by Daryl Banner
After all, I’m fairly certain that when we arrive, his eyes are going to go into wonderland all over again.
“Where are we?” asks Trevor, his nose pressed to the window as he tries to ascertain where we’re descending. “Mexico??”
“The sandy white beaches of Cancún,” I confirm.
Trevor’s eyes are drunk with astonishment as he stares out the window. I feel like I’m experiencing Cancún for the first time all over again through his excitement, which is infectious.
After the plane lands and we go through customs, a sleek black car sent by my contact awaits us outside with a kind and handsome driver in a full suit—even in this scorching heat. In the back seat, I watch Trevor’s wide eyes swallowing in the sights as we’re driven across the city to the resort.
“I have a client who is … more or less off the books,” I explain to Trevor on the way. “His son got caught up in a sticky situation involving a politician’s daughter. I swooped in, cleaned it all up, and now he’s in my eternal debt. He co-owns a resort down here in Cancún where a suite awaits me anytime I want.”
“A resort? We’re going to a freaking resort?”
“Right on the water, too. Back balcony has steps you can walk down onto a private beach. Whitest sands you’ve ever seen.”
Trevor stares at his backpack across from him. “I … Y-You told me not to pack anything. I would’ve brought a swimsuit, or beach clothes, or towels, or—”
“I’ll provide everything.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Cancún. A private beach on a resort … in freaking Cancún!” He slaps a hand to his forehead. “If my parents knew, or my roommate, or anyone … God, they would be so jealous. I almost want them to know,” he adds with a chuckle.
He spends the next thirty minutes gasping and gawking at every hotel we pass, thinking each one is grander than the last, but all of them pale in comparison to our true destination, the one we will be staying at for the next two nights. Trevor’s response to everything seems to reach an all new, unheard-of level of shock when we pull down the road leading to the front entrance. I beam, loving the excitement that Trevor is arrested by. It floods me with an excitement of my own. Four times I’ve come here to relax my mind and get away from the stresses of my job. Four times I’ve come here all alone. Four times I’ve stared at happy couples across the water, within the restaurants, and along the beaches.
This is the first time I have someone of my own.
The moment the driver lets us out, two bellhops descend on the car to help with the luggage. “Welcome back, Señor Gage,” they each say as they load my bags (and Trevor’s backpack) onto a tall, gold-rimmed cart. “Your things will be waiting for you at your suite.” I thank them and hand each one a hefty tip, including the driver who brought us here. After they’re off, I walk with Trevor down the path lined with exotic trees toward the front entrance and catch him eyeing me with a smirk.
“What?” I ask innocently.
His eyes narrow. “You told me to bring nothing.”
“And I meant it. I packed for you,” I remind him with a cocky grin. “You’re my boy toy this weekend, so your sexy ass will wear what I want you to wear.”
Trevor blushes at once, looks as if he has a clever comeback, but says nothing.
I chuckle. “Don’t for a second think this weekend is about you and your birthday. This is about me dressing you up, dressing you down, wearing you on my sleeve like a trophy wife, and having my dirty way with you.”
“At least you’re honest,” teases Trevor, despite his face still burning a furious red.
I smirk assuredly, then give him a nod. “What did you bring in that little backpack of yours, anyway?”
“Laptop, charger, passport, and my work clothes I changed out of. Ben, this place … this whole experience …” He shrugs. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you. This is too much.”
“It is too much. And it’s about to be more. Wait ‘til you see the room,” I add with a teasing lift of my eyebrows.
Trevor chuckles, shakes his head, then follows me as I lead the way inside. The front desk welcomes us, which is a spectacle in itself, the desk so extravagant that its back opens to a grand hall with columns that seem to touch the sky. The rim of the room is filled with plush seating areas, boutiques, kiosks, and stairs leading up to a second and third floor with other amenities. In the center of the hall is a great fountain that extends through a large opening in the back of the room, which drops off into a waterfall to the resort pool beyond. Large decorative stones with palm trees adorn the lobby, their height as staggering as the columns.
