Tropical Tryst: 25 All New and Exclusive Sexy Reads

by Nicole Morgan

  I was panting. How on earth was I panting? I hadn’t moved a muscle. I blinked up at him but let my hand slide over the bulge in his jeans, the bulge his jacket was doing a half-assed job of hiding.

  “Who says I was playing? This could just be the foreplay, and when we get to the hotel…”

  A growl rumbled through him as he shook his head, his eyes sparkling in awe. “You seriously are the perfect woman.”

  I pecked him on the cheek and huddled in close, resting my head on his shoulder and linking our hands again. “Well, I certainly try.”

  LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, we touched down in the ancient and picturesque little city of Cusco, a sprawling old town of brick houses with orange clay-tiled rooftops, nestled in the heart of the Andes. With hills on either side and instant Old World charm, it made you feel as though you’d flown not only up into the mountains, but also back in time. But unlike Lima, which had been hot and muggy, when we stepped off the jet and walked out through arrivals, it felt more like being at home in the fall.

  A sudden dizzying fatigue swept through me, and I stumbled where I stood, seeing spots and hearing a faint buzzing sound in my ears. Was I having a stroke? But I hardly had any time to process the feeling before a sharp and bitter cold flew right through our layers and embedded itself in our bones, making my whole body convulse into shivers. What the hell had we gotten ourselves into now? I hadn’t been this cold since last winter. The winters on the West Coast of Canada are mild in comparison to the rest of the country, but they are wet and often feel endless. And with that wetness comes a bone-chilling cold that seems to make its way past all the layers of down and wool and long underwear and cling to your very marrow until the first day of spring.

  I threw my backpack on my back and followed Derrick out to where cab drivers were all parked and waiting for business.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the back seat, swallowing. “Is this the altitude I’m feeling?” I asked, having to catch my throat as I suddenly felt the bile in my stomach threaten to rise up. I closed my eyes and continued to swallow, my chest suddenly feeling incredibly tight.

  “Yeah…” Derrick licked his lips, his own pallor on the greenish side. “We need to take some of those pills when we get to the hostel.”

  I suppressed vomit and nodded. “Yeah.”

  It was roughly a thirty-minute drive from the airport to our hostel, and thankfully the cab driver drove right through town and spoke a tiny bit of English. So he pointed out a few tourist attractions like the Plaza de Armas in the center of the city, with its beautiful old fountain, in front of the Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption of the Virgin.

  I was impressed, but I’m afraid poor Pablo got the reactions from neither Derrick nor I that he’d been hoping for. We both just sat in the back seat with glazed-over eyes and pinched faces, trying our damnedest not to barf.

  “Hostel Travesura,” Pablo announced a short while later, pulling up next to a nondescript building amongst a series of other nondescript buildings. The only thing even remotely indicating that it was the right place was the small bronze plaque on the front wall that said “Hostel Travesura International Cusco Est. 2010.” Otherwise, for all we knew, it could have been a barbershop or a laundromat.

  We unloaded and paid the driver, and then, because we didn’t have any wristbands, besides the ones from Hostel Travesura in Lima, we were actually greeted at the door by a relatively big guy (Peruvians are not very big, especially those who descend from the Incas). He wasn’t quite as big as Derrick, but big for a Peruvian, in a leather jacket and toque. He checked our passports with the reservation list on a clipboard he had tucked under his arm, and once he verified we were who we claimed to be, he plastered on a giant smile and welcomed us inside. I grinned at him, despite how crappy I felt inside. The Pentagon-level security of the place made me feel safe, and I liked safe.

  It’d only been three nights, but we’d gotten used to sharing a room with four other people, snuggling up tight in the cramped bottom bunk while the top bunk remained empty. So, when we opened the door to our private room, and a queen-size bed stared back at us, I couldn’t stop the giddiness that bubbled up through me. A big bed, all to ourselves! Oh goody!

  We let our bags slide to the floor, then turned to face each other. He looked as haggard and ill as I felt.

  “Sleep?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Sleep.”

