As Hot As It Gets

by Jamie Sobrato

The dominatrix offered a little smile. “I’m Madame Giselle.”

  “Oh,” Mason said in his dude accent. “Is that like, your stage name or something?”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “Well, can I just call you Giselle?”

  “Sure.”

  Claire crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them. “And how about I call you my ex-boyfriend?”

  “Hey, what’s with the attitude? I’m just talkin’ to the lady, okay? Can’t I treat her like a human being?”

  Claire grabbed the magazine from the bed and pretended to flip through it. “Whatever!”

  Mason turned back to Madame Giselle. “Hey, since she’s bein’ such a bitch, and I’ve already paid for your time, you mind just hanging out and talking for a little while?”

  “Um, I don’t think your girlfriend’s gonna like that,” she said, glancing nervously over at Claire, who was peering at her out of the corner of her eye.

  “Ignore her. She’s got her panties in a wad or something. I’m thinking she ought to go play in the storm tonight.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged. “I can stick around. It’s your money.”

  Mason motioned to the dinette and chairs near the window, and Giselle sat down there with him. Claire wasn’t sure exactly what she was supposed to do now in this weird little tableau, but she knew Mason had seen his chance to grill the dominatrix for information. Claire was torn—should she storm out, lock herself in the bathroom like a jealous girlfriend, or stick around to help remember details of their conversation?

  She opted for staying in the room and eavesdropping. After all, if Mason really had been her boyfriend, she supposed one sensible reaction would be to want to stick around and make sure nothing went on between her guy and the hired help.

  “So,” Mason said. “How’d you end up in this line of work?”

  Madame Giselle gave him an odd look. “I majored in sexual domination in college—what do you think?”

  “Come on now, seriously. How do you end up doing this kind of work, and all the way out here on some tiny island?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve got a day job here, too. Trust me, this doesn’t pay the bills.”

  “Huh. That surprises me. You have to give a big cut of the money to that Mike guy at the bar?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. “I really can’t discuss details with you—sorry.”

  “Hey, babe. No biggy. I’m just curious.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, and Claire almost lost her composure. She stared hard at the What’s Your Sex-Q? article to keep from laughing.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It must suck having to pay some guy when you do all the work, huh?”

  She tossed him a suspicious look. “What are you? Some kind of undercover cop or something? I’m out of here,” she said and rose from the table.

  “Wait! I’m not a cop.” Mason followed her across the room to the door.

  “You got a problem, you take it up with Mike D.” She opened the door and stalked out, not even bothering to say goodbye.

  Mason closed the door and exhaled. “Guess I blew that one, huh?”

  “I thought you did pretty well, considering.” She tossed the magazine aside and went to him.

  “I didn’t even find out her real name or where she works at the resort.”

  “Don’t you have photos on file of all your employees?”

  “Yeah, but it’ll take a while to sort through them just to find one person.”

  “We can also keep an eye out for her when we’re out and about.”

  “Right.” He pulled her to him and locked his hands around her hips. “The important thing is, we’re alone again.”

  “Hmm, I thought the important thing was saving your resort from crazed dominatrixes.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “So what makes you think I don’t still have my panties in a wad?”

  Mason smiled down at her. “In a couple of minutes you won’t be wearing your panties, so it doesn’t matter if they are or not.”

  “You sound pretty confident.”

  “A guy with my looks and charm,” he said, then paused to comb back his shaggy wig hair with his fingers. “I can’t be anything but confident.”

  “Does this mean we can take off our disguises?”

  Mason reached for Claire’s wig and pulled it off, much to her relief. She fluffed her hair and scratched at her scalp.

  “Say goodbye to Ginger,” she said.

  “And let’s don’t forget our farewell to Jake.” He took off the glasses and wig, and Claire rose up on tiptoes to give him a kiss.

  She brushed his lips with hers, then said, “I’d rather say hello to you.”

  “Thank you for helping me out today,” he said.

  Claire smiled, not willing to take any of this too seriously. “Hey, you know the price for my help.”

  “Let’s see… What was it you wanted? A rowboat to get off the island?”

  Claire gave him a playful smack on the chest. “Sex, babe. I want your sex.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s all coming back to me now.”

  “So are you going to give me what I want, or will I have to take it?”

  Mason slid his hands up her torso, grazing her breasts through the slinky fabric of the silver dress. “I think I can accommodate you,” he said as he teased her nipples.

  That’s all she was asking for—a little accommodation. And maybe tonight would be the night she got enough of him. Maybe she’d wake up in the morning ready to leave, rid herself of Mason, walk away and never see him again.

  But with his hands dipping inside her dress, caressing the bare flesh of her breasts, she had to admit it didn’t seem very likely at the moment.

  MASON CARRIED HER to the bed and freed her of the trashy little silver dress. Their mouths collided then, an edge of desperation hurrying them forward as she helped him out of his own clothes.

