by Serena Bell
“Crap. Are those his photos on Razzle?”
“I don’t know. The username is Tomorrowsnews.” Haven hoisted her lime-green handbag onto her shoulder. “I gotta go find that girl and clean up some messes. Point me toward the beach.”
“I want to help you find her.”
Haven smiled at her. “Sweetie. I say this in the nicest possible way. You’re fired. Celine doesn’t want you working for her any longer—she’ll pay out the contract, but she’s done.” She put out a hand and touched Elisa’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. There are very few of us who haven’t been fired yet by Celine Carr, and the ones who haven’t, wish we had.”
Fired.
The word hung between them. And hung some more, while Elisa waited to be unhappy about it.
She wasn’t.
She was relieved, light as air with it. She half wanted to thank Haven. This was a surprise. At some point on the beach, without realizing it, she’d let go of her need to save the weekend. Maybe it was around the time Brett had reminded her of that winter night. Their crazy-tall snowman had gotten a front-page photo in the college newspaper, and over the next few days people had come out of the dorms to see it, take pictures and climb on it. They’d even adorned it with hats and scarves.
But that night, it had been just Brett and Elisa and their giant creation. Brett had boosted her up the front of the snowman so she could poke the mittens and gloves into the snowman’s face, and then he’d lowered her down the front of his body in such a way that for just a second, it had seemed like a romantic scene in a movie. A prelude to something.
Only of course, it hadn’t been.
That was a long time ago, and yet the snowman had managed to become a prelude to an encounter with Brett at last. She was okay with being fired because it meant there was no reason for her not to sleep with Brett—which she planned to do as soon as possible.
She glanced over at Brett, and he smiled at her with a hint of suggestion that warmed her like the sun on white sand.
“You know what you need to do now?” Haven asked. “You need to take that hot man of yours and go have a really great Caribbean weekend.”
Had Haven read the look that had passed between them? It felt like she was giving Elisa permission. Elisa’s heart started to beat faster. She could walk away from this, and she could throw good sense like ashes into the sea, and she could screw Brett’s brains out.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.” She was sorry she hadn’t been able to make Rendezvous famous in a good way, and she was even sorrier she hadn’t been able to help Celine or Haven.
Haven laughed. “Forget about it. Enjoy yourself. Now, will you introduce me to your man?”
Elisa shook her head. “He’s not my man. He’s just an old friend.”
Haven tilted her head. “He isn’t looking at your ass like an old friend. Well, let me clarify that. He’s looking at your ass like it’s an old friend. Just not like you’re an old friend.”
Elisa laughed. “He’s a connoisseur.”
“One of those, huh? Those are perfect for a Caribbean weekend. Do I get to meet him?”
At Elisa’s gestured invitation, Brett came over and shook Haven’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he told her.
“Ditto.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Shut up, the two of you,” said Haven cheerfully. “Quit apologizing and point me toward that beach already.”
* * *
AFTER THEY DEPOSITED Haven on the beach and said goodbye, they once again climbed the long flight of stairs to the resort. Brett took Elisa’s hand. His thumb moved over her palm, sending sparks of sensation through her. She tried to free herself, but he only gripped her hand more tightly.
“I’m feeling a tiny bit weird about walking away,” she admitted.
“You’re not walking away. Celine doesn’t want your help, and Haven doesn’t need your help.”
She let him tug her close and nestle her under his arm. It felt parched-woman-in-desert-finds-oasis good. It did make walking up the stairs tougher, though.
“It’s not your job to save Celine from trouble or disappointment,” he continued, “or whatever you think is going to happen to her. It’s never been your job.”
“Then what? There’s no point in having a dating coach? You should just go out there and bash around and hope for the best?”
“Did I say that? No. All I’m saying is that playing it safe isn’t the only way to date. You don’t want your clients to date jerks, which is admirable, but if you make that decision for them, you’re protecting them too much. Let’s face it, love isn’t safe. It’s a disaster. It’s a tightrope walk without a net. You think you can be the net, but what you’re doing is taking all the thrill out of the walk.”
“And you’re the expert.”
A hint of color in his face told her she’d struck home. “Maybe.”
“It feels wrong to walk away, like I’m leaving before the end of a movie.”
“Nah,” he said easily. “More like deciding you’d rather watch a play than direct it. You’ll still find out what happens. You just won’t be mucking around in the results. You can sit back and enjoy.”
“I’d rather muck.”
He laughed. “I can see that. Back in the day you had a higher tolerance for letting the world unfold, you know.”
She had.
“You used to always say, ‘I just can’t wait to see what happens next.’ Generally about things you had control over but wished you didn’t.”
“I used to say that?” Elisa furrowed her brow.
“Usually when it was 2:00 a.m. and you had a paper due the next morning, and you hadn’t started it yet.”
“Oh, I was bad about that.”
“You were. You did it all the time. And then you’d come to my room to see if I wanted to play Scrabble, and when I said, ‘What about the paper?’ you’d say, ‘Papers are what write themselves while you’re busy doing other things.’”
