Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

by Beck, Samanthe

  “No.”

  Feeling playful, she batted her eyelashes at him. “Oh, come on. Sharing is caring.”

  “No way. I’ve earned a reward, too, and this is mine…hey—”

  He jerked back as she landed beside him on the chaise, and then sucked in a breath and dropped his gaze. “Aw. See what you made me do?”

  Following his line of vision, she looked down at his bare chest, where his spoonful of ice cream now left a chocolate trail down the vertical gulley genetics and discipline had chiseled between his pecs. Without stopping to question the wisdom of the impulse, she lowered her head and licked it into her mouth.

  A low groan rumbled from beneath her lips, alerting her to the fact that she was running her tongue over smooth skin at the same moment the hot taste of testosterone cut through the sweetness of the ice cream. A tingling sensation started at her lips and traveled to far-flung destinations like shockwaves from an epicenter. Slowly, she lifted her head.

  …

  Blue eyes burned into him like flames. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t swallow. Could barely breathe. Her lips moved, possibly forming his name, but no sound reached his ears except the harsh imperative of his own inner voice.

  Quinn…

  Slender fingers closed around the hand he still held suspended between them, the small carton of ice cream still locked in his fist. His wrist turned like a doorknob under the slight twist of hers, and then something cold and sticky drizzled along his abs.

  Don’t…

  Surely he’d said it out loud? Any other client, and he would have put a stop to this instantly, but Quinn blurred all the lines. She bent all his rules, and instead of finding it infuriating, he couldn’t wait to see how she’d test him next. But accomplishing what he’d been hired to accomplish meant knowing how to push back when she tested the limits—keeping her focused and motivated, not succumbing to her attempts at distraction. Over the last four weeks they’d reached a level of cooperation that was working for her, and letting her have her way with him would complicate their relationship, and risk disrupting the hard-won momentum.

  Don’t…

  Her gaze darted down. She licked her lips and lowered her head. Her mouth touched his skin—cool and hot at the same time—and her tongue slid down his stomach.

  Don’t stop…

  Oh yeah. That’s what he’d said. His free hand tangled in her hair, his fingers sinking into the silky mass. Not to pull her away, but to guide her lower. Still clinging to his wrist, she hooked her other hand into the front of his sweats and slowly eased herself down until she knelt on the cobblestone between his parted legs.

  That mouth. That mouth he couldn’t stop thinking about glided lower, and his cock strained to meet it. She raised her head. He didn’t remember abandoning his hold on her, but suddenly their fingers were tangling on the drawstring to his sweats. He shoved the shorts out of his way, or she did—he wasn’t sure who deserved the credit—but the move trapped the head of his cock in the process, dragging it down until the drawstring gave way. His dick slapped his abs with a solid thwack, and he felt a moment of pride at her quick intake of breath.

  And fuck…it was his turn to suck in his breath, because she took the ice cream from him, tipped the cup and dribbled two of her favorite things all over his pride. For half a second, they both admired her handiwork, then she placed the container on the table and whispered, “Ooops.”

  Every tether in his mind holding on to reasons why they couldn’t do this snapped. “Somebody better clean that up.”

  She braced her hands on his thighs, lowered her head, and licked him from base to tip.

  Not a prayer. He didn’t have a prayer. He’d pictured her like this too many times. Dreamed of pushing into her lush mouth and staying right there until she finished him off. Groaning his surrender, he sank both hands into her hair and held it back so he could maintain the view. “You overlooked a few spots.”

  She licked him again, swirling her tongue as she went, teasing it over the very tip. “Mmm. This could take a while.” Her lips brushed his crown as she spoke.

  This could take another minute, tops. “Quinn…”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to use my whole mouth.”

  Despite knowing full well what she intended to do to him, watching her slick her tongue over her lips in preparation, he still nearly thrust deep when she closed her mouth around him. The ungentlemanly instinct warred with his desire to see his cock slowly slide into the haven of her tightly sealed lips.

