by Roya Carmen
He goes to work on my drink, blender already spinning and buzzing. “Is Gabe happy to be here?” he says out of the blue. Apparently, we’re skipping the small talk.
“Uh…yes,” I stammer. “He just takes time to warm up to new surroundings.”
“Like you. You seem a little on edge.”
I laugh. “It’s that obvious?”
“A little. But don’t worry. We’ll get a few of these into you and you’ll be feeling fine in no time.”
By my second drink, I am literally sleeping on the cool granite counter. I’m just so exhausted from the jet lag. And the time change is wreaking havoc on my equilibrium. It’s only nine o’clock at night in Hawaii and I’m more than ready for bed.
Gabe practically carries me to our bedroom. I’m so sleepy, I can barely appreciate the room’s beauty; four poster teak bed, cool crisp linens with beautiful flower embroidery, colorful artwork, views to die for.
I’ll enjoy it tomorrow, I tell myself as I drift off, buried in the cool crisp sheets.
Chapter Fourteen
This is most tortuous…
I AM FEELING GOOD. I’m on my third piña colada and I have a good buzz going. Yes, I’m a little bit of a lightweight, I’ll be the first to admit. But Weston was right, he makes a mean piña colada.
This place is amazing, I muse as I sit on the contemporary wicker chair and feel the cool breeze of the ocean against my skin. We’ve all gathered in the outdoor living area to enjoy tropical drinks and a buffet-style lunch consisting of fruit, crackers, paté, shrimp cocktail, and a cold noodle salad.
Weston and Gabe are talking business.
“We’re moving in a different direction with this project,” Weston tells him. “Since it’s a converted warehouse, we’re working around the original architecture and finishes, brick and old beams, and so forth. We’re looking for high-end pieces to furnish the model spaces. Ideally sleek and not too bulky.”
Gabe stretches his long legs, his feet crossed over the chunky coffee table. “Keeping it old-school. That’s smart. Yeah, I think streamlined classic pieces would do well.”
Weston leans in. “Does Keates Furnishings carry any contemporary lines?”
“We have it all. Traditional, contemporary, country, Art-Deco inspired mission-style…”
“Well, just send me your brochure and I’ll pass it on to my head of design. Maybe you two could get together.”
“Sure. I appreciate it,” Gabe says.
Am I imagining this, or is Gabe being amicable?
Anyway, this business talk starts to bore me and I mentally tune-out…and ogle (for lack of a better word) Weston.
He is stretched out on the sofa beside Bridget, looking uncharacteristically casual in his light blue T-shirt which seems two sizes too small (I’m definitely not complaining, mind you). His shirt rides up a little, revealing the thin dark line under his navel.
The man looks good.
Gabe sits next to me and shoots me a wink here and there, looking pretty darn good himself, in his loose V-neck white tee and bohemian leather shell necklace.
From this point of view, at this juncture in time, I really can’t decide who’s hotter. It’s quite the conundrum.
Even Bridget, who is decked out in a tiny bikini, stringy cover-up and high-heeled sandals, looks damn good.
I really think I should stop drinking now.
The sky has stopped spinning. Thank goodness I’ve stopped drinking. I’ve sobered up quite a bit and everyone seems a little less attractive. I lay poolside in the ultra-cool bathing suit Gwen bought me; the blue and red polka-dot retro inspired two-piece with button tabs—the one with my name written all over it. It fits well, or at least, I think it fits well, it’s hard to tell when you’re the one wearing it.
I was surprised by Gwen’s reaction when she heard Gabe and I were going to Hawaii with our “friends with benefits”—as she’s fond of calling them. She didn’t judge and seemed rather excited for me. She’d be happy to see how fabulous I look. I’ve even bought white rimmed retro style shades to complete the outfit. And the weather is cooperating to boot. The humidity does great things to my hair, bringing out the large bouncy curls. I’m feeling pretty smokin’ (as Gabe would say).
