“Two?” the gentleman asked.
I turned to Weston. “You know, just because you paid for me tonight doesn’t mean that I feel obligated to be your date.”
“I can respect that,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.
“But you lei-d me. And I take that seriously. So now I think you’re kind of stuck with me for the evening.”
The host tried not to laugh.
Weston’s smirk bloomed into a full dimpled grin. “As a gentleman, I feel as though you’re my responsibility now. I am not the kind of guy to lei and run. I definitely have to have dinner with the girl afterwards.”
I turned back to our host. “Yes. Two.”
We followed him side by side past several long banquet tables already filled with people crammed in and chatting, getting to know those around them. My hand brushed against Weston’s, and I felt the urge to lace my fingers through his. I wondered if he felt the same pull, that magnetic tug drawing us to always face the same way, forcing us together.
I liked this. I’d missed this—the part of a budding new relationship where you wanted to touch but didn’t know if it was too forward. From the very first minute that I’d wanted him, I’d been forced to touch him, whether he wanted it or not. Whether he’d wanted me or not. I got what he meant about having skipped so many things. We’d skipped the uncertainty part.
It was erotic, the wonder. When would he touch me? When would our fingers finally meet? Would our whole bodies feel shock from the spark of electricity?
The hostess sat us together at the end of a long bench. I scooted in first, with Weston on the end, and I caught him checking out my bare thigh as my skirt rode up when I sat down. Normally I’d appreciate my husband checking me out like that, but in this game we were playing, I pretended to be a little shocked.
“You can keep your eyes above the table,” I scolded him. “Thank you very much.”
“I could. Maybe I’ll even try.” He scooted in next to me and we made stupid small talk about the blue-tinted rolls, childish banter that edged toward sexual innuendo and nearly sent me into a fit of giggles when he asked me to butter his blue ball of bread.
When there was a lull, the couple across from us asked how long we’d been together.
“We’re not,” Weston said, taking my cue from what I’d told the host earlier.
The woman frowned, her brows meeting above her nose. “But you’re both wearing wedding rings. Aren’t you…?”
“Are we? I’m married, obviously. But we just met tonight. Are you married?” I asked Weston, improvising. Not caring what other people thought about us wasn’t necessarily an Elizabeth thing, but I was having too much fun to break the scene.
“I guess I am,” he said looking down at his ring finger. “Hey, that’s another thing we have in common.”
“This really is turning into kismet, meeting you here this way.”
The woman across from me looked to her date, then back at us, even more confused than she’d been just a moment before. “I don’t understand. Where’s your husband?”
I sat forward, leaning across the table and whispered conspiratorially. “I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind. I came here to specifically not think about my husband, if you get my drift.”
“Me too!” Weston exclaimed. “Or not think about my wife, I mean. I don’t have a husband. It’s definitely a wife.”
“So much in common.” I nodded winking at my husband/not husband.
“But,” the woman started to say again, “the waiter mentioned when he brought your drinks that he was billing them to the honeymoon suite.”
“Honey,” her date said, “leave them alone. You don’t want to pry into those open-relationship things. This generation does things much differently than ours.”
I had to stuff a blue ball of bread into my mouth so I didn’t dissolve into another fit of laughter.
For the rest of the dinner, Weston and I kept our conversation light, mostly joking about superficial things—commentary on the entertainment and the people sitting around us. The show broke for us to fill our plates with various island recipes—shellfish, salads, pork from the pig that had slow-roasted all day in a pit in the ground, poke, and the juiciest fruits I’d ever tasted.
Here we began to really talk, began to learn new details about each other.
“You have to try the lobster, it’s so fresh it doesn’t even need butter.” Weston held out a piece of the meat he’d broken from a claw on his own plate.
I backed away. “I can’t. I’m sure it’s delicious, but I’m allergic.”
“You are? That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“To all shellfish. I break out in the wickedest rash all over.”
His mouth actually gaped. “How did I not know—?” he caught himself with a shake of his head. “How do you go on living?”
“Since I haven’t had any shellfish for years and don’t remember how it tastes, I thought I was living just fine. But maybe I need to reevaluate my misery levels.”
“It’s not fair. Not fair, I’m telling you.” He shook his head again, then swallowed the piece of lobster himself. He wore an expression that said the taste was divine, but he kindly said, “It’s so disgusting. You’re not missing anything at all. Worst thing ever.”
“I’m sure it tastes better than the poi.”
“Burnt tapioca tastes better than the poi. Old caviar tastes better than the poi. Soy yogurt tastes better than the poi.” Then he had to let me feed him the poi, the way the true Islanders did it, from their fingers, because he was very smugly making fun of my own soy yogurt habit.
He licked the mushy substance from each of my fingers until there wasn’t a trace left, and I could feel each swipe of his tongue along my skin as though he were licking the full of my pussy, each heated trace notching up my desire.
“I take it back,” he said when my fingers were clean, his hand still wrapped around mine. “Poi tastes pretty damn good.”
Midway through dinner, I spotted Weston looking around the crowd.
“Are you checking out other women while you’re on a sort-of date with me?”