  The slow slide won out, because apparently he did still possess a modicum of impulse control—maybe only enough to keep from artlessly fucking her mouth—but at the moment, it amounted to a major act of self-restraint. He held onto it while she worked her way up and down his length in an agonizingly leisurely pace. He held on to it when she abandoned his throbbing cock with a suddenness that wrenched a curse from his throat, and angled her head until her tongue laved his balls.

  He tightened his fingers in her hair. “Christ, Quinn.”

  “It got everywhere,” she murmured. “I want to do a thorough job.” Planting a hand at the center of his chest, she pushed until he leaned back on his elbows, and proceeded to use a devastating combination of lips and tongue to chase down every possible drop.

  He looked down the length of his body. Her hand smoothed his torso, stopping just shy of the place where his cock jutted like a sundial, and then stroked up along the same route, as if she couldn’t get enough of his clenched abs. He tightened them for her, wanting her to feel every ridge.

  Her forehead teased another hard ridge, nudging the back of his shaft each time she moved her mouth—and she moved it constantly. She wasn’t ignoring a damn thing.

  Her tongue took an unexpected foray, and his breath exploded from his lungs.

  “Jesus. That’s pretty fucking thorough.”

  She spent another few seconds showing him just how thorough she could be, and reduced him to threats, because it was threaten or beg. He sat up, speared a hand in her hair, and eased her head back until he could look at her. “If you don’t stop right now, you’re going to have another mess to clean up.”

  Bold eyes stared back at him, gleaming with challenge. “What would you make a mess of, Luke?” She smoothed a hand over her cleavage. “My breasts?”

  Her hand was on the move before he could answer. She ran her palm up the back of her neck, dislodged her ponytail holder, and then combed her fingers through the long, silky cascade. “My hair?”

  She swept it back, tipped her chin higher, and tempted him with lowered lashes. “My face? Would you like to come on my f—?”

  “You mouth.” He manhandled his cock until the head hovered close to her lips. “I would make a mess of your dirty little mouth.” It wasn’t lost on him that she hadn’t offered that option, though. A little ice cream only went so far, and it could be she didn’t consider that particular type of mess much of a treat. “But I’d give you fair warning.” He glided the tip of his cock over her lips, making them glisten.

  “Who’s going to give you fair warning?”

  Not her. She dipped her head and took him throat deep. Reflexes she used to swallow went to work and he lost the ability to think. Her fingernails dug into his thighs and he didn’t give a shit. She drew him in a little deeper, gave up a mere fraction of an inch, and then did it again. Down. Up. Up. Down. Bobbing her head in his lap in an unpredictable rhythm that pressed his balls against the cushion and never let him get in front of the sensations she pumped out of him.

  He cupped the back of her head, allowed himself one fast, hard thrust before releasing her. “Fair warning,” he managed to say through clenched teeth.

  She kept right on going.

  “I mean it, Quinn. If you don’t want to take it in your mouth, you better stop.”

  She stopped moving, but left him lodged deep.

  Sheridan smartassery at its finest. Because he wasn’t certain she appreciated just how worked
up she’d gotten him, he offered a final, final warning. “I’m three, maybe four seconds from coming like a motherfucker. My balls are so full, they ache. My cock feels heavy enough to anchor the Titanic. If you’re not prepared to swallow fast and often, you need to get up now. Put me between your tits, your thighs… bend over and offer up your ass. But make no mistake Quinn. I’m coming, and I’m coming hard.”

  And then, God help her, she sucked all the slack out of her lips. He remembered bending forward. Vaguely registered grinding his forehead to the crown of her skull. From universes away, he heard a triumphant sound.

  Hers.

  A long, grateful groan.

  His.

  He stayed like that, hunched protectively over her, while she swallowed, and swallowed, and then cradled his wrung-out dick in her mouth, toying with him just enough to keep him semi-hard.

  No good. He refused to let his tired cock languish there. She deserved only his best. Holding her shoulders, he pulled himself from between her lips. He slid free with an audible pop.

