Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection

by Hawkins, Jessica

When we’re both done growling and quaking with pleasure, we kiss for a very long moment in the moonlight, our chests pressed together, electricity coursing between us. There’s no doubt about it—this thing between us is bigger than sex. And much, much bigger than one week in paradise. I want her and she wants me and that’s all there is to it. Finally—fucking finally, we’re both on the same page. From here on out, it’s gonna be just me and her.

  Tessa slides down my body, finds her undies in a bush and pulls them on, and then straightens her dress and her hair. “Okay,” she says. “What happens in Maui stays in Maui—just like you said. We’ll have some delicious fun on the down-low this week and, when we get back to Seattle, we’ll both pretend it never happened.” She holds up her palm for a high-five and I leave her hanging, feeling like she just slapped me across the face.

  When it’s clear I’m not gonna high-five her, she places her raised palm on my cheek, kisses my lips softly, and swipes the pad of her thumb across my lower lip—a maneuver that makes my heart physically pang for her.

  “I’ll go back into the club first,” she whispers. “Wait a few minutes so nobody gets suspicious.” She kisses me again and smiles. “God, this is gonna be fun. I can’t wait.” And with that, she turns and practically sprints into the club, leaving me standing with my mouth hanging open and my heart feeling like it’s bleeding out.

  50

  Tessa

  After the 22 Goats concert ends, Ryan and I sneak back to my room, strip off our clothes, and eagerly begin exploring each other’s bodies, inside and out. How is it every sexual encounter with this man makes me want him more, rather than less?

  Finally, when our bodies are spent and satisfied, we lie in bed naked, nose to nose, on our sides, our fingers intertwined, and talk softly in the moonlit room, the relaxing sounds of the ocean wafting through an open French door.

  We talk and talk—about our childhoods, religion, politics, music, and movies. We argue to near-death about the “secret ingredient” for great guacamole. Ryan swears by a pinch of cumin; I say it’s a splash of Worcestershire sauce. Ryan calls the front desk and asks for a fitted sheet to be delivered by housekeeping and then proceeds to teach me how to properly fold a fitted sheet and then he promptly binds my hands with said sheet and fucks the hell out of me again.

  After Ryan’s finished showing me every sheet-related trick in his arsenal (holy hell!), I teach Ryan a trick of my own: I pull him out of bed and teach him the basic steps to the tango—and then we dance around the room naked for a while, accompanied by the one song I never seem to tire of hearing, “Bailando.”

  When we’re done dancing, we flop onto the bed and Ryan asks me to translate the lyrics to “Bailando,” line by line, so I pull them up on my phone and go through them.

  “The lyrics are why I love the song so much, besides the obvious catchiness of the music and melody,” I explain. “I love that it’s about explosive, heart-palpitating physical chemistry, an attraction that takes Enrique’s breath away. He says he wants to be with her, live with her, dance with her, have sex with her... He’s just totally obsessed with her—completely under her spell. I dunno, the intensity of the lyrics just totally turns me on.”

  Ryan’s eyes flicker with heat. “Ah, so a bit of obsession is a turn-on for you, huh, Argentina? Good to know.”

  “A little bit,” I say, opening my index finger and thumb slightly to demonstrate, and we both laugh.

  More laughing and talking ensues, and, eventually, the conversation flows to the backstories of each of Ryan’s many tattoos.

  “And what about your piercings?” I ask, running my fingers over the bars slicing through his nipples. “When and how did you decide to get those?”

  “I got all three of my piercings when I was twenty-one, all in the span of a crazy three months,” Ryan replies. “I went into this tattoo place in the University District with my buddies to get this one.” He points to the bottle of rum on his left ribcage. “And, on a dare, I wound up asking the tattoo-artist out on a date. She was ten years older than me and really, really into the whole body-mod culture—both tattoos and piercings—and, unexpectedly, that first date led to this crazy, whirlwind, three-month relationship.”

  “She was ten years older than you?”

