by Meghan Quinn
It’s why I ended up thinking about her in the shower and relieving some of the built-up tension inside my body. And hell, it had helped. It had helped until I spotted her lying out next to a sunscreened Victoria, looking dangerous with her jet-black hair, white bikini, and toned legs.
When I take a seat on my lounge chair, Victoria asks without even looking up, “Did you get extra tartar sauce?”
“I ordered all the tartar sauce they have.”
“Thank you. I really like it.”
I can tell.
“Not a problem. I also ordered some tacos, in case you ladies wanted something extra to nibble on.” Lowering my voice so only Rylee can hear me, I say, “Lord knows you didn’t nibble on anything last night.”
Looking sly, Rylee adjusts her body, her breasts pushing up toward the sun—fuck—and she says, “How do you know that?”
“I know that because my bed missed you.”
“Just because I didn’t go to your room doesn’t mean I didn’t go to someone else’s place.”
Okay, you and I both know she didn’t go anywhere else. Hell, I was so quiet in my room last night, trying to hear her, that I would have immediately noticed her moving around, let alone leaving her room. The doors here are heavy and loud. I see what she’s doing so I’ll play with her.
“Yeah, have a midnight booty call? Tell me about it.”
I move to the side of my lounge chair, prop my elbow on the armrest, and place my chin in my palm, eager and waiting for a little story time.
Shaking her head in mirth, she says, “Oh yeah, had a sex-feast last night. An all-nighter. I can barely walk this morning, let alone stay awake.” She fake yawns and then turns toward me, her breasts smashing together, forming an endless amount of cleavage.
Fuck me big time.
“It was wild.”
“Sounds like it. I’m surprised you’re able to make an appearance after the pounding you must have taken.”
“Hey, I live to please the people,” she says, lifting her shoulders. “Couldn’t leave Victoria out here all by herself, now could I? Who would be here to help slather the sunscreen on her back?”
“She could have asked me,” I offer and pop up my head to take a gander at Victoria, who tilts her head to the side, eyebrow raised. “I’m a really good slatherer. These big hands don’t miss an inch.” I hold up my hands for both the girls to see.
“Those are big hands,” Victoria offers. “Next time I’ll be sure to ask you.”
“No, you won’t,” Rylee says rather too quickly for her liking, or at least that’s what it seems from the scowl on her face. “I mean, I’m your slathering girl, you can’t give that title to someone you don’t know.”
“I do what I want, and if I want Beck’s man hands on me, that’s what I’m going to do.” Looking down at her legs, Victoria continues, “You know, I could really use another layer on my knees.” She pops open the sunscreen from her bag and holds it in my direction. “Beck, would you mind?”
Seeing the smirk on her lips, I hop out of my lounge chair. “I’d be happy to.”
Just as I’m about to reach for the sunscreen, Rylee leaps out her chair, swats the sunscreen from my hands, and points back to my lounge chair. “Don’t even think about it. Those man hands are to go nowhere near Victoria. If they’re touching anyone’s knees, they’re touching mine.”
Victoria snorts and goes back to her reading, while I have a hard time containing my smile. Irritated with herself, Rylee whacks me in the abs and says, “Don’t you dare think about laughing.”
I hold my hands up in defense. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But can I point something out?”
“Not if you want to hang out with us for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Fair enough.” I chuckle, which garners a death glare from Rylee.
“You are so going to bang that man by the end of this trip if you haven’t already,” Victoria mutters.
And yup, I laugh. I laugh so fucking hard.
So you’re all authors?” I motion with my finger to Rylee, Victoria, and Zoey who joined us an hour ago.
“Yup. We met at a local writer’s meeting in our area. It was the three of us and two older women,” Zoey answers. “Since we live in such a small town, there aren’t many authors, so we mixed our genres.”
“Makes sense. What do you write, Zoey?”
“Children’s books.”
Kind of shocking given the mouth on this woman. I never in a million years would have guessed she writes children’s books. I think it’s her goal in life to fit in as much inappropriate talk in a conversation as she can.
“From the way your jaw is practically tickling the sand, I’m going to guess you weren’t expecting that.”
“Uh, not really.” I pull on the back of my head. “No offense, but I think you’re more crude than most guys I know.”
“No offense taken, I’m honored actually.”
“Honored about what?” Art, Zoey’s husband, asks as he drops next to her and starts handing out drinks. I take my water and sip on it with a nod of gratitude.
“Beck here thinks I have a potty mouth.”
“She does, and I kiss her potty mouth every day.” To prove us right, he leans over and gives her a peck.
“I’m not knocking the potty mouth; it’s entertaining. It’s just contrasts what I had in mind for an author of children’s books.”
Zoey tips her drink in my direction. “It’s all about the filter. And if you think I’m bad you should read some of Rylee’s stuff. Talk about making you blush.”
I raise an eyebrow at Rylee. “Is that right? You write some some provocative and racy shit, Rylee?”
Unabashedly, Rylee pinches my cheek. “Yep. Hot-as-fuck sex scenes in every book.”
Well damn. “It’s true. I can’t read them. She writes cock way too many times. I blush.” Victoria pulls on the brim of her sun hat.