  And then we started to shed our clothes and pull back the covers. And just as I was about to unclasp my bra and set the girls free, there was a knock at the door. Derrick was far more decent than I was —he still had pants on —so I ducked into the bathroom, and he went to open the door.

  “Hola,” came a timid female voice. “Coca tea, for you and Miss Valentine, to help with the altitude sickness.”

  “Ah,” Derrick said, with a smile in his voice. “Gracias.” I heard the clatter of dishes and then, the door close.

  “Coca tea?” I asked, unhooking my bra and flinging it on top of my bag. “As in cocaine?”

  He nodded and started to pour out two mugs from the cute little teapot. “Yeah. It’s supposed to help with altitude sickness; I read that in the guidebook.” Of course, he had.

  “B-but it’s cocaine.”

  He rolled his eyes and handed me the mug, setting his mug down and going on the hunt for something in his bag. He came up a couple of seconds later with some pills. Ah, right, the altitude sickness pills, excellent. He handed me mine. “Bottoms up.” And then he popped his pills in his mouth and took a healthy sip of the tea.

  “But…”

  He swallowed the tea. “It’s not cocaine, Piper. And this is legal… kind of. We can’t bring it back to Canada, but brewing the coca leaves in tea is okay.”

  I gave him a skeptical eyebrow raise. Which prompted him to grab his phone. His fingers flew across the screen, and then he thrust it into my hands.

  “See, Wikipedia even says it.”

  I scanned the article he’d brought up. Ingesting coca leaves is a rather inefficient means of administering cocaine… coca tea is often recommended for backpackers and tourists when visiting the Andes in an attempt to prevent or help with altitude sickness.

  My eyes flitted up to his. He held his mug out in cheers and tipped the rest of the contents into his mouth. I looked down into my cup. “You’re sure I’m not going to go all crazy on a cocaine-infused bender?”

  He snorted and took his phone back. “I’m sure, you little worry-wart. Now drink it so we can have a nap. I don’t know about you, but I feel like complete and total shit.” He had me there; my whole body ached, while my gut churned and my head pounded. He was digging around in his backpack again and handed me two more pills. “Advil. If you’ve got even a fraction of the headache I have, you’re going to need it.” And then he poured himself some more tea to wash it all down.

  I stared at the four pills in my one palm, and the tea in the other, my head pounding like a dubstep beat in my skull. I was starting to feel that if I didn’t lay down quick, I was going to black out. Oh, what the hell? I tossed the pills into my mouth, chugged the tea, and wiped my wrist across my mouth.

  “That’s my girl.” He smiled, shucking his pants to the ground and drawing back the covers. He reached for me, and I slid in next to him. It already felt so natural for the two of us to huddle together and spoon. We’d had to do it in the bunk bed for the last three nights, so now that’s just how we slept. I melted into his big frame as he wrapped his arms around me, his breath warm on my neck. “Sleep, Piper. And then I’ll fuck you senseless.”

  I let out a contented sigh. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 9

  We woke a few hours later. Footsteps, laughter and multiple languages roused me from a very deep and dream-filled sleep. I’d been dreaming of Derrick, and his chin scruff and the way it felt on my inner thighs as his head bobbed up and down between my legs. He stirred next to me, and I rolled over to face him, momentarily winded from how absolutely dro
p-dead freaking gorgeous he was, and he was all mine…kind of. At least for the next few days.

  His lids fluttered open, and he smiled at me, his hand coming up and wrapping around the back of my head. “How do you feel?” he asked groggily.

  I swallowed. It had to be illegal to be that gorgeous. I’d have to look that up in one of my textbooks when I got home. How handsome was too handsome?

  One sexy eyebrow drifted up on his forehead. “You okay, beautiful?”

  Nodding, I blinked a few times. “Y-yeah, I’m okay. My head feels a lot better. How ’bout you?”

  He nodded and yawned. “A lot better, actually. My gut is still a little discontented, but that might just be hunger. But my head is clear, and I’m not feeling nearly as dizzy. It looks like the cocaine did the trick.” I went to swat him, but he laughed and rolled me over and flattened himself against my front, pinning me in place. “One quick one and then we’ll go explore this place and grab a bite, sound good?”