  Ryan laughs. “Yeah. And a real wild child. We weren’t compatible at all in any meaningful way, but, still, I got a lot out of the relationship: she wound up teaching me more in three months about how to please a woman than I’d learned my whole life up to that point.” He smiles. “Within the first twenty minutes of our first date, I knew she wasn’t gonna be a good fit for me long-term; but for three months, I was quite happy to let her poke needles into her horny young plaything’s most sensitive flesh.”

  I ask a few more questions and he answers them openly and with astonishing self-awareness, and soon the conversation flows naturally to Ryan’s lifelong dream of owning his own bar one day.

  “Have you thought about what you’d call the place?” I ask.

  “Captain’s.”

  I roll my eyes at my own stupidity for not guessing that answer. “Of course. What would Captain’s be like?”

  Ryan’s face lights up. “It’d be sophisticated and sleek, but people would feel at home there, too, like definitely not ‘too cool for school.’ I’d have foosball and pool tables but somehow still make the place feel like a high-end destination for people to hang out after work. Sophisticated but fun, that’d be my mission statement.”

  “So the place would be you, in bar-form.”

  He blushes. “Thank you.”

  I touch his gorgeous, chiseled jawline. “I love the whole concept. The only thing I’m wondering is how the foosball and pool tables would work out from a cost standpoint. They’d take a lot of space, which would increase your square-footage, which might make your rent on the expensive side, since you’re gonna have to rent somewhere kind of trendy if you’re targeting a sophisticated demographic.”

  “You’re spot-on, baby. Wow. You’re smart as a tack, you know that?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you worry, my pretty chickadee,” he says playfully. “I’ve got a business plan all drawn up and I’ve been scouting locations for the past year. I think I’ve got the perfect solution.”

  “Oh, wow, I’d love to see your business plan, if you don’t mind. I don’t know anything about opening a bar, but I know a lot about logistics and vendor costs and stuff like that. Working for Josh for six years has given me a real education on some nuts-and-bolts things.”

  “I’ll send it to you. I’d be thrilled to get your feedback.”

  “When do you think you’ll be able to make Captain’s a reality?” I say, pressing my naked body against his.

  “A couple years, probably, depending on what commissions I manage to earn between now and then.”

  “You should ask Josh to put in a word with his friends about you being a commercial broker. Tons of Josh’s friends are multi-millionaires and lots of them have real estate holdings.”

  “Sweet of you to think of that, but I don’t want Josh to think I’m using him for his contacts list.”

  “No, no, Josh does favors for friends and family all the time. I’m sure he wouldn’t think twice about floating your name to his circle of friends. Some of them are really loaded, Ryan.”

  Ryan shrugs. “I’m good. I wouldn’t want Josh to question my intentions.” He pulls me close to him and kisses me tenderly. “I wouldn’t want anyone I care about to question my intentions, ever.”

  Warmth spreads throughout my body. I run my hand through his hair and nuzzle his nose. “I bet Kat will wind up saying something to Josh about you, regardless. If there’s one thing I’ve gathered about the fearless Kat Morgan, it’s that she looks out for the people she loves.”

  “She sure does. We all do. It’s a Morgan thing.”

  “I love that about your family.”

  “And my family loves you.”

 
My heart skips a beat.

  Ryan nuzzles my nose. “So what are your dreams, my beautiful Argentinian whale?”

  “You did not just call me a whale.”

  He laughs. “It’s a reference to Moby Dick. I’m Captain Ahab and you’re my whale. Never mind. Sorry. I’ll never do it again. Tell me about your dreams, sweetheart.”

  I press my soft breasts into his hard chest and sigh contentedly. “I don’t know, to be honest,” I say. “Lately, I’ve been thinking I might like to spread my wings a little bit. Now that Josh and Jonas have launched Climb & Conquer and they’re planning to expand aggressively, I was kind of thinking I’d maybe ask them for an official role in their new organization—you know, to help them grow it? I’m genuinely inspired by their mission statement. Did you know they donate to a whole bunch of charities as part of their business model?”

  “Yeah, I know—I went to their grand opening party in Seattle and heard Jonas’ speech.”

  I snicker. “I was at that party.”

  “No way!”

