the adorableness of the yellow-and-orange paper parasol toothpicks holding the flower-shaped melon balls.
Kayla had every reason to be excited. In Devon’s opinion, Kayla was marrying her dream guy—her perfect soul mate—and the only person Kayla’s heart had ever throbbed for. If only Devon could experience a tenth of Kayla’s joy.