  My body softened beneath him and I spread my legs, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Sounds like a hell of a plan.”

  WHEN WE FINALLY GOT OURSELVES showered and dressed it was nearly dinner time (so much for exploring downtown Cusco. Oh well, tomorrow), so we quickly went to the tour package desk, booked our trip to Machu Picchu and then wandered into the dining hall to rustle up some grub.

  Even though the two places were part of a franchise, and there were some definite similarities between the hostel in Lima and this one in Cusco, this one was ten times better. Even if there wasn’t a pool at this one, an outdoor courtyard with a volleyball net, bistro tables with umbrellas, grass to laze around on (if the weather was ever warm enough to do so), a gym, and coin-operated laundry machines took the cake and the crown.

  The dining hall was already bustling and busy. I had to catch myself from laughing when I realized that the real reason I liked this place so much more than the Lima location was because there wasn’t the constant heavy bass from a DJ booth raging through the building, dooming us all to early kidney failure. There was music playing, but it was from a regular stereo system, and it seemed just to be top forty, controlled by the bartender, who at the moment was also playing what looked to be tiddlywinks with a guy at the end of the bar.

  He noticed us wander in and gave us a friendly wave and hello. “Welcome, strangers, where are you from?” He had a slight accent, but from his few words I couldn’t quite place it. Mind you, I’ve never been terribly good at pinning down an accent.

  We sidled up to the bar. Derrick pulled out a seat for me and one for himself. “Canada.” My roommate grinned. “And yourself?”

  The bartender poured two shots and set them in front of us. “Scotland. Name’s Ian. Here, every new guest gets a free shot on the house.” He winked at me. “Dinna worry, love, it’s not got cocaine in it, we’re not trying to get ya hooked or anything.” My eyes must have gone wide because he started to laugh. “Just plain whiskey.” He was handsome, with a ruddy beard that matched his hair, soulful brown eyes and two full sleeves of what appeared to be black tribal tattoos over very muscular arms.

  Derrick offered up his thanks and downed the shot. He didn’t seem fazed in the least, so I took up my own glass, thanked Ian and down the hatch it went. I blanched and immediately started coughing, my throat burning from the foul liquid.

  Both men laughed, while Derrick pounded me on the back and Ian plunked a big glass of water in front of me.

  “You guys hungry?” Ian asked after I’d managed to compose myself and chug nearly the entire glass of water. Derrick and I nodded, accepting the menus he brought out from under the bar. I liked the dining hall. It was big and spacious, painted in an easy-on-the-eyes muted teal, with several picnic tables and high bistro tables, a foosball table in one corner and a pool table in the other. A karaoke machine and small dance floor took up the final corner next to some couches and overstuffed chairs. It was like a college common room/bar/coffee shop/restaurant, the best of everything all in one place. I just hoped the food was as good as the atmosphere, because then I might just move here and never leave.

  “It’s Battle of the Homelands tonight,” Ian said a little while later, dropping two steaming bowls of rich and hearty quinoa soup and some grilled cheese sandwiches in front of us. My stomach growled at the sight of it as I picked up a wedge of the sandwich, the cheese stretching all stringy and melty. I took a bite and let my eyes roll into the back of my head. Yeah, I was totally going to live here for the rest of my life

  “What’s the Battle of the Homelands?” Derrick asked, spooning some soup into his mouth, but then letting it gracelessly fall back into his bowl after it burnt his tongue. Ian and I laughed at him.

  “Kind of like ‘American Gladiators,’ only we’re not all just Americans here, so you fight for your country. We’ll have trivia, arm wrestling, sparring like they do on ‘American Gladiators,’ with those big sticks on beams. I think they call it jousting or something. I think Mikey wanted to do a beer shotgun competition… loads of fun.”

  I chewed quietly, the flavors melding and bursting across my tongue, a celebration of sweet and savory all in one incredible bite. Another thing this place had in common with the Lima hostel — great food, and they were both party central!

  “Sounds like fun.” Derrick smiled, accepting a beer. I’d ordered another pisco sour. I had to get my fill, replace all my blood with pisco, because I wasn’t sure where else I’d be able to get such a tangy and refreshing drink once I got back to Canada. Could you get pisco in Canada?