But…
All that goes out the window when I spot Bridget as she makes her way to the pool in a black string bikini and the largest sun hat in the history of sun hats, looking like the goddess she is. Oh well, my high lasted about three seconds. Better than nothing.
Weston walks by with a sweaty Corona in his hand. He is shirtless, and wears fitted cool navy European swimming trunks hanging low on his hips, the definition of his stomach muscles on full display.
God, I was wrong. He’s still off the charts hot. I don’t need a single drink to appreciate that. This “no funny business” approach we’re planning to take is going to be a challenge. This is most tortuous—to be able to see, but not be able to touch.
He says hi and takes a seat on the lounge chair next to me. I put down my magazine and give him my full attention. He plops his towel on the chair, and squeezes a good ounce of sunblock lotion into his hand. “Going for a swim?” he asks with a smile.
And ruin this Mad-Men-bathing-suit-ad look I’ve got going? “Maybe later,” I tell him.
He slathers the lotion over his arms and shoulders. I watch him, hypnotized. Thankfully, no one mentioned anything about ogling. That’s still on the table if I understand correctly.
“You are going in that pool,” he says, all business. He’s being bossy again.
“Oh, is that a fact?” I ask with a cheeky smile.
“You either go in on your own accord, or one of us will throw you in,” he says with a wink. He’s taunting me, the bastard. He knows I can’t have him and he’s being purposely sexy.
Two can play that game, I decide as I pull back my shoulders and stick out my chest—I’ve been told I have a great rack. Okay, admittedly it was only Gabe who said this, but I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.
Bridget takes a seat on the opposite lounge chair, at ease in her minuscule black string bikini. “Anyone going swimming?” Actually, minuscule doesn’t begin to describe her suit. Microscopic would be a more accurate word. I’m not even sure it can even be called a “bikini”—not certain if it meets the fabric requirements.
And she looks amazing. This woman has had two children, I can’t help but wonder, surely there had to be a tummy tuck somewhere along the way. I really want to believe she didn’t just come by this body naturally. I want to believe there was body bending pain involved.
And suddenly I don’t feel so fabulous in my clownish retro two-piece.
She seems so comfortable in her bikini too. Surely a nipple or a pubic hair will escape? Well, perhaps not the hair, she’s probably waxed bare.
I hate her. Okay, I don’t really hate her. I just hate her “I’m so much hotter than you” bikini.
“You look tense. Would you like me to make you a margarita?” Bridget asks.
“No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough to drink.”
I hear a splash and look over to see Weston under the water, swimming across the length of the pool.
I finally take the plunge, literally, after much taunting and pleading from Weston.
He swims circles around me, and brushes against my skin occasionally. I float on my back and stare up at the clear blue sky, delighting in the ripples around me, knowing he’s nearby. I close my eyes and soak in the sun.
I feel a pinch and jerk a little, splashes of water fall on my face. He laughs at me and swims around me, not taking his eyes off mine. His playful expression has faded. He’s suddenly so intense. “I like your suit,” he says as he swims past me. “You look amazing.”
I shoot him a sly smile. “Gwen says it’s a little square.”
A slow teasing smile plays on his lips. “Well, I have to say I disagree, wholeheartedly.”
As I swim away, a huge smile practically sp
lits my face in two.
These are the only words spoken. But, the electricity between us is undeniable.
I don’t stay in the water too long before retreating to my warm sun drenched lounge chair. Bridget is reading some highbrow business book. I’m tempted to read my trashy gossip magazine, but I just can’t now—sitting next to Miss “I’m not only hot, I’m super smart too.”
Gabe comes back from a run on a beach; shirtless and sweaty. Both Bridget and I look up. He is a vision. I sometimes forget how utterly fabulous his body is.
He wipes his sweat covered chest with a fluffy blue towel. “Hey guys.”
Even Weston is staring at him, clearly impressed.
“What do you think of the tattoos?” Bridget asks me between sips of her fruity red drink.
“I like them.”
“They’re sexy,” she says, without the slightest hint of shyness. “It’s eye-catching.”