  “Yep. I saw you there—from the back. I saw the back of your head and I thought, ‘Wow, the back of that guy’s head reminds me of Ryan from The Pine Box!’”

  “Oh my fucking God!”

  “When the speeches were over, I did a little loop around the place, looking for the guy—just out of curiosity, you know—but he was nowhere to be found. I guess you’d left by then.”

  Ryan looks thoughtful for a long moment. “Do you remember what song was playing when you looked around for me?”

  “I sure do. My favorite: ‘Bailando.’”

  Ryan shakes his head and chuckles. “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  He rubs his face. “Nothing. It’s just funny we were in the same room and never ran into each other. So back to this idea of yours—spreading your wings. Does that mean you wanna stop being Josh’s personal assistant?”

  “Ooph. Just hearing you say that out loud makes my stomach hurt. I love being Josh’s personal assistant. But, if I’m being totally honest, a part of me feels like I’ve been slowly outgrowing the job. And now that he’s marrying Kat... I dunno. I just feel like it’s maybe time for me to... I just don’t know.”

  “You ever thought about starting your own business?” Ryan asks.

  “I’ve thought about it. I’ve been saving well over half my income every year for the past six years, in case I maybe wanna start something one day—but then I just never know what that ‘something’ would be.”

  “You’ve saved over half your income for six years? Damn. You either make a shit-ton of money or you live like a mouse.”

  “Both,” I reply. “I work my ass off for Josh, don’t get me wrong, but, even so, he vastly over-pays me. I make probably thirty percent more than any other high-end personal assistant. The irony, of course, is that I don’t give a shit about money and never have, other than when it comes to feeding my shoe addiction.”

  “So why does Josh pay you so much?”

  “Because I gouge him mercilessly once a year for a massive raise.”

  Ryan laughs. “But why? You just said you don’t care about money.”

  “I don’t. Not at all. I gouge Josh for one simple reason: job security.” I stroke Ryan’s hair as I speak and he closes his eyes at my touch. “It didn’t take long for me to realize this simple truth: when your boss has a closet full of two-thousand-dollar shoes and custom-made suits and a garage filled with vintage sports cars and he’s never flown coach in his entire life, the man probably values things more when he pays exorbitantly for them. Hence, early on, the minute he hired me full-time, I started making him pay through the nose for my services, and it seemed like he continuously valued me more and more, so I just kept doing it. At some point, it got ridiculous, but I just figured, ‘Why fix it if it ain’t broke?’”

  “You’re a fucking genius, T-Rod,” Ryan says, laughing.

  “Oh, surely, Josh has figured me out by now, but he’s just playing along.”

  Ryan flashes me a smile that warms my entire body. “I love the way your mind works,” he says softly. “You’re smart. Scrappy. Pragmatic. You see the finish line and you get there. I really love that about you.”

  My heart soars. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him, stifling my sudden urge to blurt something completely insane to him in reply—something only someone in a committed relationship would ever say—and, luckily, our kiss soon becomes heated, and, before I know it, we’re in the throes of heated sex, yet again, an activity that makes me forget, at least temporarily, every single one of the ridiculous, fairytale-inspired thoughts threatening to fill my silly head.

  51

  Tessa

  It was the best day ever for the Faraday-Morgan wedding brigade: all two hundred of us toured Maui via helicopter today, five choppers, each holding six people, at a time. And when someone wasn’t on an aerial tour, oohing and aahing about the island’s jaw-dropping sights, they were back at the resort, engaging in activities ranging from jet-skiing to parasailing to kayaking to windsurfing to lei-making. And may I just say the time I spent kayaking and windsurfing and snorkeling with Ryan, along with varying other mix-and-match companions through it all, were some of the best times I’ve ever had in my life?

  Best. Day. Ever.

  The only thing that could have made my amazing day better would have been if I’d been assigned to ride in Ryan’s helicopter. Unfortunately, though, when I checked the assignments, the activities director had scheduled Ryan to fly with his parents, Colby, and his aunt and uncle, and there was no way for me to switch up the helicopter assignments without it being extremely obvious that I’m now chomping at the bit to spend every waking moment with the Morgan family’s beloved pirate.