“Looks like I might need to download some books onto my Kindle.”
Surprised now, Rylee asks, “You have a Kindle?”
“Don’t let the looks deter you. I’m a reader. Preferably I like mysteries, autobiographies, and I’ve dabbled in history as well.”
“I write history.” Victoria pops straight in her chair, and her eyes light up like I’ve never seen before. “What kind of history do you like to read? I’m working on a piece about Amelia Earhart right now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m working with another historian and some researchers who are tracking where her plane crashed, and if she truly died on impact, or if she was captured.”
I point at Victoria. “Oh, I saw a piece about that on the History Channel. They were talking about a picture that was found and if it was her in the picture.”
“Yes!” Victoria sits on the edge of her chair and fans herself. “Oh gosh, I’m all worked up. Wasn’t that History Channel special fascinating? I’ve watched it at least ten times.”
“Fucking captivating.”
Victoria starts to fill Zoey and Rylee in about the special, and I can’t help but smile, because even though they all give each other a hard time, they still show interest in each other’s very diverse work. They listen intently and pose questions, which only spurs Victoria on. The passionate way she speaks is inspiring.
A historian, a children’s book author, and a romance novelist . . . there is a joke in there somewhere.
On a high, Victoria takes off toward the bathroom, leaving the four of us. When I decided to come on this trip, I never thought I’d find a group of people I enjoyed hanging out with so much, but damn, these are my kind of people.
“So what book of yours should I read?”
Rylee shifts so her head is facing me, her back to the sky, her ass looking so fucking good. “Are you really going to read one of my books?”
“Hell yeah. I want to see what these girls are talking about.”
“I don’t know if you can handle it.”
I wiggle my eye
brows. “I bet I can. Lay it on me. Give me your dirtiest book.”
“You’re going to chub out easily.”
A rumble of a laugh escapes me. “Chub out, huh?”
“Big time. I get super turned on when I’m writing, which only makes the book that much better. Believe me, you’re going to get all hot and bothered.”
“Can’t fucking wait.” I stand and pull my keycard from my back pocket.
“Where are you going?” she asks, giving me a once-over. Yeah, I fucking love it when she does that.
“Getting my Kindle. I have to start this book right away.”
I shift in my seat and clear my throat for what seems like the twentieth time in the last five minutes.
Fuck, I’m getting hard and board shorts don’t hide shit.
Running her finger along my forearm, Rylee asks, “So, do you like it?”
Swatting her away, I close the e-reader and shrug. “It’s okay. Not as hot as you led me to believe.”
“This coming from the man who never lies.”
Damn it.
Sighing, I roll my eyes and lean closer so only Rylee can hear me. “Every time Jane moans, I swear to Christ it sounds like you in my head, and it’s turning me on so much I’m in legit pain over here.”
Thankfully, I’m lying on my stomach, so any evidence of my hard-on is shielded right now, but hell if having my dick pressed against the lounge chair isn’t causing me to have some serious pain.
“Yeah?”
I nod and bite my bottom lip. “It’s so bad that I’m seconds away from humping this goddamn chair for some relief.”
Rylee covers her mouth and giggles. “I warned you.”
“You could have warned me to not read it in public.”
“Hey, that’s your doing.” She takes a sip of her pina colada. “But since I feel bad, I’ll help you out.”
“Yeah?” I raise my brow in excitement. “Want to go to my room?”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Not like that. I’ll help you take your mind off the . . . moaning.”
“I would rather go to my room with you. It’s not that far. We can tell everyone I’m going to show you the seashell collection I’ve started since I’ve been here.”
“Or, I can ask you some questions to get to know you better.”
Sighing, I drop my head to the lounge chair and say, “Fine. Ask away.”
“Yay.” From the corner of my eye, I can see her adjust herself so she’s now facing me, sitting cross-legged. Yeah, no way in hell am I going to be lifting my head anytime soon, not with the way I can see how small her bikini is. Nope. “So you know I live in Maine, but you never told me where you live.”
“Near Los Angeles.”
“Huh, really? Well, I guess that explains the amazing tan you have.” She pauses for a second and then says, “We couldn’t live further away from each other.”
Isn’t that the truth.
“Kind of interesting that we met on a little two-by-four island.”
“Magical for sure.” Smiling playfully she says, “Now I want to know what you do, but I want to guess, so give me some clues, and I’ll try to figure it out.”
“Do you really think you can guess?” Do I really want her to guess? How do I explain that at my age, I barely have a college degree? I hate these types of questions.
“Possibly. I kind of have you pegged as a rebel, so I feel like I can gather a general read on you, and with a few hints, I feel confident I can guess.”
Feeling my body start to relax, I say, “Okay, how about if you guess correctly, you get to decide what we do next, and if you can’t guess it, I get to decide what we do next?”
“Yeah right, like I’m going to let that happen,” she scoffs. “First of all, who’s to say you’ll give me honest clues, and second, if I lose I know exactly what you’re going to say we do. And we are not doing that.”
“And what is that exactly?”
She gives me a get real look. “Please, it’s what men think about every five seconds.”