“Definitely,” I agree. “I like the eagle.”
She eyes me with confusion. “The what?”
“The eagle. Don’t you see it?” I ask, surprised she hasn’t spotted it before. I’m sure she’s seen him naked at least a dozen times. It is kind of a trick of the eye, buried in the curvaceous shapes of the tribal design, but still, it is pretty obvious.
“Gabe, stand right there,” I call out.
He eyes me with a raised brow and walks slowly to us.
“Move to the left a little,” I instruct, positioning him just so in front of us.
He shoots us a mischievous grin.
“Look at the left nipple,” I tell Bridget. “Now look around it.”
She stretches her neck out and cocks a brow. “I don’t see it.”
I can’t believe she can’t see it. Is she blind?
She fixes him with a focused expression. I stand by, sitting at the edge of my chair, eager. How can she not see it?
She perks up. “I see it,” she finally blurts out. “I see it.”
“Cool, right? It’s like one of those secret image pictures you just have to look at for a while before it pops out at you.”
“So clever.”
I spot Weston in the distance. He’s rolling his eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that expression on his face before—could he be jealous?
I’m not sure why, but I like the idea of him being jealous…just a little.
Chapter Fifteen
You wanted me to hear.
THE NEXT NIGHT, we gather around the long rosewood table for a meal of grilled seafood, quinoa, and grilled fruit shish kabobs cooked by the personal chef hired for the week. It’s all to die for.
We follow with a game of Scrabble—the women against the men. It’s a pretty close game. The women taking it by just a few points. Bridget is quite the wordsmith, and I haven’t quite embarrassed myself either.
We sit on the sectional with tropical drinks in our hands and chat a little before bed. So far, we’ve all been pretty good. So it is possible for all of us to keep our hands off each other after all.
Gabe wraps one arm around my waist and I lean into him. He smells good; an exhilarating blend of tropical air, beach and fruity drink mix.
“I can’t wait to use that bed properly,” he whispers against my ear, so softly, I can barely hear him.
I smile and spot Weston looking at us, a serious expression on his face.
Suddenly, I’m filled with anticipation. The previous night, I had been drained and still jet-lagged, but tonight I’m my old self again and I can’t wait either.
“Why did you two choose Hawaii?” I ask Bridget. “I know it’s beautiful, but it seems odd to pick a spot so far away.”
“Weston came here when he was quite young, and he just absolutely fell in love with it. He told himself he’d have a place here if he could ever afford it.”
“The diving is phenomenal,” Weston adds.
“But surely, there’s great diving in the Caribbean too, or Mexico,” I point out. “And it’s so much closer.”
“I know what I like. And when I become infatuated, consumed with something, there are absolutely no substitutes,” he adds, his gaze intense. I get the feeling we’re no longer talking about tropical destinations.
“He’s certainly set in his ways,” Bridget chimes in as she grabs a few empty drink glasses off the ultra-cool driftwood coffee table.
Gabe’s hand travels from my waist to my thigh. I try to focus on the conversation, but all I can think about is Gabe all over me. Weston hasn’t taken his eyes off us. He seems to know what we’re up to.
Gabe’s hand is officially under my loose bohemian paisley-print cotton dress, and his behavior is dangerously close to being inappropriate.
Weston fixes us still, his mouth a hard line. He’s not impressed. I’m not sure if he thinks we’re blurring the lines of appropriate behavior or if he’s just jealous, but his stare is starting to make me uncomfortable.
I stretch out my arms and fake a yawn. “I think we’re going to head in for the night,” I finally manage. “It’s getting late. The day at the beach completely did me in.”
Weston almost glares, It’s a strange half-glare, half-smile expression. “Goodnight,” he says flatly.
I smile shyly at both he and Bridget. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Bridget says. “I think we’ll head to bed too.”
Weston stands to his feet. “Yes, it’s getting late.”
“Off to bed,” Gabe chirps with a huge mischievous smile. Geez, could he be more obvious?