“No,” he laughed. “I was making a work observation. I’m off the clock, but it gets in your blood. Becomes a habit.”
I set down my fork and patted at my mouth with my napkin. “Now I must hear this. What was the observation, and how does it get into your blood?” In all the months that Weston had taught me about business, he’d rarely put the spotlight on his own work. I knew he knew his job inside and out, but I’d never seen him in action.
“I was observing that nearly everyone at the luau is an adult. Likely because this is an adult-friendly resort. But the dinner still didn’t sell out, so I was thinking that if they marketed this as adults only, or couples only, they might get better bang for their buck. It would seem more attractive, more exclusive. Might even be able to raise their prices a little, charge extra for the frou-frou drinks. Right now it’s just a luau, same as everywhere else on the island. It wouldn’t really change their clientele, but it would seem cooler.”
“Oh. I see. That’s a very astute observation.” I rubbed my lips together as I considered everything that I knew about Weston and everything that I could glean from him just during tonight’s interaction. “So you are an idea man?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m all about the magic tricks. I like the sleight of hand.” He took the plastic flower that was on the center of the table as decoration and held it in the air with his left hand. Then after a bit of flash and choreography, suddenly it had disappeared. Then—presto! He was pulling it from behind my ear.
“How the fuck did you do that? Do not tell me that that gets you girls?” Though I knew for certain it got him girls. Because it was totally dorky, but he was also totally hot. “Do it again.”
“I’m not going to do it again. You’re just trying to find out how I did it. And yes, it has totally gotten me girls.” He stuck the flow
er behind my ear for real this time, perching it against my hair. “It looks nice there.”
I held his gaze then flicked my eyes to his lips, wanting to kiss him, knowing it was too early, not wanting to break the spell. “You think of marketing like magic?”
“Yeah. It’s telling people one thing while you’re doing something else. It’s just showing them what you want them to see.” I nodded, encouraging him to go on.
“When Donovan—my good friend—came to me with the idea of starting an advertising company, he wanted me to be the salesman, the one who pitched to clients, sold the campaigns and the creative. He always teased me, said I had the face for it. The personality. But I wasn’t really interested in that. I liked the idea of advertising, but I wanted to be the magic. The guy behind the scenes, planning the tricks. Scheming. So I agreed to come on, but only if we found another face.”
I knew that there were five people in total running Reach, Inc., but I wasn’t quite clear on everyone’s roles within it. I used the opportunity to play dumb and hear the story of the company’s formation. “Then you found another face?”
“Yeah. Donovan had another friend, Nate Sinclair. He was an art dealer, so he knew creative. A very good salesman. We didn’t quite have the capital to go into it as large as we wanted to—as large as Donovan wanted to, so we got a couple of other guys. Even then, Donovan and I came with the most cash.” Weston took a breath, then corrected himself. “Donovan came with the most cash. He loaned me a significant portion to come in as his partner fifty-fifty; the other three have smaller shares in the company.”
And that was something I hadn’t known. Something that didn’t fully make sense, considering what I’d learned about Weston King and the amount he should be worth. “You borrowed money from Donovan to invest in Reach?”
He looked down at his plate and nodded. He swallowed—I could see the bob of his Adam’s apple, even though he hadn’t taken a bite of anything. It bothered him, this transaction that he had made with his friend. It bothered him to tell me.
“I think it’s awesome that you have someone you feel comfortable enough with to have an arrangement like that,” I said, and it was true. I’d never had to borrow money from anyone in my life, but there had been several times that I’d wanted to help out friends, and no one had ever been comfortable enough to ask me. It’s a strange dynamic being the one with the money, maybe as strange as being the one without.
“That’s a great way to look at it,” Weston said, finally looking at me. “He knew I was good for it, anyway. I do have a trust fund I haven’t touched that could more than pay him back if I ever wanted to dig into it.”
I sat quietly, in case he wanted to tell me more, but when he didn’t, I let it go, knowing he would tell me when he was ready. This was only day one in our tropical paradise, day one of getting to know each other, and he’d already confessed something that was obviously difficult for him.
We already had one less wall between us. We were already so much closer.
The second round of entertainment began then, and talk gave way to singing along to “Tiny Bubbles” and learning familiar Hawaiian phrases. When the emcee asked for a volunteer to come up to learn how to hula, I joked about taking the stage.
“You wouldn’t do it. You’re too classy for that.”
I wasn’t sure if he was challenging me or if he really thought that I was too much of a prude, too serious to have any fun.
Either way, it pushed me to raise my hand.
“The redhead in the back,” the emcee said, calling on me. I really had given him no choice since I was practically standing and waving my arm like I was on a sinking ship trying to hail a lifeboat.
“No way,” Weston said with a smile as I smugly took to the stage.
A couple of assistant dancers led me behind the backdrop while the main singer sang another traditional Hawaiian song. I was dressed in a coconut bra over my maxi dress, and a hula skirt—a genuine one, not one of those plastic things that came from a costume store—was put on over my head and pulled down to my waist. When the song was over, I was led back on stage and in front of everyone, I was taught the simple movements of a basic hula love story.