  All the tension that had built up inside him since they’d been interrupted by the janitor threatened to come bursting forth, and Mason couldn’t remember ever having felt so desperate for release. He ached for Claire right down to his bones.

  He tumbled onto the bed with her and kissed wherever his mouth met flesh, tasted, felt, explored…

  Claire wound up on top of him, her soft naked body molding to him, driving him to the brink of insanity. She pushed herself up, straddling him, her hot, wet center molding to his cock.

  Mason sighed. Closed his eyes. Savored the sweet agony.

  “I just realized, I don’t have any condoms here.”

  His eyes shot open. “I used the one in my wallet earlier.”

  Her stricken expression must have matched his own.

  “Damn it.”

  “You have some in your suite?”

  “Let’s go.” He shot up, pulled her off the bed, and they fumbled with their clothes, dressing haphazardly without bothering to worry about underwear or straight buttoning jobs.

  A few minutes later they were racing across the resort in the rain, hand in hand, drawing occasional stares from other passing couples who were out braving the weather for one reason or another.

  The tropical storm whipped at them and soaked them but was hardly a deterrent. A full-blown hurricane couldn’t have stopped Mason from his goal then.

  The way Claire made him feel was dangerous, insane, out of control, and he couldn’t wait to finish with her and get back to his easy, controlled existence. He liked predictability. He craved order. And he prided himself on his levelheadedness. All that flew out the window when Claire was around.

  He wanted his life back.

  But at the moment, it was hard to care about anything except finding the nearest condom so he could bury himself deep inside her over and over until the aching stopped.

  They made it to his suite in record time and let themselves in, breathless and soaked. His hand gripping Claire’s, he tugged her to the bedroom. Again they undressed in
a hurry, and Mason went to his nightstand and found the box of condoms. His hands fumbling with the lid, he tore the box open and flung the little black packets all over the bed.

  Not exactly like a bed of roses, but it was the best he could do in his half-crazed state.

  He pinned Claire on the bed, condoms surrounding her. “Hopefully we won’t run out.”

  She laughed. “If we do, a lack of protection will be the least of our worries.”

  Mason covered her mouth with his, too desperate to wait a second longer, thrust his tongue inside her mouth and drank her in, but a kiss could hardly quench his thirst. He needed her now.

  He sat up and pulled her up with him. Claire opened a condom and slid it on him, and he turned her around and grasped her hips. His cock, pressed against her, so close to entering her, was almost all he could focus on.

  He slid his hands around her waist, then let one slip between her legs. She was so wet, so ready….

  He found one of her breasts with his other hand and squeezed her nipple while he kissed the back of her neck and rubbed her clit. She moaned, squirmed her hips against him.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I want you inside me.”

  He’d intended to practice a tiny bit of self-control to make sure she got hers first, but it only took that one breathy little request to break down his will.

  Bending her over, he held firm on her hips and pushed into her from behind. She arched her back and accepted him as deep as he could go, and it was as if a dam had broken.

  Mason could no longer take his time. He thrust into her, faster and faster, harder and harder, until he was trembling, blind, sweating.

  He could hear his own gasping breaths, could feel his body tensing in preparation for a great release, and then it came.

  He came. His body was out of his control as he spilled into her, holding on tighter to her than he should have, unable to let go as the blinding pleasure coursed through him, out of him.

  And then he collapsed over her, showered kisses on her back. Mason slipped his hand down between her legs, and with his cock still inside her, he found her clit and massaged her until she too climaxed.

  Her cries of pleasure drowned out the sound of his breathing as her body bucked against his touch. When her muscles stopped flexing, he slowed the massage, then stopped. Held her tight. Lowered her to the bed. Curled his body against her.

  They lay like that together for a while until the chill of the air-conditioning got to Mason and he sat up to pull the covers over them. Part of him was ready for another round, and part of him was content just to lie still and enjoy the silence with Claire.

  But silence made him start thinking. About Claire. About their crazy weekend. About what they were doing together.

  “When is it going to be enough?” he whispered, half to himself, not expecting an answer.

  Claire’s breathing had grown slow and steady, and he didn’t really expect her to still be awake. Tucked up against him, warm and soft in his arms, was where she seemed to belong at that moment. It was hard to imagine this was just a temporary thing when she felt so right.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I thought you might be asleep.”

  “Maybe we just need another couple of days.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I hope you’re right.”

  As soon as he said it, he wished he could suck the words back into his mouth. It had come out sounding bad…. And yet, he couldn’t deny it, could he? He didn’t want Claire around any longer than necessary, right?

  If he wasn’t mistaken, he could feel her body stiffen against him, but she said nothing.

  Because she felt the same way, of course. She wanted nothing more from him than some quick satisfaction. He should have felt thankful for her lack of interest in him as anything more than a lover.

  And he did feel thankful. Sort of.

  10

  CLAIRE WOKE UP slowly, feeling oddly satisfied for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint right away. The room was bright, as if sunlight had finally prevailed over the clouds, and a glimpse of the blue sky outside the window confirmed it—the storm had passed.

