Beach Reads

by Adriana Locke

  “I’m going to come,” I panted as I continued to ride him. “Carson, I want you to come with me.”

  The moment he pressed his thumb down on my clit, I exploded into a million pieces. He followed soon after, moaning my name and thrusting up into me one last time.

  I collapsed on his chest, breathing hard. Realization hit me that this was it. I’d had a holiday fling and the best sex of my life with a man who would be someone else’s happily ever after one day. Someone I hoped would realize she was the luckiest girl in the world.

  It felt surreal saying goodbye to someone you’d just spent three days having mind-blowing sex with, but that was exactly what we did two hours later. Just him, me, and Waikiki Beach.

  “It was really nice meeting you, Carson Reeves,” I said, rising on my tiptoes and brushing my lips across his. “Thanks again for being my knight in shining armor.”

  “You going to give me a real goodbye kiss or what?” he growled, pulling me flush against his body and wrapping his arms around me to lock me in.

  Our lips sealed together in a searing kiss that belonged in the bedroom and not on the sand of one of the world’s busiest beaches. But at this point, I couldn’t care less about who saw us. This was our farewell kiss, and I planned on getting everything I could out of it. I clutched the edge of his shirt as we devoured, tasted, nibbled, and took everything we were offering each other. His hands dropped to my ass, and mine went to his hair. We kissed until we were breathing heavy and our bodies were on fire. Until I knew my panties were soaked and he was adjusting himself.

  “And meeting you, Gabrielle Mackenzie, will be something I never forget,” he murmured against my lips, kissing me lightly one final time. “Remember what I said. You deserve the world. Nothing less.”

  Reluctantly, we parted. We both knew what this was from the beginning, but it didn’t stop the ache I felt at the thought of getting in the Uber waiting to take Ebony and me to the airport. We hadn’t exchanged numbers, but I had a feeling Ebony took care of that. He lived the life of a nomad. Here, there, and everywhere. I had roots and had no plans on leaving the place I grew up. Three days was what we had. Three days that would stick with me for the rest of my life.

  “Gabs we’ve got to go,” Ebony called from the window and offered a slight smile.

  “Well, you heard the lady. My chariot awaits.”

  He nodded. “Is this where we say we hate goodbyes?”

  I pouted and laid it on thick. “It’s not goodbye. It’s see you soon.”

  “Did you just quote a movie to me.” He scoffed.

  “Damn right, I did.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Get out of here, Gabrielle Mackenzie.”

  I shot him a wink over my shoulder as I wheeled my suitcase to the waiting Uber.

  “Oh, Gabby,” he called after me.

  I stopped and turned back to look at him.

  “Stay away from men who wear red polo shirts; they’re bad fucking news. And anyone named Brad. I hear they’ve got no idea how to use their dicks and leave women very unsatisfied. You dodge a bullet with that one, babe.”

  I shook my head at him as laughter bubbled inside me. Sliding in beside Ebony, I felt her clasp my hand and squeeze it.

  “You okay?” she asked, softly.

  I looked at her and smiled. “I’m more than okay.”

  And I really was.

  I started this trip in a solemn mood with battered confidence and a cheating ex plaguing my mind. A holiday fling was the last thing I wanted, but what I didn’t realize was how much I truly needed it. Now, I was heading home with my confidence restored, a body with the dull, pleasant ache of spectacular sex, and the determination to start the next chapter of my life. Free of cheating exes, bitchy friends, and an uneventful sex life.

  Carson Reeves.

  Hawaii.

  Three days.

  That was all I needed to change my entire life.

  Now, I could officially say …

  Holiday fling—done.

  But as they always say, life does work in mysterious ways.

  Was anything ever really done?

  I guess time would tell.

  The Vacation

  Adriana Locke

  Also By

  The Exception Series

  The Exception

  The Connection, a novella

  The Perception

  The Exception Series Box Set

  * * *

  The Landry Family Series

  Sway

  Swing

  Switch

  Swear

  Swink

  Sweet - coming Summer 2018

  The Landry Family Series Box Set

  * * *

  The Gibson Boys Series

  Crank

  Craft

  Cross, a novella

  Crave—coming Spring 2018

  * * *

  Standalone Novels

  Sacrifice

  Wherever It Leads

  Written in the Scars

  Battle of the Sexes

  Lucky Number Eleven

  12 Days Until Sunday—coming fall 2018

  * * *

  For an email every time Adriana has a new release, sign up for an alert here: http://bit.ly/AmazonAlertAddy or text the word adriana to 21000.

  One

  The salty breeze glides through the small seaside cantina. Chimes dangling from the exposed beams overhead jingle faintly and, if I were so inclined, I could close my eyes and drift off to sleep. I am not, however, ready for a nap. I’m way too hungry. Reading will do that to you.

  How reading has never been classified as a sport has always boggled my mind. A good book leaves you tense and breathless. And, if you’re reading the right kind of story, there’s sweat. Exhaustion. And balls. Sometimes more than one, depending on the genre.