“Welcome back, Señor Gage,” the lady at the front greets us. “Your suite awaits you.”
Knowing the way, I lead Trevor through the great, expansive lobby and out a wide archway that opens to the outside where two large pools glisten in the evening sunlight. The pools have swim-up bars with submerged stools for perching, dramatic slides and tubes, several stone canopies over which water softly pours, and shallow areas where the bottom of the pool slopes up to meet the cobblestone walkway, painted to look like the shore of a beach.
Down from the pool, wooden elevated walkways run along a bank of colorful grass and trees, which gently shade the way. One of the paths leads up to a large cabana hugged by local flora that bursts with color.
That luxurious cabana is where we’re staying.
“Oh my God,” breathes Trevor when we step inside, his eyes swallowing in the lavish space, which looks twice as big inside as it does on the outside.
I close the door behind us and follow Trevor farther inside. He wanders around the place in slow, mesmerized circles. He walks through the long kitchen which opens to a living room. The whole place is lined with enormous windows that overlook the private beach, letting in all the warm evening sun and painting the room gold. Just outside, there’s a table and two chairs on the balcony with a handful of steps leading down to the sand, which stretches out into the blue Caribbean Sea.
While Trevor is busy being awestruck by the place, I slip into the bedroom and find my luggage awaiting me. Unzipping my suitcase, I pull out an outfit and lay it out on the enormous, lush bed, then smile appreciatively down at it. He’s going to look sexy as fuck in this getup. What a cruel thing, to make Trevor dress up in clothes that I’ll want to tear right the fuck off of him.
When I return, I find Trevor at the back window staring out at the sea, his eyes glistening with the light of the sunset.
I come right up behind him, joining him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I murmur into his ear, my chin almost resting on his shoulder with my hands slipped around his waist, squeezing.
“We’re going to be here? In this place … with this view … for the whole weekend?”
“Yep. We fly back late Sunday afternoon.”
Trevor laughs suddenly, like he’s tickled and hysterical. “I feel like I’m never going to want to leave, Ben. This is insane. I have never … ever … ever …” He can’t even finish his sentence.
I smile against the side of his face. “You hungry?”
“Y-Yeah, actually.”
“Unlike me, you’ve had a long day at work,” I point out. “How about you go to the bedroom and freshen up? Then we can go get ourselves something to eat.”
He turns slightly to face me. “I, uh …”
“The bathroom’s got everything you need,” I tell him. “You could even take a shower. I already did before we left.”
“It was pretty muggy back home …”
“And there’s clothes on the bed for you to wear.”
Trevor smirks. “You’re seriously going to dress me this whole weekend like I’m your pretty plaything? Do you even know how objectifying that is?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.” I give his ass a swat and a firm squeeze, causing him to jump, blush, and glare back at me. “Our reservation is in an hour. Go get pretty, birthday boy.”
34
&n
bsp; Trevor drowns in succulence.
Can anyone tell me how the hell I woke up this morning in a cramped spare bedroom with Elijah’s snores vibrating the walls, and twelve hours later end up here at an exotic resort sharing dinner with this gorgeous man across from me?
This gorgeous man, who’s also my boss, and maybe my lover.
Lover. I sound so ridiculous. Lover. Just thinking the word makes me giggle. I’m delirious.
“What’s got you so tickled?” asks Ben over his wine glass.
I shrug carelessly. “Oh, I don’t know. Everything. Nothing.” I giggle again. “What’s the name of this restaurant again?”
“Cocina Caribeña,” he says, the Spanish words rolling off his tongue so smoothly, it’s sexy as fuck.
Our table sits at the end of a wooden patio that overlooks a lagoon lined with white sand and beautiful trees. The sun is half-dipped in the horizon like a great glowing cookie made of molten gold, its light catching on every ripple of water.
I just finished the tastiest serving of grilled steak and cilantro-lime-marinated vegetables, and a sweet Mexican bread I’ve never heard of before. I don’t even remember the name. I don’t even remember my own name.
“You look sexy.”
I jerk my eyes back to Ben. “Thanks. I’m guessing you like my outfit. You ought to; it’s yours.”