  “We’ve got a party almost every night.” Ian grinned, pointing at our Lima hostel wristbands. “But I guess you guys already knew that. Ah, mate… you have some… uh… blue on your neck. Birfday Smurfday Party last night by chance?”

  Mouths full of awesomeness, we both just nodded.

  “We usually do Birfday Smurfday on the new moon. Don’t know why, it’s just become a tradition. But tonight’s going to be fun, too. I think there might be a few more Canucks kicking around for you two to team up with, represent the Great White North and all that. Call yourselves the Beavers or the…” He scratched his head. “The Polar Bears? I dunno what your animal is.”

  “It’s the beaver.” I nodded, swallowing the last bite of my sandwich and pouting because there wasn’t any left.

  “Well, then you guys can be The Hairy Beavers…” He winked. “That is of course unless you like your beavers hairless… because I certainly do!”

  WE REALLY SHOULD HAVE TAKEN the evening to go into Cusco and explore. Go and grab a drink with the locals, or duck into a souvenir shop and try on goofy hats, laughing until our sides hurt and the shop owner told us to buy something or leave, but we didn’t. We stuck around the hostel dining room, drinking pisco sours and beer and chatting with the hilarious Ian. Slowly, as the evening progressed, the place filled up, and soon the dining hall was a cacophony of various languages, music, laughter and lovely international cheer.

  Just as Ian had said, a few other Canadians were kicking around, and we found ourselves sitting with them and plotting strategy for the upcoming Battle.

  Ava, Leila, and Paul were all from Ottawa and had been in Cusco for almost two weeks already. They hadn’t even been to Machu Picchu yet but had plans to do the Inca Trail at some point. They just loved the hostel so much that they’d spend their afternoons wandering around the city, visiting schools and hanging out with kids (all three had just graduated university with teaching degrees), and then in the evening they’d come back to the hostel and partied the night away. I didn’t know how they did it, to be honest. I’d only been doing this non-stop partying thing for a few days, and already my liver and guts were sending up copious memos telling me to cease and desist, otherwise they were going to revolt.

  It was no Birfday Smurfday, but the night was a lot of fun, with a trivia challenge, done in the same style as “Jeopardy,” where you had to answer in the form of a question. We narrowly missed the victory, but the S
wedes were just too quick and a little less drunk than us and claimed the win. Paul, a big beefy guy with shaggy brown hair and a beard, won the arm-wrestling contest, beating out the Argentinian with the neck tattoo (who had not been happy at all with his defeat). And I’d somehow (I’m still not entirely sure how I did it, as I was pretty drunk) beat the Lithuanian girl (poor thing was the only Lithuanian in the house, so she had to represent an entire nation on her own) when we faced off on the beam and jousted, trying to knock the other person off while remaining on the beam ourselves.

  Derrick tied with the Australian guy (of course, because Aussies can drink) during the beer shot-gunning competition, and Ava and Leila put in a solid effort but yielded little success when forced to go up against the two French guys in a grueling game of tiddlywinks. When the scores were finally tallied, we were tied for first with the Swedes, each country sitting with an impressive seventy-two points, while the French guys sat there with bitter scowls on their faces, as the disappointment of their bronze metal slowly sunk in.

  “All right, the tie-breaker!” Ian announced, climbing onto the bar. “You have your choice. Will it be brains or brawn?”

  “What does he mean…hic…” Oh shit, I had the hiccups. “What does he mean by that?” I asked, turning to Ava.

  “I think he’s giving us the choice of a task that involves using our brain, like another trivia question or something, or an activity that involves strength or stamina or something, like another arm wrestle.”

  I nodded, another hiccup bubbling up in my chest. Holy crap, I was drunk.

  “The first to do fifty push-ups wins, or…” Oh thank God, there was an or. If I did fifty push-ups, even the girlie kind, I was going to barf everywhere. “You and your team have to come up with a list of five questions for the other team about your country. The team that answers the most questions correctly wins!” Ian said, looking to Derrick, who was the leader of our little group, and then to Anton, the leader of the Swedes.