Pleasure Beach

by P. J. Mellor

  Well, all the red added contrasting color to his green eyes. The tops of his ears were burnt, thanks to his new short haircut.

  Making a note to slather his head and shoulders with sunscreen before his next trip to the deck, he stepped into the six-head shower and waited to feel human again.

  Feeling almost cheerful, he stepped out on the deck with his breakfast, a Bloody Mary. He took a big gulp and winced.

  “Breakfast of champions,” he muttered, looking out across the water.

  He abso-damn-lutely did not have a drinking problem. Regardless of what Mardee thought. His self-imposed leave of absence from his cardiology practice was for a long overdue vacation. And to lick his wounds.

  Country-western music, at eardrum-splitting decibels, assaulted his ears. He whipped his head to look in the direction of the sound, then had to wait for his brain to catch up.

  Had he not been wearing sunglasses, his eyes would surely have rolled out of his head at the sight.

  Golden skin glistened in the morning sunshine; the firm globes of a decidedly feminine backside covered by nothing more than a piece of fat dental floss taunted him.

  He fumbled for the table and set his drink down, then lowered himself into his chaise to watch the show.

  Beautifully tapered arms reached behind a firm back to untie the floral-print top of the most miniscule bikini he’d seen in years.

  No doubt about it, his new neighbor was in fine shape. As a physician, he was trained to appreciate things like that. As a testosterone-laden male in his prime, his appreciation edged up another notch or two.

  Her long, dark hair was twisted on top of her head with some kind of clamp, leaving the sexy column of her neck bare to his inspection. Keeping her back to him, she stretched out on her stomach, obviously ready to begin her tanning.

  What kind of neighbor would he be, he asked himself, if he didn’t at least go over and welcome her to Pleasure Beach?

  Decision made, he went into the house and made short work out of making himself presentable. Less than ten minutes later, he stepped onto his deck, more relieved than he cared to admit to find his new neighbor exactly where he’d left her.

  Balancing the tray carrying two fat Fuzzy Navels, he negotiated the steps without spilling a drop and soon found himself standing next to the sun goddess, his Hawaiian-print shirt flapping in the ocean breeze.

  He cleared his throat. She didn’t move. Carefully setting the drinks on a small teak table next to her chair, he cleared his throat again. Still no response.

  “Hello.” He reached down to tap a firm, sun-warmed shoulder.

  The woman jumped up with a shriek and his mouth went dry.

  For the fraction of the second before she grabbed her towel, the image of world-class breasts was forever burned into his mind.

  “Jack! What the hell are you doing here?”

  He pulled his reluctant gaze to the very unfriendly but familiar face of Mardee’s sister’s best friend. “Royce,” he said, hoping his disappointment wasn’t obvious.

  With a snooty sniff, she wrapped the damned towel tighter around her delectable but definitely off-limits body.

  He raked a hand through his spiked hair, idly wondering how he was going to get out of this with his hide still intact. “I still can’t figure out what kind of person names their daughter Royce,” he muttered, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Obviously someone who was determined to have a son.” She leaned toward the drinks, then looked up at him. “Are one of these for me?”

  “May as well. No point in letting them go to waste.”

  She took a tentative sip. He watched with detached fascination while the pink tip of her tongue circled her lips to gather the taste and wondered what it would be like to feel that tongue on parts of his body he had no business thinking about when he was around this woman.

  Royce St. Claire was a royal pain in the ass. Mouthy and opinionated, she goaded Mardee’s sister into doing things she would otherwise avoid.

  When it appeared she wasn’t going to initiate small talk, or any talk for that matter, he sat down in the chair opposite her and took a long draw from the remaining drink. The peach schnapps mingled with the sweet orange juice to dance around on his taste buds in a delightful early-morning tango.

  He watched the rise and fall of her ample bosom beneath the beach towel and thought of other delightful early-morning tangos.

  Back, off, Jack! This woman is so not your type, it isn’t even funny.

  “So are you going to tell me what you’re doing here on a private beach?” Damn, that sounded uppity, even to him.

  Her thickly lashed violet eyes regarded him over the rim of her drink for so long, he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

  “I bought this house,” she said in a velvet soft voice that clenched his gut. “I assumed that included rights to access the private beach.”

  Embarrassment—the curse of redheads—heated his cheeks. Before he could censor his words, he said, “How did you earn enough money to buy a place like this? You’re barely out of college. Don’t try to tell me your smutty radio program pays you that well.”

  Jaw clenched, she set her drink on the table. “If you’d paid the least bit of attention, you’d know I earned my PhD several years ago. That hardly qualifies as ‘barely out of college.’” Violet fire shot from her narrowed eyes. “As for my program…smutty? Tell me, Jack, have you ever even listened to my show?”

  “Of course not!” He snorted and took another drink. “I have better things to do with my late nights.”

  “Ah,” she said with a knowing nod. “Masturbation.”

  Jack choked on his drink and put it down while he wiped his face with the tail of his shirt. “Masturbation? What kind of mind do you have? No—don’t answer. I don’t want to know.” He stood and retrieved his tray. “Forget I asked. In fact, forget you ever saw me, okay?”