  She curved her lips and raised her beautiful face to his. She glowed—a woman flushed with the power of bringing her target to his knees, and not yet overly concerned about the wisdom of her actions.

  The next words had to come from him, and he needed to choose them very carefully. Something to put them back on solid ground, and reestablish their roles, despite the fact that she’d just owned him in a fundamental way.

  With a barely perceptible move, she shifted her weight to her left leg.

  The need for answers overrode caution—or maybe he simply wanted to push her boundaries as payback for letting her run right over his. “Tell me how you sprained your knee, Trouble.”

  The glow of triumph dimmed from her face, and her expression shuttered.

  Yeah, wrong call. Pushing this particular boundary only made her close up.

  I miss you, too…

  She swiped her index finger to one corner of her mouth, then the other. Then she got to her feet. “Thank you for my reward.”

  “Quinn…”

  She walked into her villa and closed the door behind her.

  Holy shit, he’d fucked this up. Badly, and on every level. Crossed the line with a client, and then driven her away in a clumsy attempt to resolve jealousy he had no right to feel. And while all that was damning enough, it wasn’t the worst of his transgressions. Not even close.

  He sank his fingers into his hair and pulled until his scalp sang. She was a client. An actress. A bundle of reckless impulses wrapped in a package so stunning, it qualified as a defense mechanism.

  And he was falling for her.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Eleven

  The lovers strolling arm-and-arm along the shoreline in the distance up ahead probably thought the full moon hanging low in the star-strewn sky looked romantic, but to Quinn’s tortured conscience, it looked like a judge surrounded by a jury of stars, aiming a big, accusatory eye directly at her. One she couldn’t evade, no matter how many miles she logged trying to outrun her humiliation over the encounter with Luke that afternoon.

  She focused on the couple. As she watched, the guy turned to the woman, pulled her into a kiss and…whoa…okay, in addition to finding a moonlit beach romantic, they also clearly thought they had it to themselves. Rather than thunder past and hurl an ill-tempered “Get a room!” at them, she changed direction and jogged back the way she’d come. After all, some people came to Paradise Bay for pleasure.

  Not Luke. He’s here as a favor to Eddie. He’s here to do a job. He’s told you this more than once, and still you…what? Put his dick in your mouth and hope an unrequested blowjob changes his mind?

  He didn’t stop you, a self-defensive voice inside her pointed out. What about the spanking? What about the ‘Help me help you’? He’s no altar boy, either.

  True. But instead of giving rise to righteous indignation, the realization only made her feel worse—or maybe the pinch in her side from overexertion deserved the credit? Either way, she knew damn well she owned most of the blame for those incidents.

  Why did she keep taking them there?

  At first, admittedly, she’d done it as a pathetic attempt to gain a measure of control over him. He had a ridiculous amount of control over her, didn’t particularly approve of her, and he’d been a real jackass about it initially. She hadn’t been above trying to gain a little power by making him want her.

  She dug her fingers into her side to ease the uncomfortable pressure, and acknowledged the motive possibly made her exactly the neurotic, narcissistic actress Luke had accused her of being during the call in Eddie’s office. But things had changed since those early weeks. Power and leverage hadn’t factored into her actions this afternoon. That had been nothing but genuine desire, and affection, and…something deeper. Something that just kept on getting deeper, no matter how much she wished it wouldn’t, because he wasn’t a jackass, as it turned out. He was a good guy—the kind of guy who paid a debt to a friend even when it went above and beyond the call of friendship, the kind of man who kept his promises to her even when she didn’t necessarily keep up her end of the deal. A man who wanted her, but didn’t want to want her.

  Dammit.

  She slowed to a walk before the pressure in her side escalated to a full-blown stitch, and tipped her head back to draw in slow, deep breaths. The moon glared down at her in silent recrimination.

  You owe him an apology.

  She bent over and rested her hands on her knees, swallowing the truth with a lungful of oxygen. In the morning. She’d apologize first thing in the morning. After that, she’d keep herself in line, and respect his rules, because he was a good guy. No matter how much she wished for more from him, he’d been very clear about what he was there to do…and what he wasn’t there to do, and—

  “You okay, Trouble?”