  My grilled chicken entrée is placed before me, along with a fresh margarita. Every hesitation I had about coming to San Diego alone for the weekend melts away with every sip of the tequila-infused drink. Who knew I even liked tequila? Not me. Or maybe that was just my second ex-husband’s concoction that was more like jet fuel than a mixed drink. This one is perfection.

  This is perfection.

  No kids. No ex-husbands. No ex-husbands’ new wives. No library patrons that claim to never have checked out a certain book that’s been overdue for six months or a boss that says “Yes” to every suggestion by the public and follows it with, “Here, Collins. Can you handle this?”

  Collins is tired of handling his shit. And Joe’s shit. And Kyle’s shit. Let their wives and their fake smiles handle their shit. I. Am. Done.

  And a little tipsy, quite possibly.

  Grabbing a lime from the little basket on the center of the table, I roll it around with the palm of my hand. I saw a chef on television do this with her perfectly manicured fingers as she explained this action helps release the fruit juices. Now seems a like a good time to try this.

  It doesn’t look any different—no more round or soft than it was before. I grab a knife and begin to slide it through the skin when it hits another type of skin. Mine.

  “Ouch!” I hiss. The knife clamors against the side of my plate and hits the table.

  Without looking, I pull paper napkins out of the holder next to the salt and pepper and wrap them around my finger. It pulses as if it might explode right off my body.

  My lips go dry. My mouth waters like it does right before you vomit. It’s not a good look or a good feeling and all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t pass out.

  The napkins don’t feel tacky. Maybe there’s no blood.

  My stomach knots so hard I cringe.

  I don’t do blood. I can’t even think about it. That was ruined for me in one particular nursing school class the day before I switched my career path to something less barbaric. What could be safer than a library?

  You’re too safe, Collins. You’re the least spontaneous person I know. You can’t walk around in b
ubble wrap your entire life.

  Fuck you and your words that still sting, Kyle.

  That’s the last coherent through I have before focusing my attention on the tinkling of the chimes. Maybe when I open my eyes, I’ll—

  “Excuse me. Are you okay?”

  My eyes shoot open at the deep, smooth timbre of a voice I’m one thousand percent sure I don’t know. As my gaze latches onto irises the color of the ocean in the morning, I drop the napkins.

  “Shit,” I mutter, scrambling to pick them up without looking at my finger. When I notice they’re all still clean—i.e.: not red—I blow out a deep, thankful breath.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Oh!” I divert my attention back to the man in front of me. Flush spreads across my cheeks. “I’m fine …”

  My voice trails off as I take him in. He grins but doesn’t say anything. He just stands there in his blue button-up and dark denim jeans that display a trim waist and what I’m sure is a set of muscled thighs. A set of cheekbones are carved just under those baby blues and just above a hard jawline.

  Words, Collins. Use words. You love them. Use them.

  His lips part in a practiced way, as if he’s attempting to appear neutral but is really hiding amusement.

  “I’m fine,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “I cut myself, but it’s fine.” Flipping my attention to my finger, I see a clean little line on the tip. I can’t feel the pain over the adrenaline rushing through my veins full tilt.

  “If you’d like me to take a look, I will. I’m a doctor.”

  That would require you touching me and I might faint.

  Come to think of it, that would require CPR.

  My eyes go to his mouth, now curled into an undeniable smirk, and I hope my whimper was only in my head.

  “Like a medical doctor?” I ask, sitting taller. Like you care. “Not a veterinarian or something, right?”

  The smirk gives way to a laugh. “I have a medical license in the state of Arizona. Dr. Connor Manning, if you’d like to look it up.”

  “I trust you,” I say.

  “Trust? Yikes. This got serious fast,” he jokes.

  “Honestly,” I say, wadding the napkins up and putting them on the edge of the table, “I have major trust issues. Sort of. I mean, I’ll trust the guy selling me a television even though I know he wants to sell me the most expensive one. I can respect that, you know? He needs to make a living and it’s a television. Nothing life-changing. He’s not selling me on him.”

  “You clearly don’t watch the right shows if you don’t think a television can be life-changing.”

  “Shows are so unbelievable now,” I groan. “Like the woman dies holding the hand of the man she loves, we all know it, only to find out she’s really ‘in love’ with her ex,” I say, using air quotes. “But she’s not. She doesn’t love him. She loved the first guy. The one she was meant to be with. So that whole ending is just … That’s not how happy endings work.”

  “Maybe not all endings are happy.”

  “Who wants to watch an unhappy ending?” I gasp. “I have a life full of mediocre-to-crappy endings. If I’m investing my time in something fictional, show me the fictional happy because we know it doesn’t exist in reality.”

  He bursts into laughter. Shaking his head, he grips the top of the chair across from me. His forearms flex as he moves his fingers, his oversized watch catching the light, and I’m suddenly propelled back to reality.

  “Anyway, back to trust,” I say, slowing myself. “I trust facts. I will trust that you’re a doctor because you aren’t my doctor. Why do I care? I just don’t trust people. Everyone is a jackass on some level.”

  “I can’t really argue that. People are jackasses. That’s why I’m here.” He makes a face like he just bit into one of the limes in front of him.