  “I inherited it.” Her quiet voice stopped him at the edge of her deck.

  He turned back, not quite sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

  “The money to buy this place.” Lying on her stomach again, back bared to the rays, she shielded her eyes with one hand to see him. “I inherited it.”

  “From a grandmother or something?”

  “Something like that.” She turned her face away from him, indicating the conversation was over.

  “Right. Well, you’re welcome for the drink. I won’t bother you anymore.” With that, he stomped down the steps, tossed his tray in the general direction of his deck and headed toward the water. Maybe a jog along the beach would clear his head of all the illicit thoughts he’d had since spying Royce’s rounded bottom.

  His day was a total bust, thanks to his new neighbor. Whenever he tried to accomplish anything around his house to prepare for the next wave of renters, thoughts of Royce’s breasts and the curve of her hips had him feeling edgy and restless.

  He sat on his deck nursing a beer and a grudge in the dark, until he heard her drive away. Another hour passed before he summoned enough energy to go inside.

  Still feeling restless, he showered, then slipped naked beneath the sheets of his round, custom-made bed.

  Sleep eluded him.

  A push of the button on the bedside remote opened the rounded wall of windows with a soft whir. Sounds of the waves bounced off the curved walls, reminding him of being inside a giant seashell. Always soothing, tonight it failed to work its magic.

  He glanced at the radio on the nightstand, then forced his mind to relax. Another glance. What would it hurt to tune in just once and listen to what she might have to say? After all, he had formed strong opinions of her without ever catching her program.

  He remembered her station was at the end of the dial, but it took a few minutes of searching before her husky voice wrapped around him and stroked his senses. He’d forgotten the depth and sexiness of it. Until now.

  “What night games do you like to play?” she asked her radio audien
ce with the voice of a sex kitten, taunting him. “Call me….” She recited the station phone number. Just hearing the smooth enunciation of each number had him hard as a rock.

  He listened to each caller, wondering how she kept from laughing at some of the outrageous things they said. Then his breath caught at her reply, his cock growing so hard it felt as though it might burst.

  His hand crept beneath the satin sheet. At first he played with his balls, imagining it was her hand fondling him so intimately. By the next call, he was stroking his hard length, then pinching the tip. Before her program ended, he was pumping fast and furious, his hips bucking off the mattress, seeking release.

  “Until tomorrow, I wish you love…and good mental health.” But he knew what she really meant. Her unspoken closing line, said by her husky voice in his mind, whispered, “Keep the sheets warm for me…. I’ll be in your wet dreams.”

  Her voice stroked him as surely as if her pouty lips were wrapped tightly around his dick. With a strangled cry, he arched once more, squeezing and pumping until his sheet stuck to him like a second skin. Wrung out, he was too weak to move.

  He idly listened to her voice urging everyone to tune in tomorrow, though she really meant for everyone to obey their deepest fantasies. He just knew it.

  A smile tugged his lips. Right now his deepest fantasy included having Royce St. Claire in his bed.

  If only he didn’t have to put up with her attitude.

  He was a doctor…. Maybe he could drug her.

  2

  Royce began stripping the moment she walked into the house. Naked by the time she reached her Jacuzzi tub, she turned the jets on full force and lowered herself into the water as soon as possible.

  She watched the bubbles jiggle her breasts while the jets beneath her helped relieve a different sort of pressure.

  Damn Jack McMillan! Ever since he’d appeared on her deck that morning, he’d filled her thoughts. It was useless to waste this much time thinking about someone like that. He was everything she didn’t want in a man or, worse, a potential mate.

  Cocky and arrogant as hell, Jack personified the unattainable. Heck, just ask Mardee! Wendy’s older sister had wasted more than six years of her life on that man. For nothing. He wasn’t the marrying kind. Commitment phobic, he was the male equivalent of eye candy. So why couldn’t she get him out of her mind?

  She’d deliberately baited her listeners tonight, showing off, probably hoping he was listening. Was he?

  Her hand slid beneath the churning water to touch her aching nub. She deserved to be uncomfortable. She’d turned herself on tonight, letting her mind wander to illicit thoughts of Jack and what she’d wanted to do to him—with him—for six long years.

  Her hands skimmed up her torso to tweak her nipples. She arched, aching and empty.

  And it was all Jack’s fault.

  Jack’s steps slowed, then stopped altogether. To his left, the surf edged closer to wash over his bare feet. To his right, Royce was preparing her morning sun-worshiping ritual.

  He took another step and stopped again, watching the sun glint off well-oiled shoulders. Damn woman was ruining his morning runs. He hadn’t had a good workout since she’d begun parking her delectable body on the deck next to his every morning for the past week.

  She knew it, he was sure. The blue-balled agony he’d experienced of late had Royce St. Claire written all over it.

  Irritated with himself as well as her, he took off again, only to stop and bite back a yelp of pain when his right big toe firmly connected with a rock.

  Royce didn’t even look up as he hobbled past her deck. Okay, so maybe he was passing closer than absolutely necessary, but, hell, he was injured. The least the woman could do would be to look up to see how brave he was being in the face of what surely would be unbearable pain for a lesser man.

  Not that he wanted her to notice.