  She was so busy making promises to get the moon off her back, she almost screamed when Luke called to her. She whipped her head up, but it took her a moment to spot him sitting a few yards up on the sand, staring at the ocean. Well, staring at her now that she’d moved into his line of sight, but originally staring at the water. The sight of him there, alone, made her realize she wasn’t the only one miles from home, away from everything familiar, enduring six weeks of relative seclusion. She really didn’t know how he spent his downtime—other than not with her—but by himself on the beach after dark hadn’t entered her mind. It seemed broody, and lonely, and uncharacteristic, despite his self-contained nature.

  Then again, she’d just taken a midnight run to clear her head, so it could be he hadn’t cornered the market on broody, lonely, uncharacteristic behavior.

  “I’m fine,” she answered before the silence stretched too long, and made her way up the slight slope to close the distance between them. Her plan might have been to apologize first thing in the morning, but apparently the universe felt she ought to get it done tonight. As she approached, the moonlight glinted off something sitting in the sand beside him. A bottle. She narrowed her eyes to make out the label. Old Harbor Visitante 212, she read, and then shifted her attention back to him. “Are you out here by yourself…drinking?”

  Correction. He definitely won the prize for broody, lonely, uncharacteristic behavior.

  “Nope.” He upended the bottle to demonstrate it was empty, and then went back to staring at the waves.

  She took a seat beside him in the sand, settling close enough to catch a whiff of roasted malt, dark chocolate, and a sting of rum. “Sending out a message in a bottle? Does it say, ‘Please rescue me from my crazy client?’”

  His lips curved up at one corner. “No. It says…” He let out a long, tired breath, and turned to her. His windblown hair and slow-to-focus eyes told her the bottle in his hand wasn’t his first of the evening. “It says, ‘I’m sorry—’”

  “That’s my line.” Yes, it was rude to interrupt, but she really didn’t think she could withstand an apology from him. Sorry I didn’t stop you
from making a fool of yourself? Sorry I ever took this job? Sorry, but…

  “I never should have let that happen,” he finished.

  Wow. That was even worse than anything she’d come up with. Swallowing the rest of her pride, she forced a highly unconvincing laugh. “Oh please. Don’t even. I jumped you.”

  Now he laughed, and then made her breath hitch when he cupped her cheek in his palm. “I’m bigger, taller, and strong. Trust me, Trouble, you did not jump me.” His expression sobered and his eyes scanned her face while his thumb traced her cheekbone gently. It hurt how much she wanted to read into the absent gesture. “Trust me,” he repeated, but this time his smile took on an ironic tilt, before he shook his head, and dropped his hand. “Right. Mr. Trustworthy. Believe it or not, I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to be fair to you.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “And to me.”

  God, was she an idiot? “I know. I’m….” Sorry. She meant to say “sorry,” but shame clogged her throat. Early on, he’d told her sex wasn’t part of the services, because he wasn’t some high-priced gigolo disguised as a trainer. Pride had forced her to assure him she wasn’t a woman who needed to pay for sex, and then she’d completely dismissed that particular concern. Like it didn’t apply, because she had feelings for him, dammit. But what about him?

  Her motives came straight from her heart, but if she told him that, he wouldn’t believe her. No, he’d already written off her feelings as an apparently commonplace byproduct of the highly physical and intimate nature of their relationship, and misplaced reliance on her part, or an inability to separate needing his help from plain old needing him. Maybe if he hadn’t already spent some chunk of this evening trying to drown out the memory of crossing lines with her this afternoon, she would have taken another run at that wall. What did pride matter at this point?

  But he was out here, using local cerveza to wash down guilt, regret…hell…probably a decent dose of plain old pissed-off, and if she couldn’t read that for what it was—a big, neon warning sign that she was living up to the nickname he’d given her—then she really was an idiot. “I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper, getting her voice behind the words this time.