Gabe pulls my dress up in a frenzy. “I haven’t had you for days,” he breathes into my ear. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
I smile. He’s certainly not wasting any time. “Really?” I’m surprised he hasn’t been thinking about Bridget in her barely there postage stamps.
He unclasps my bra. “You look hot in those polka-dots,” he tells me between kisses.
“Not as hot as Bridget in her little tiny bikini,” I point out.
He laughs against my neck, the vibrations tickling me. “Bridget barely has any breasts. You, on the other hand, have two good handfuls,” he adds, just before he takes one of them into his mouth. It feels fantastic. For a second, I stop thinking…about Bridget, about bikinis, about anything.
I bury my face in his unruly beach scented hair, and delight in him.
His mouth pulls away from my breast and he trails kisses down my stomach. Then he completely catches me off guard when he pulls me up against him in one swift move. I instinctively wrap my arms and legs around him, clinging to his large frame. The way he handles me you’d swear I was light as a feather. And it must be said, I’m not. He’s just impossibly strong.
Then, he throws me on the bed. Hard. I bounce off the mattress as the bed knocks against the wall in a loud thud.
I smile. “Let’s try to be a little more quiet, shall we.”
He slips off my cotton panties and I’m officially naked. “No way. I want Weston to hear me fucking you.”
I want that too.
He kisses my hip bone. “He probably doesn’t know how it’s really done.”
I almost want to tell him he does, but I think better of it, of course. “You’re acting quite juvenile,” I point out, a sly smile on my face. I, too, like the idea of Weston hearing us. When did I become so naughty?
He slides his fingers against my sex. My breath catches at the sensation. “It’ll drive him crazy,” he says with a devilish smile.
It will. I just know it.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet and ready for me. I like that.”
Of course I am. It seems I’ve been aroused all day.
He presses his body softly against mine and kisses me sweetly, his warm mouth trailing along my cheek. He feels perfect against me. The curves of his body seem to fit seamlessly against mine.
I close my eyes as he sinks into me. He’s right, it has been days since we’ve last had sex. He feels sensational inside me.
He starts off
slow and smooth. But I’m in no mood for slow and smooth.
I cling to him. My nails scrape against the skin of his arms. “Harder,” I whisper. My body responds to every thrust and wants more. More of him. “Don’t stop,” I beg.
He pounds into me. The four poster teak bed slams into the wall repeatedly. I moan as I near my climax, not caring who hears me.
“I love it when you’re loud,” he says, the words hoarse on his tongue. I’m not sure if I’m being so vocal for his benefit, or for Weston’s, or for my own pleasure. My moans are almost a scream as I’m swept up in the waves of pleasure. Gabe pushes hard into me one last time, and stills as he comes.
Gabe looms over me as he sweeps a sweaty strand of hair off my face. “That was amazing.”
I smile up at him. He’s always so beautiful post-sex. “It sure w—”
It all happens in a swift blur—the loud thud, the picture frame crashing down on Gabe’s head, the wince on his face.
He grabs his head. “Fuck!” he yells. “What the…”
I laugh out loud. Thankfully, I was spared, protected by Gabe. He wasn’t so lucky, however.
He winces at me. “That hurt like a bitch.”
I make a funny snorting noise as I try to stifle a laugh. “I know.”
Talk about a grand finale.
Weston is sitting at the kitchen island, eating a hearty breakfast when I walk into the kitchen. He’s the last person I want to see.
“Good morning,” he says, cheerful.
I rake a hand through my hair. “Good morning,” I reply, not quite able to look at him.
I can barely eat a thing. Nausea oozes through me, most likely from one too many drinks the night before. But knowing I should really eat something, I decide to make myself a piece of toast and grab a glass of juice.
Gabe follows me into the kitchen. “Morning,” he says, as carefree as one can be. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem embarrassed in the least by last night’s events.
“Morning,” Weston says.
“A picture fell off the wall in our room last night,” Gabe tells him as he opens the refrigerator door. “The hook fell right off, and the wire broke.”