She grinned.
He nudged her arm. “You did. And then you’d write them at like 5:00 a.m. and get better grades on them than I ever did.”
Oh, God, she remembered. Liters of Mountain Dew and French-pressed coffee and junk food from the vending machine. The feeling that what happened next was only vaguely her responsibility, even if those were her hands on the keyboard. She would have said, “I can’t wait to see what happens next,” and “Papers are what write themselves while you’re busy doing other things,” and, probably, as dawn approached, “Carpe diem.”
She shook her head in wonder. “I had more of a spirit of adventure back then.”
“It takes a pretty big spirit of adventure to start your own business.”
“I hope I can hang on to my business.” She laughed darkly. “I guess—I can’t wait to see what happens next.”
“Thatta girl.”
They crested the top step and followed a path that twisted through gardens full of blooming cacti and succulents. She’d never been a fan of the rubbery, spiny, low-lying plants, but she had to admit, they were beautiful and fragrant in bloom—flowers in every color, their beauty more obvious against the starkness of the greenery.
“The other thing you used to say all the time that I really liked was, ‘Are you with me?’”
She laughed. “Oh, God, yes! ‘Because if you’re not with me, you’re against me!’”
“That’s right. I still say that sometimes. I usually try to give you credit.”
“You quote me?”
“I quote you,” he affirmed, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appearing, the dimple opening in his cheek.
They arrived at his building and stepped into the lobby, where the sudden darkness temporarily blinded her, and she had to stop to get her b
earings. “This way,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to the elevator. He didn’t bother to ask if she was coming up with him, and she didn’t try to play coy.
Elisa waited until they were in the elevator to say, “I guess Celine’s not still pining for you.”
He mimed distress. “My heart is wounded.”
“That’s your ego that hurts.”
“On the plus side,” he said, leaning back against the elevator wall, “if she’s not interested in me, I’m free to play the field.” His gaze worked its way from her feet up to her face, lingering on the parts of her that were already warm and tingly. Her breath sped up, and her mouth got dry. The stolen moisture pricked to the surface between her legs.
I want to have sex with him, she thought. I’m going to have sex with him.
The thought made her laugh.
“What?”
Instead of answering, she let her own gaze sweep over his abs and chest and lickworthy biceps. And then she realized that what she really wanted was to stare at his mouth, so she let herself do that, too.
He came off the wall like a shot, grabbed her with no gentleness whatsoever and kissed her. His arms wrapped around her hard, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, and his hands slid up her back and neck, yanking the elastic out of her hair. The kiss was slick, sweet and velvet, a headlong falling-in. She let her body melt against his, breasts against chest, belly against belly, her pelvis rocking against the hot, steely length of him. This. This was what she had wanted. Not just all morning, not just since she had first seen him on the plane yesterday, but forever.
He backed her against the wall of the elevator and slid a knee between hers, and she groaned and pressed her hips harder to him, trying to own him. To brand him. It was impossible, she knew, to claim him, but she would try to make it so he couldn’t forget or let her go. Her hands tugged at his hair, swooped to grab his ass, took leisurely tours of the long muscles of his back, kneading. He growled into her mouth, and the sound vibrated every tender part of her.
The elevator pinged to a stop, and the doors parted. He broke the kiss, scooped her up like she weighed nothing, carried her out of the elevator and down the hall. He propped her on wobbly legs, and she clung to his arm while he unlocked and opened the door, lifted her up again, kicked the door shut with his foot and deposited her on the bed, then knelt over her. His eyes were dark and full of dirty plans. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this.”
“I have some idea.”
He began touching her with a peculiar tenderness that made her throat close up. He touched her hair and her face—her cheek, her lips, even her eyelids—and she realized she wanted to cry. He was exploring her, as if finally learning something he’d always wanted to know. Her body tingled all over, even though his touch stayed innocent. Jawline, throat, collarbone. Her breasts tightened, her nipples hardening against the lace cups of her bra.
If she already wanted to cry, how was she going to feel if she let him inside her? She might break into a thousand pieces, and she might not be able to put herself back together again. She should stop him, but she couldn’t. There was an ache in her chest, between her legs, everywhere in her, an empty space that needed to be filled.
She slipped her hand into the softness of his hair and drew him down for another one of those deep, dark, consuming kisses. The emptiness in her chest seemed to grow and swell, taking over, as he laid the whole length of his hard body over hers, taking care not to crush her but still swallowing her up with the heat and solidity of his naked chest and bare legs.
“Can we get this off you before I chew it off?” He settled back on his knees, took the hem of her T-shirt and drew it up over her head. “God, Elisa,” he breathed. He took his time drinking her in while she squirmed under his gaze. Then he put out a surprisingly tentative hand and stroked his thumb along the upper edge of her bra’s lace. “You have the most perfect breasts ever.”
“I’m going to take that as a high compliment, coming from you.”