It was easy enough to catch on to, for me anyway. I’d taken ballet for so long that I was good at picking up new choreography. Isolating my hip muscles was a bit of a challenge, but when I looked into the audience and saw the expression on Weston’s face, saw him hypnotized and practically drooling, I was more determined to get it right. For him.
Afterward I was congratulated with applause and praised by the artists. I was given both the coconut bra and the skirt to keep as a prize for volunteering.
Weston met me at the side of the stage with my purse. He took the bag that contained my hula outfit for me and gestured to a pathway that led away from the dinner crowd.
“Do you mind? I don’t think any of the entertainment can top what I’ve just seen.”
That damn dimple again. Made my stomach do the flip-flop. Even if I had just met him tonight, yeah, I would let this stranger lead me away. Stupid, maybe. Crazy, definitely.
“I don’t mind,” I said.
We started walking, our hands dangling near each other again, sometimes brushing so slightly I wondered if it was just the breeze.
“You looked good up there,” he said, his face tilted toward me.
“No I didn’t. It was silly.”
“You did. You, really did. Your hips can really move.”
We followed the path around the garden toward the sound of the ocean waves. Just around some larger bushes was a hidden nook where a group of palm trees were surrounded by thick green bushes with bright tropical flowers.
“Years of ballet had you fooled.”
“You took ballet?”
“All my life.”
“That explains so much,” he mumbled to himself. More loudly, he said, “You seem flexible.”
He’d been thinking about some of the ways he’d fucked me, I could see it on his face. We had done some rather advanced positions in terms of bending and twisting.
I stopped and turned to face him. “I’ve kept my body up through yoga. But I felt off, doing the hula. I was distracted. They tied the bra so loose, I kept worrying it was going to fall down. Did you notice I kept pulling on the strap?” I leaned back on the tree behind me, gazing up at him.
“I didn’t notice. I was too busy wondering what was under your skirt.” He put his hand on the tree behind me, dropped the bag on the ground at my feet, and took a step closer, erasing the space between us.
My breath sped up at his proximity. I squinted my eyes up at him. “Would you really say that to a girl you just met?”
“I just said it, didn’t I?” His eyes flicked to my lips.
I glanced around, to be sure we were alone, then grabbed the hem of my skirt and pulled it up toward my waist. “Go ahead and find out.”
“Would you really say that to someone you just met?” he teased.
“Do you care?”
He lifted my skirt the last few inches to discover that I hadn’t worn panties.
“What a pleasant surprise.” He rubbed two fingers along the bare skin of my pussy. “I can’t believe you went out alone like this. So brave. To think that this treasure could have gone un-worshipped.”
“I guess it’s a really good thing, then, that we met.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.” He removed his hand from my pussy and brought it to my lips. “Open.” I opened. “Suck.” He slipped two fingers inside. “You have a really pretty mouth. Big, full, gorgeous lips,” he said, his voice low and raspy, as I sucked on him until his fingers felt as wet as I did down below.
He returned his hand to the space between my thighs, parting me with his fingers. “You’re beautiful here too. I can tell just by touching. Soft and wet and plump.” He squeezed my clit with an expert amount of pressure, and I closed my eyes, surrendering to him.
His head lowered, a
nd I could feel his mouth next to my ear, hear his breathing get heavier as my own breaths became more rapid. I clutched onto him as the tension within me began to build. He slid one finger lower, inside my eager body.
“You’re so wet. And snug.” He pulled out and thrust back in. Added another finger. My body bowed, begging for more. “Do you hear the rush of the ocean?” He paused, waiting for an answer. “Do you?”
I had to concentrate really hard to be aware of anything outside of Weston and my body and what he was currently doing to me, but somewhere nearby behind us, the ocean roared. “Yes. I hear it.”
“The way the waves come in fast and sudden and overpowering, crashing on the sand, then pull out, taking everything in their wake with them? That’s how it’s going to be when I fuck you.”
Holy shit.
I moaned, my hips bucking into his hand, greedy for more of his words and this feeling. Not sure how much I could take.
“Shh. It’s okay. Keep listening. Surrender to that sound.” He put his free hand around my waist to hold me up. “I’m going to fuck you fast like that ocean. Big like those waves. I’m going to overpower you. I’m going to make you come, make you crash. I’m going to take everything you give me and steal it away with me.”
My pussy rippled around his fingers, which were stroking in and out of me, his dirty promises driving me crazy, partly because I knew he was good for them. Partly because I truly believed he would talk to me like this if we were indeed strangers, and that was so deliriously sexy.
But his words stoked something deeper, something I believed was probably also true. He really did want to win me over, really wanted to take everything I had to give. Really did want to steal it away with him.
Forever?
God, I hoped so.
“You know it, don’t you?” he asked. “You can feel how it’s going to be between us.”
“Yes, yes. Please.” I needed to release. I was so close, so desperate.
“Look at me when you come.” He massaged my clit in small, tight circles with the pad of his thumb while he pushed his fingers in and out in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
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