“How little you know me.” I shake my head in mock disappointment. “I actually had an idea, and it has nothing to do with removing our clothes.”
“Doubtful.”
“Try me,” I counter, flipping to my side, my hard-on under control now. Don’t look below her neck, Wilder. Eyes up.
She studies me, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine, looking for any indication that I could be lying, but she should know that I don’t lie. “Okay, fine. Let’s play your little challenge. But I’m going to warn you right now, when I win, you’re going to have one hell of a time being my little cabana boy and feeding me grapes while you wave a palm leaf above me.”
“That’s your idea of fun?” I ask, not too opposed to the idea.
“Oh yeah, hot guy fanning and feeding me, I call that a good time in my book.” That wasn’t the good time in her book I was just reading about . . .
I chuckle and then nod at her. “All right, are you ready?”
Cutely, she rubs her hands together. “I’m ready.”
Thinking about my job, I try to be as vague but specific as possible, if that makes sense. I’m not going to lie. I want to win this. I have an idea that will not only be fun, but give me a chance to have my hands all over Rylee, something I truly need right now.
“I work with my hands.”
She looks up to the sky, a calculating expression on her face. “Okay.”
“I work by myself.”
“Okay.”
“Instead of a computer, I have shelves upon shelves of books on horticulture and habitats.”
That last clue throws her for a loop. She twists her lips in confusion, her brain working hard. And just for the hell of it, I’m going to throw one more her way to really confuse the fuck out of her.
“Most days I’m caged up with people staring at me from behind a glass wall.”
“What?” Her brow knits together. “What kind of profession cages you . . .?” She pauses as if she’s figured it out. A giggle passes over her and she leans forward, looking around for any eavesdroppers. “Are you . . . are you a jungle stripper?”
“A what?” I laugh. “Where the hell did you come up with that?”
“So you’re not a jungle stripper?”
“I don’t even know what a jungle stripper is. Is that a real thing?”
“Well, I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one behind a glass with habitat books. It almost seems like you strip and educate about the jungle at the same time, you know, using your hands and whatnot.”
I can’t help it, I full-on belly laugh, clutching my stomach. “Oh fuck, that’s amazing.”
“So, that’s a no?” She’s so fucking adorable.
“That’s a hard no. Sorry, detective, but you lost.”
She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not my fault that you do something super weird. I was going to say you were a mechanic that refurbishes motorcycles, because that rings more true than whatever freak shit you’re doing behind glass walls with onlookers. Are you a sex-a-bitioner? Are you fingering women behind glass windows?”
Cue more laughing.
I shake my head. “Is that what it’s like to talk to an author? You immediately think of the weirdest things because your imagination runs wild, therefore skipping over the easiest answer?”
“Easy answer?” She nearly hops off her chair from her question. “There is no way there is an easy answer to the hints you—”
“I’m a muralist for local zoos and museums.” Once my words register in that beautifully creative mind of hers, her plump lips form an O.
“Huh, well . . . that does seem like a simple and very innocent answer.” She gently rubs her hands over her thighs.
“Yeah, it is . . . you fucking perv.”
She laughs and shrugs her shoulders. “Hey, it’s my line of work to be a perv, so I’m okay with this. So a muralist, damn, that kind of turns me on. I’m assuming
you must be really good with your paint strokes.”
“I excel at stroking, yes.”
Rolling her eyes to sky, she says, “Now who’s the perv?”
“I have no shame.” Sitting taller, I say, “Now it’s time for my reward. Are you ready?”
“Should I be scared?”
I stand, take her hand in mine, and help her to her feet. “Nothing to be scared about.” Turning to Zoey and Art, I ask, “Are you guys available for a little game.”
“Yes,” Art answers with a little too much excitement. “I know we’re supposed to be relaxing but there is only so much lying around I can do. What do you have in mind?”
From over my shoulder, I thumb toward the sand and say, “How about a friendly game of cornhole? Me and Rylee against you and Zoey.”
“Oh, I’m so in.” Zoey pops out of her chair. “You guys are going down.”
Chapter Ten
RYLEE
When you think of a friendly game of cornhole, what do you think of? Friends having fun, tossing a bean bag back and forth, trying to make it into a hole, right?
Wrong.
Not the way Zoey plays.
The sheer determination flowing through her right now as she stretches her quads is rather frightening.
And Art, he’s even worse, he’s on their side doing knee-highs and windmills with his arms. This isn’t the Olympics for fuck’s sake, and we’re not preparing for an epic chase to the gold. We’re one beer bong short of a frat party.
“Uh, they seem pretty serious over there.”
Beck places his hand on my lower back and nods. “Yeah, I’m afraid they might be far too into this. Have you played before?”
“Of course.”
“Are you any good?”
“Ha! Of course I’m not. Sorry, dude, if you were looking for a ringer, I’m not your girl.” And that’s the truth. I might be able to write one epic sports scene with all the balls being thrown and caught, but to hell if I can do it myself.
“That’s okay. I’ll just have to help you out.” His hand that’s on my lower back slides around my waist, his fingers grazing the waistline of my bikini bottoms, the touch light, fuel to the flame burning inside me.