“It’s yours,” he insists, “and you look damned sexy in it.”
The outfit he got me is sleek, yet casual, and does its job of making me feel pretty sexy. It’s a crisp white short-sleeved dress shirt with a thin grey checkered design down one half of the collar and cutting across the shirt in a thick slanted line—very art deco. With the sleeves folded up a cuff, the underside reveals a sharp black design. My slate-colored shorts, cut off above the knee, feel like they were tailored to my crotch and ass’s every contour. They look skintight, yet feel as comfortable as if I’m wearing nothing at all. I have no idea how Ben got my sizing so perfectly, as if he measured me inch-by-inch himself.
The invasiveness of that possibility has me squeezing my legs together and catching my breath a bit, imagining myself naked on a platform while Benjamin pulls out the measuring tape, strictly instructing me to stand still while he measures every single inch of my body. Blood rushes to my cheeks—and below my waist—as I feel his imaginary fingers all over me, pulling that measuring tape in my most sensitive areas. I’m suddenly twenty times more aware of how snug and perfectly the shorts fit me, as if he’s literally gripping my legs and thighs—and quickly swelling crotch—with a hundred firm, squeezing hands.
Here I am, in a foreign country, far away from home, and my only tether is my beautiful boss Ben, who sits across from me looking smoldering as ever. It’s the perfect recipe for sexiness.
“So for my birthday,” I reply, pushing away my dirty tailor fantasy, “I get a weekend in Cancún … and a new wardrobe.”
He smiles crookedly, his eyes twinkling. “I have some plans in store for tomorrow, too. Don’t think I’m just going to let you sit on your cute ass by the pool all day and bake for your birthday. I’m going to put you through the ringer, boy. I’m going to make you earn every bit of your birthday gift.”
I know he’s teasing me, but the dominant vigor in his words really turns me on. “Oh, is that so?” I challenge him, swallowing my racing heart. “All of this doesn’t come for free, huh?”
“Far from,” he teases back, a devilish quirk to his eyebrows as he goes for another sip of wine.
After dinner, we casually explore the resort with the stars above our heads and in our eyes. We stroll past kiosks of jewelry and precious stones and gold. We find boutiques selling handmade pieces of art, clothing, and household items. There’s even a tequila tasting station, which Ben insists I try, as the legal age for drinking alcohol is just 18 in Mexico. “Consider it a trial run,” he teases.
There is an unprecedented amount of sexual tension pulsing between us which is made worse every time he does the subtlest of things, like putting a hand at the small of my back (the fingers of which lightly graze my tight, material-clad ass), or leaning close to my sensitive ear to tell me something with his words shooting chills of delight down my neck and arms. He even has the nerve to full-on cup my ass with his big hand when we’re walking up a set of stairs, playing it off like he’s guiding me, but I know he’s just wanting to touch me and turn me on. He must be holding back as much as I am. Doesn’t he know that if I pop any wood in these tight shorts, there will be no way in hell to hide it?
It’s like a sexual game of chicken, seeing how long either of us can endure the tension before one of us explodes.
I’m just about at the brink of exploding point, by the way. And it’s a game at which I’m not likely to mind losing, since we both win in the end.
We pick up some churros and stroll along the wooden paths, eating them. They are notably and by far the sweetest, softest, richest churros I have ever tasted, like long fried donuts from the heavens sprinkled with cinnamon and love and Mexican magic. We end up at the end of a pier that stretches across the public beach, just barely kissed by the sea which crashes in soft, hypnotic waves below. The stars shower over the two of us from above like a dark, glittery sea all on its own.
And against all of that sweetness, Ben turns his face to mine with a look that’s up to no good. “There’s cinnamon on your lips.”
Just when I go to wipe my mouth, he catches my wrist. Then, ever so gently, he leans in and licks the corner of my lips once, pulls away, then kisses, pulls away, then goes for another—deeper and hungrier. When Ben finishes, he licks his lips as he draws back to stare into my eyes. “Tasty,” he murmurs.