  Of course, if I couldn’t sneak onto Ryan’s helicopter, then I definitely got the best consolation prize: Dax, Fish, Colin, Keane, and Zander. That group of hilarious dudes would have been a fun group to tour the island with on any given day, for sure; but today especially, mere hours after the happy news broke that River Records had offered a record deal to 22 Goats, that ecstatic group of guys was pure joy to hang out with. Throughout our entire two-hour tour, whenever the six of us weren’t marveling about the spectacular views outside the helicopter windows, we were collectively rhapsodizing about 22 Goats’ bright future.

  And now, after our fabulous day of helicopter-riding and fun-in-the-sun, a group of us is keeping the good times rolling with pre-dinner drinks in one of the hotel bars. And, although Ryan’s not sitting next to me because I got skittish that we were becoming a bit too obvious, I’m thrilled he’s sitting directly in my line of sight at the other end of our long table. It means we can easily shoot secret smiles and horny looks at each other without Josh or anyone else noticing.

  Besides Josh, Kat, Ryan, and me, the squad for pre-dinner drinks is a bit of a mish-mash of Kat’s and Josh’s worlds: Henn, Hannah, Colby, Reed, Keane, Zander, and a mixture of Josh’s and Kat’s college- and work-friends, all of us at this point meshing like we’re old friends.

  At the moment, the energetic conversation around the table is about the “lost art of flirting” and how “kids these days,” with their reliance on Snapchat and Instagram, have no idea how to pick someone up in-person.

  “Josh and Kat gave me a brilliant tutorial on ‘bagging a babe’ not too long ago in Vegas,” Henn says. “Those two could teach the ignorant kids of today a thing or two.”

  “That’s revisionist history, Henn,” Josh says, laughing. “It was Kat who was the true professor that night, not me.”

  Henn chuckles. “That’s right. Kitty, what was that one rule of thumb you taught us? The one about how a guy who’s talking to a very pretty lady knows if he should shut the hell up or keep talking?”

  Kat giggles and raises her index finger. “Ask yourself this, gentlemen: ‘Is what I’m about to say more or less likely to get me a blowjob?’ If the answer is yes, then say it. If the answer is no, then shut the fuck up.’�
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  Everyone laughs uproariously.

  “Now that’s some advice to live by,” Reed says. “I’ll definitely keep that little gem in mind next time I’m talking to...” Reed looks straight at me. “A very pretty lady.”

  My skin pricks at Reed’s unmistakable implication: the next time he speaks to me, he’ll be wondering if his words are enticing me to give him a blowjob. I quickly look away from Reed’s handsome face, my cheeks hot, and sneak a peek at Ryan, only to find him staring Reed down, his body language painting the stark portrait of a man plotting a murder.

  “So what was Faraday’s advice for ‘bagging a babe’?” Reed asks Henn, apparently unaware the tattooed man to his right is thinking up ways to kill him. “I’m an old dog, but I’m always open to learning a new trick, especially from a world-renowned former playboy like Faraday.”

  Everyone at the table who knows Reed well simultaneously erupts with cruel mockery at the suggestion that Reed Rivers could possibly need to learn any “new tricks,” even from someone as adept at picking up women as the renowned Playboy himself, Joshua William Faraday; and, quickly, the conversation spirals into a free-for-all of enthusiastic storytelling by every single one of Reed’s college friends about Reed’s “legendary” appeal to women “back in the day,” and this from an era dating back before the man became rich and famous and known for having actresses and pop stars at his beck and call.

  Blah, blah, blah. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Reed Rivers and his purportedly legendary appeal to women. I’m much more interested in staring at Ryan’s blazing blue eyes and ridiculous jawline and thinking about all the utterly delicious things he did to me last night.

  Sigh.

  But after a few moments of daydreaming about last night’s deliciousness with my very own manwhore of “legendary appeal,” Keane’s energetic voice draws me back to the present moment.

  “It’s true,” Keane says emphatically to the group. “I’ve got mad skillz, brah.”