  He dragged himself up the steps and across the scorching hot deck, and was about to open his sliding glass door when her voice floated over.

  “You’re limping. Are you okay?”

  Ridiculously weak with relief for some insane reason, he leaned against the door frame and waited a beat before he answered.

  “What do you care?”

  “Oh, Jackie,” she purred as she rolled over to sit up and look over at him, “don’t be like that.”

  She poured oil into her palms and leisurely stroked it over the tops of her plump breasts. One good tug and her flesh-colored miniscule top would be history.

  His cock sprang to immediate attention, the pain in his toe forgotten.

  She tugged on her straps, the action lifting her breasts as though testing their weight. “If you promise to play nice, I might be persuaded to share my lunch with you.”

  With a quick adjustment to his suddenly tight shorts, he stepped over to the railing for a closer look. Good gravy—from a distance the woman looked totally naked. How had he missed that?

  “How nice do I have to play?” he asked, praying his voice wouldn’t crack with his eagerness.

  She stood and wrapped the huge towel around herself, depriving him of a view he hadn’t even realized he craved.

  “You have to promise to keep your pants zipped.” She raised her black-framed sunglasses and trained her eyes on him. “I know you, Jack McMillan. I refuse to be another notch on your bedpost.” She walked to her own patio door. “I have a fabulous lobster salad, but it’s way too much for me. I’m willing to share it. But that’s all I’m willing to share.” She waited a beat. “Nod if you understand.”

  Chagrined to realize he’d been staring at her terry-cloth-covered breasts, praying for another glimpse of a body that made his mouth water, he took a step back. “When and where do you want me?”

  Royce stepped out of a quick shower and scrubbed dry with more force than absolutely necessary. When and where do you want me? Wow! If he only knew.

  The first time she’d laid eyes on Dr. Jack McMillan, the moisture surge between her legs had taken her by surprise. Over the last six years, she’d become rather used to the dampness that just the sound of his name inspired.

  His innocent question conjured up a plethora of X-rated, erotic images. Scratch that—nothing about Jack McMillan was innocent. The rascal no doubt knew exactly the effect he had on her, parading around in nothing but a pair of the briefest running shorts every morning for her viewing pleasure.

  She could definitely think of a few other things she’d like to drizzle melted butter over and lick off, besides lobster.

  Striding into the walk-in closet, she surveyed her meager wardrobe. No doubt about it, a serious shopping trip was in her future. Whatever possessed her to shove such a meager wardrobe into her bag for her move to the beach? Jack. Or rather the possibility of finally snagging his attention. Heck, face it, she’d planned to be naked with him. Or hoped to be. For that, clothing was way down her list of necessities. Faced with reality, though, her sexual fantasy of being with Jack was much safer than actually following through with her plan.

  Since it would be harmless to tease and tantalize a bit, her only choice was the decadent red sundress Wendy dared her to buy on her last visit.

  After slathering coconut-scented moisturizer all over, she slid the sand-washed silk dress over her head and marveled again at the sensual feel as it settled against her heated skin. Loose fitting, it hinted at the curves beneath, but the way it hugged and moved with her body made underwear intrusive. Besides, she’d always loved the way the gentle abrasion, like a lover’s caress, made her nipples harden.

  She frowned at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The back of the dress draped loosely around her hips, barely concealing the flare of her bottom, while it dipped even more dangerously low in the front. Miniscule spaghetti straps held up the tiny triangle bodice that shielded her nipples. The rippled hemline ended midthigh in front and brushed the backs of her knees with silken kisses.

  The knock on her patio door sounded just as she cla
mped her hair on top of her head for the third time. Shoving her feet into a sky-high pair of strappy red sandals, she headed for the stairs, chiding herself for being so nervous.

  Nothing was going to happen. It couldn’t. Not with Jack McMillan. But a girl could dream.

  Jack’s mouth went dry when he saw Royce’s long legs appear on the stairway. He watched her stride toward the patio door in her hooker-red, high-heeled sandals and her little wisp of a nothing, fuck-me dress, and all blood headed south. He could not have formed a coherent thought if his life depended on it.

  Thank goodness this was Royce, not someone who really mattered or someone he was even remotely interested in on any level other than the purely physical one.

  He extended the bottle of white zinfandel to her and managed a grunt.

  If she noticed, she didn’t acknowledge his caveman behavior. Her radiant smile instilled guilt about the direction his thoughts had been headed.

  Then she turned to walk toward the kitchen and her dress gaped, revealing the lush curve of her right breast, the barest hint of the dark edge of a nipple.

  Like a dog, he began salivating while he followed the beguiling sway of red silk, his hands itching to rip it from her body.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said over the roar in his ears, “but I thought we’d eat in the kitchen. It’s so hot on the deck at this time of day.”

  She stretched across the counter. The deep V in the back of her dress shifted to the side, revealing the plump curve of her ass. Was her skin as smooth and soft as it looked?

  The scent of coconut wafted toward him, making his mouth water as he walked up close behind her. Close enough to touch. What would she do if he ran his hands up under her dress?

  At that moment she turned, a wicked-looking corkscrew in her hand. “Would you open the wine while I get the food?”