  As the fog of sleep lifted from her brain, she remembered the night before. The frantic lovemaking, then the leisurely lovemaking that had turned into more leisurely lovemaking….

  That’s why she felt so satisfied.

  She stretched and felt her hand and foot bump against something warm and hard. Mason, sleeping next to her, his bare back a smooth expanse that beckoned for a woman’s touch. And then she noticed the fingernail marks—four on each side—she must have left during some wild moment of their night together.

  With the potential for awkwardness or arguing so great, Claire decided she wasn’t much interested in sticking around for morning-after pillow talk. Not that she minded a good argument under normal circumstances, but for some reason, with Mason, she didn’t want to do it in the morning. As quietly as she could, she slipped out of bed, then gathered up her clothes and dressed.

  She felt a little rude just leaving, so she wandered into the living room in search of pen and paper to leave a note. Having no luck, she tried the small kitchen and found what she needed next to the phone. But standing in what suddenly felt like an intimate part of Mason’s suite, she found herself curious about him.

  Did he cook or just order room service whenever he was home? What was it like living in a glorified hotel suite all the time, on one’s own private island? Surely it occasionally drove a guy to break out the frying pan and scramble some eggs or something.

  She peeked into his refrigerator and was surprised to see that it was fairly well stocked. Bottled water, beer, milk, orange juice, white wine, an array of condiments, a wheel of Brie… He probably paid someone to shop for him, and cook for him, too, for that matter.

  She closed the fridge and checked inside a few cabinets, where she found more normal food. Some pretzels, canned soups, things you’d expect to find in someone’s home.

  And maybe that was part of Mason’s problem. He made his home in hotel rooms.

  One thing guys rarely guessed about Claire was that she loved to cook. They always labeled her as one of those helpless carryout chicks who was completely at a loss if faced with preparing any food more complicated than a microwave dinner. But rather the opposite was true. She’d been fascinated with cooking since her childhood, and although she didn’t do it often living alone, she could whip up an impressive meal when she wanted to.

  “We can order room service.” Mason’s voice startled her, and she swung around too fast, sending pen and paper flying out of her hand and onto the floor.

  Claire didn’t show off her cooking skills to just anyone. She much preferred surprising the select few guys who deserved her culinary attention with a lavish meal once they’d been dating for a while. And yet, for reasons she didn’t care to analyze, she had a burning desire to cook for Mason.

  Or maybe it was just that she was insanely hungry from having skipped dinner the night before.

  “How about I make some omelets?”

  He blinked, looking deliciously rumpled with his hair mussed, the start of a beard darkening his jaw and a pair of navy plaid pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips.

  “You can cook?”

  Claire shot him a look, almost ready to toss aside her Betty Crocker urges and just pick up the phone for room service. “I know a thing or two.”

  He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Be my guest then.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she’d whipped up two spinach-and-cheddar omelets and found an unopened bottle of champagne in the back of the fridge to make mimosas.

  She arranged breakfast on a large coffee table in the middle of the living room, then went off in search of Mason. She found him in the bathroom shaving.

  “Too bad,” she said. “The five o’clock shadow was pretty hot.”

  He glanced over at her and smiled. “But you’ve got rug burn on your face.”

  For t
he first time, Claire noticed the raw sensation around her mouth. She looked in the mirror and saw the telltale red rash. “Oh well, that’s what concealer is for. Breakfast is ready.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  Claire found one of Mason’s sweatshirts and a pair of gym shorts in the dresser and took the liberty of changing out of the skimpy silver dress into them. They were big on her, but a heck of a lot more comfortable than her costume from the previous night. If it bothered him, he could remove them himself.

  Back in the living room, she took a peek at his bookshelves. Mysteries, thrillers, classics, contemporary literature. She never would have guessed she and Mason shared the same taste in reading material—or that he was even a reader—but she spotted several of her favorite mystery authors in his collection.

  A glance at his magazine rack revealed a more predictable stash of reading material—news and business magazines, plus a few guy magazines that seemed right up Mason’s alley. She picked up the one on top, last month’s copy of Excess, and sat down next to the coffee table to thumb through it.

  The magazine focused on what was really important to men—women, expensive toys, fast cars and more women. An article about how to keep your girlfriend coming back for more caught Claire’s attention, so she flipped back to it.

  A couple of minutes later when Mason appeared at the table across from her, she looked up at him and smiled. “I can’t believe you were making fun of my reading taste last night. I hope you don’t follow the crappy dating advice they give in here.”

  He eyed the photo on an open page of a woman in a black lace bra and panties. “I just buy that magazine for the pictures,” he said in a tone that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or serious. Since it was an echo of her own comment about Chloe magazine from the night before, she decided it was a joke.

  “You read Elmore Leonard?” she asked, nodding at his bookshelves.

  “Everything he’s ever written.”

  Claire blinked. Finally, something they could agree upon. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?”

  “The best.” He eyed the omelet. “Wow, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”