I’m hard right away. If we don’t do something really soon … “You drive me crazy. You’ve been touching me all night.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“My skin is literally … like … prickling with anticipation when I’m near you. I’m … Ben, I’m crazy for you.” My heart is pounding suddenly. I have never quite voiced this before, regardless of the story my body language has clearly been telling him for weeks.
“The feelings are returned.”
I fidget with my fingers, tiny granules of cinnamon and sugar still dusting them. “Sorry for being snappy. Or jumpy. Or whatever I am. I think the mini shots of tequila are messing with my head.”
He reaches out and brushes his knuckles softly down my arm, coming to rest at my hand, which he grips tightly.
“I think you’re messing with my head,” I amend.
A twinkle of amusement enters his eyes. “Is that so?”
“That’s so,” I confirm. “That’s very so.”
“Come,” he says suddenly. “We’ve got a show to catch.”
I blink. “A show …?”
He tugs on my hand, guiding me away from the end of the pier. It isn’t until we’re halfway back to the resort that I realize he hasn’t let go.
We’re holding hands. Like boyfriends.
Don’t make a big deal out of it, Trevor. It’s only the most intimate he’s ever been with you in public, ever, and he’s not freaking out at all.
My heart warms more with every step we take. After a while, I walk even closer to him, my side pressed against his as we stroll along the water past extravagant boutiques, hot springs, and even a mariachi band, which we stop and stand among a small crowd to listen to. The crowd consists of two other couples, a family of four, and a loner teen who’s probably here with his family but “totally over it”—yet even he seems momentarily pulled out of his head, hypnotized by the rhythm of the band as they strum their guitars and toot their trumpets. There’s even a violinist among them, who takes center stage when the mariachi tune turns sweet, making us swoon with their singing in the moonlight that now bathes us.
An hour later finds us seated at a half-moon booth in front of a stage in a dim, romantic lounge. Set before us on a tiny table are two tall, blue cocktails Ben ordered for us with tiny umbrellas and pineapple
chunk garnishes. A beautiful, long-limbed woman sits at a stool in a green dress, her red lips making love to a microphone as she sings. A quartet of musicians on string instruments—a cello, bass, violin, and a bearded man with a viola—provide the backdrop to her powerful voice, upon which our ears feed.
My eyes, however, are plenty fed by the man I’m cuddled up next to in this booth at the front of the lounge. He could show me twenty mariachis and a hundred beautiful singers and a thousand white-sanded beaches; all I need to fill my heart is just a single glance into his eyes.
Yep, I just said that. I’m one of those guys now.
Also, I might be a little drunk already. “Are there two singers on the stage or one?” I ask Ben quietly, feeling silly and excited for no reason at all.
He smiles at me, amused. “It doesn’t take much, does it.”
“Not at all. I don’t even know what I’m drinking. It tastes like fruit laundry detergent, except it’s … like … good?” I take another sip, just to be sure. The sip turns into a gulp. “Really, really sugary. Kinda like a blue raspberry Popsicle that’s melted.”
I get a laugh out of Ben, who shakes his head. “You need a bit of training before you can handle more than just one drink in a night. You’re acting hammered and you’ve barely—”
“Hey, now. I’m not drunk! Also, I think it’s after midnight.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“TWO?!” I blurt, then slap a hand over my mouth. The singer onstage smiles at me while she sings, her attention drawn by my tiny outburst. I shrink into Ben’s side. “Oh, no. I am drunk. I’m one of those loud drunks I always make fun of.”
“You want to head back to the cabana? Relax and slip into the silkiest, cushiest bed sheets your skin has ever touched?”
“Yes! But after a dance.”
Ben’s face goes rigid at once. “I don’t dance.”
I leap up from my seat and excitedly grab Ben by the hand, pulling him up to his feet despite his legs turning into lead and my hip nearly knocking over my drink, if it weren’t for the sturdiness of the tiny table it sits on. I pull Ben to a small clearing, put a hand at the small of his back, and clasp his hand with my other. I take the lead in a little slow dance, swaying with the music onstage.