  “Here? In the cantina? Or San Diego?”

  I have no business asking this. It’s probably a really personal thing and he’s going to look at me like I’ve overstepped my bounds and disappear into the sunset.

  Well, probably not because he’d be more beautiful than the sunset and couldn’t really disappear.

  He holds my gaze for a long second, my insides heating with each passing moment. The air between us swirls, delivering bursts of his warm-scented cologne across the table.

  “My half brother is a jackass,” he says finally. “Long story short—Cane, my half brother, and I were supposed to do a golf charity event this weekend in Palm Springs. He backed out at the last minute.”

  “So, you live here?”

  “Nope. Phoenix. But I already had a plane ticket and was flying here first anyway to deliver a presentation at a hospital. So … here I am.”

  I start to respond when the server interrupts us.

  “Sir? Can I get you something?” he asks Connor.

  Connor looks at me, then back to the server. “I actually have an order. I was sitting at the bar.”

  “Was sitting, sir? Or should I move you here with the lady?”

  My stomach flutters like a handful of butterflies were released inside it. Connor raises a brow as he takes in my reaction.

  My breath is stolen again as I’m reminded of how handsome he is. Talking to him is so easy that I forgot how piercing his gaze is or how his shoulders seem to go on forever. Now, though, I can’t look away. It’s all I see.

  Forcing a swallow down my tight throat, I smile. “If you want to sit here, that’s fine with me. No pressure though,” I add at the end for good measure. Desperation is both not a good look and not true. Ish. The ache between my thighs calls a little bullshit on that last part.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Totally up to you.”

  He chats with the server as I silently lambast myself for not wearing makeup. My face has nothing on it but a little lip gloss and aloe vera gel to hopefully keep the redness off my skin from the sun. Of all the times not to at least wear mascara, it had to be now.

  The sound of the chair dragging across the floor whips my attention around just in time to see Connor sitting across from me. His drink is placed in front of him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s watching me.

  “What were we talking about?” he asks.

  “Um, your brother being a jackass, I think,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Oh. Cane. Right.” He nods. “Enough about him. Trust me, his ego is big enough. He probably can sense we’re talking about him now and his head is growing bigger as we speak.”

  Laughing, I lift my margarita. “He sounds interesting.”

  “He’s not.” He grins. “Are you from here?”

  “Just visiting for the weekend.”

  “You have friends here?”

  “Nope.” I take a sip of my margarita in hopes it hits my bloodstream fast. “I’m on my first solo vacation.”

  He furrows a brow. “You shouldn’t tell just anyone that, you know. With your self-admitted trust issues, I’m surprised you’d tell me.”

  “I’m also a black belt in aikido,” I lie. “So, don’t get any ideas.”

  “I promise not to get any of those kinds of ideas.”

  He takes a drink of what looks like beer, his eyes never leaving me. I squirm in my seat as his innuendo hangs heavily over the table.

  “May I ask why you’re vacationing alone?” he asks, sitting his glass on a coaster. “Do you have a jackass sister that backed out on you?”

  “No.” I laugh. “I have two jackass ex-husbands that have jackass wives. And kids that get needier the older they get. It was my New Year’s resolution to get out and do more things for me.”

  “And this trip is for you?”

  “Exactly.”

  Siting back in his chair, he assesses me. “What do you hope to get out of this trip?”

  “Balance,” I offer. “Peace. Reading. A tan.” An orgasm.

  “I’m going to go over the ‘tan’ part of that with all the skin cancer
warnings out there and go straight to the reading. What do you read?”

  My cheeks match the color of the chopped tomato around the chicken breast in front of me. I’m not embarrassed that the title of the book in my bag is a variation on a harem, but I’m not sure I want to see his reaction. If his eyes get more hooded, I might not be able to take it.

  I shrug. “A little of everything, really. If it has words, I’ll read it. Magazines, cookbooks, biographies.”

  “You read biographies for fun?” He gives me a look. “Whose bios are you reading?”

  “I don’t only read that,” I say.

  I contemplate leaving it there, letting him think I’m some stick-in-the-mud that reads life stories of historical figures, but something about that doesn’t seem appealing.

  “I’m a librarian,” I confess. “I read all sorts of things. Whatever looks interesting. I guess I spend most of my time with romances.”

  There’s a twinkle in his eyes at the word “romance” that makes me shiver. A spattering of goose bumps dots my arms as he licks his bottom lip.

  Maybe I should’ve went for the harem title.

  “Romances, huh?” he asks. “That sounds a hell of a lot better than biographies.”

  “They read better too.”

  “I bet they do.” He chuckles. His face stills, his eyes darkening as he seems to consider his next words. “I bet your boyfriend approves.”

  That might’ve been said with levity, as if he’s making some random observation, but that’s not the complete truth. If it were, the warmth in his tone would be missing. The edges to the syllables that rakes across my skin wouldn’t be there. The heat of his gaze wouldn’t be asking me to correct him on his language.

  This is the way a man looks at a woman in the romances I read. Like she’s the most interesting thing in the room—the only thing in the room. Like he can’t take his eyes off her.