He grimaced, and she was immediately sorry for spoiling the moment. “I’m not thinking about other women right now.” He made it a reprimand. “You shouldn’t, either.”
She shook her head. “It’s hard not to.” Particularly, she added in her head, when the woman you originally chose to spend this weekend with has architecturally marvelous breasts.
As if he could read her thoughts, he returned his attention to the place where he was teasing above her left nipple, drawing it to attention without even making contact. “Perfect size. So round. Insanely, perfectly creamy skin. Makes me want to—”
Instead of finishing the sentence, he dipped his head and put his mouth where his thumb had just been. She felt his tongue flick out, teasing the same not-quite spot. It made her want to scream. It made her want to arch her back and thrust her breast, bra and all, into his mouth.
Just when she felt like she couldn’t stand it another second, he brushed the lace away and sucked her nipple in. Sensation shot through her, centering itself between her legs. She whimpered.
“Like that?” He peeked up at her, his mouth still on her. “Want more?”
She nodded fervently. Any impulse she might have had to put an end to this was long past. She wanted him—more of what he was doing, the tongue working the nipple that he was holding between his teeth, the palm that was sliding down her belly, the fingers that were working the button of her capris and the hard length of him pressed against her thigh. He was big. No wonder he had such widespread appeal.
He got the button free and slid his hand into her panties, his fingers parting her curls and finding her hot and wet. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this wet, a trickle she could feel. Her attention was split between that hungry mouth on her nipple and the intense pleasure of his fingers playing near her opening, moving up to stroke her clit, down again to swoop up her moisture and spread it, smoothing over her. She caught herself humming, and he looked up, too, and smiled at her. The old Brett smile that had made her love him to begin with.
Her craving for him had grown, filling her chest, and she realized that her hands, without her noticing, had been all over him, squeezing every muscle she could reach, stroking over expanses of smooth skin, tugging absently at the waistband of his shorts. He lifted up to let her have her way with the shorts, and—
She discovered he wore nothing underneath them. He was about to dive back into his work when she said, “Wait, I want to look at you.”
He knelt and let her look her fill. A nest of brown curls, his balls drawn up tight, and his cock big and proud, a good-looking specimen—a little darker than the rest of his skin and curved slightly toward his belly. She reached out and felt the satin-over-steel texture of him. He made a sharp noise and drew back. “Not a good idea right now. Not if you want me to be any use to you. And I think you do. If this is any indication—” He dipped his fingers again. “You are so wet. So sweet. Can I tell you something?”
She nodded.
“I dream about you.”
That was unexpected and caused a frisson of pain and joy through her chest. “Me?”
“You. Ever since you disappeared, and refused to return my calls and emails. Can’t stop. And it’s always like this.” He indicated their state of nakedness, arousal, intimacy. “Only this is actually better. I’m going down,” he said abruptly, and slid himself down the length of her body, taking her capris and panties with him.
He dreamed about her. Like this. That altered her whole worldview in an instant, transforming the achiness in her chest to something different—joy and longing.
She spread her legs for him. Like his kiss in the elevator, he didn’t ease in. He plunged zero-to-sixty, whole mouth on her, tongue in her, lapping. She tossed her head back and forth on the pillow. If he kept that up, she was going to come in about ten more seconds, an
d she grabbed his shoulders to stop him. “I want to come with you inside me.”
He half threw himself off the side of the bed, yanked his wallet from his shorts, and regained the bed with a victorious expression and a condom. He opened the packet and rolled on the condom, amping up the heat that had hold of her. She was half wild, wanting him in her. He positioned himself, and she grabbed his shoulders and thrust up to meet him.
“Easy.”
“Tease,” she said, and he laughed again.
He held back, taunting her. “What do you want?” Just the tip of him was at her opening.
“You!”
“What about me?”
“All of you. In me. Now.”
He moved forward, an inch of him spreading her, opening her. The ache eased infinitesimally, then roared back. “How’s that?”
Her only consolation was that he asked it through gritted teeth, and she could see that every muscle in his body was taut.
“More. All of you.”
“Like this?” Another inch, and he held steady, but she could see the fierceness, the clenched jaw, lines of strain in his face.
She squeezed him, and he lost it and sank deep into her on a groan. She wrapped her arms and legs around him so he couldn’t escape and rubbed herself against him as best she could.
He pulled back a little and reseated himself against her. It was perfect, the tug, the pressure, the angle. She said, “You don’t even have to move. I’m going to—”
Only he apparently was no longer capable of holding himself in check, because he thrust into her and withdrew almost completely before thrusting again, his face openly needy, the cords in his neck standing out. And then she was coming like a freight train, her whole body wracked with it, and he gave a surprised yelp and tensed in release, shaking against her as he breathed her name.
Somewhat later he said, “I will make it last longer next time. I promise.”
She laughed, amusement and pleasure at his use of the phrase next time. “It lasted long enough.”
“Still. A man’s got pride.”