“That night? Ah, Justin, you’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that. We lived together for a couple of years.”
“Damn it, Gab. Don’t pull that crap on me. Anyone else might buy it, but I don’t.” He scowled. “You know exactly which night I’m talking about.”
Her fingers arched against his hand, but he didn’t loosen his grip. The slight smell of sweat from their run lingered in the room, with the overlying scent of her lotion. Some melon thing she’d worn the entire time he’d known her. It had never seemed seductive before, but now…
She lowered her gaze from his and her tongue swept across her bottom lip before retreating safely back into her mouth.
Desire stirred low in his groin and his next breath in wasn’t quite as steady. Jesus. He still wanted her. The idea rocked him to his core.
Bad idea, Justin.
“Are you telling me—” He leaned forward and caught her chin, his face just inches from hers. Very bad idea, Justin. “—that you don’t remember this?”
The need to remind her of that night consumed him. Her eyes widened in trepidation, just before he lowered his mouth down onto hers.
So soft. So sweet.
When she would have pushed him away, he moved his palm to her back and held her still, moving his mouth against hers.
Half a year. How had he gone a half a year without her? And why had it taken two years for them to reach this level of intimacy?
His tongue teased the crease of her mouth open, and then slid inside to taste her.
The angry sound she made morphed into a frustrated moan and finally one of surrender. Her tongue moved out to meet his—almost angry in the bold strokes she made to tease him.
Justin’s blood pounded through his veins. His entire being focused on the smell of her, the press of her breasts against his chest, and the soft sounds she made as she kissed him back. Sounds that alternated between pleasure and frustration.
Her hands slid up to his shoulders to wrap around his neck, pressing her body snugger against his. The scrape of her hardened nipples against his chest sent another rush of blood to his cock, bringing it fully erect. He groaned, grateful for his loose running pants.
He explored her mouth thoroughly, teasing the hidden spots before returning to spar with her tongue. His hands, which had been resting on her waist, slid up her ribcage to just under her breasts.
He barely hesitated before sweeping his thumbs up to stroke over the tight peaks of her breasts. He lifted his lips from hers just a fraction to allow her strangled gasp, before he captured her mouth again.
All rational thoughts on why he’d come here tonight—because it couldn’t have been for this, could it?—abandoned his mind. The need to touch her naked skin, to taste the salty sweet softness of her flesh, swept through him.
He deepened the kiss, caught her nipple between two fingers and pinched, all while easing her onto her back on the couch. It was a move he’d mastered in years of seducing women.
Tonight it failed. Gabby wrenched her mouth from his, shoving him so hard he fell off her and onto the floor. “Stop.”
She scurried off the couch and across the room from him. “What was that, Justin? What the hell was that?”
He winced, picking himself up from the floor. His balls ached and his dick still throbbed with the need to be buried inside her.
Inside…Gabby. Shit. His stomach clenched and he thrust a hand through his hair. Her question was a good one. What the hell had he been doing? Seeking out a repeat performance for the night that had likely killed their friendship?
Feeling like the biggest ass on the planet, he lifted his gaze to look at her. Her nipples were outlined against her tight shirt, her lips swollen, and her eyes held a mix of anger, desire and…fear.
“Gabby—”
“If you set out to prove that I want to screw you silly, then congratulations, Justin.” Her laughter sounded a bit unsteady and she folded her arms in a protective gesture across her breasts. “Fine. I want you. I won’t apologize for that or deny it.”
The air in his lungs refused to leave. His chest tightened. Gabby wanted him too. Gabby—
“But there’s no way in hell I’m going to act on it,” she finished flatly. “Because that would make me stupid.”
Note from Shelli
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About Shelli
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Shelli Stevens writes a variety of romance genres including contemporary, cowboys, paranormal, and romantic comedy. Shelli is most known for her contemporary series such as Holding Out for a Hero, The McLaughlins, and A is for Alpha.
She’s a compulsive volunteer, and has been known to spontaneously burst into song. She is a true pluviophile (lover of rain) and currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two daughters.
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eBooks by Shelli Stevens
Chances Are, a Contemporary Romantic Comedy series
1. Anybody But Justin
2. Luck Be Delanie
3. Protecting Phoebe
The Rosabelles, a Futuristic Romance series
1. Take Me
2. Need Me
Non-Series
His to Reclaim
Can't Buy My Love
Take Me In Tahoe
Trust and Dare
Shelli recommends … Sami Lee
Fijian Fling
Sami Lee
Chapter 1
Trying to relax on the pool lounger and soak up the tropical sun, Sophie Edison was already regretting her decision to come on this trip. Back in Wisconsin it was the depths of winter, and the idea of traveling south of the equator to lie indolently by the pool, making no more important decision than whether to order a margarita or a daiquiri had held enormous appeal. Now she wondered what on earth she’d been thinking.
The place was full of couples. Of course it was. Pandanus Lagoon Resort was a place meant for lovers looking for a romantic getaway—not newly single women desperate to escape what had become a stressful, meaningless and starkly empty life.
She tried not to dwell on the thought that when she’d booked this trip, almost six months in advance as usual, Sophie had still been part of a couple. She’d made the reservation in good faith that she and Brad would enjoy themselves as they had the two previous times they had come here. She hadn’t counted on him falling in love with a paralegal who worked at his firm and dumping her too close to their departure date to permit a refund.
“Will it sound like a line if I ask if this seat is taken?”
Sophie looked up at the man who had spoken, her pulse hitching at the breadth of shoulders and the ridged expanse of haired chest, which was muscled and damp and smelling of the ocean. He wore nothing but a pair of denim cut-offs that clung wetly to his slim hips.
“Nick,” she said and snapped her gaze back to his face. Dominick Dufour, the owner of this casual little resort off the beaten track on Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji.
“You remember,” he noted, and Sophie gave herself a mental kick for letting it show. In the past, she’d gone out of her way to treat him with polite aloofness, the best way she could think to handle a man who
looked at her in ways men weren’t supposed to look at women holidaying with their significant others. “It’s good to see you again, Sophie.”
He had never called her Miss Edison, always Sophie, even though she had never invited him to use her first name. She had let it slide as a trick of the casual atmosphere of the place before, even when he had continued to refer to Brad as Mr. Winslow.
She couldn’t dismiss the sound of her name on his lips as casual now. There was something too quietly intimate about the way he said it, not bothering to hide the fact he remembered her from her two previous visits here.
“Can I get you another drink?”
“Now, that sounds like a line,” she told him, glad she had recovered her senses enough to sound droll.
His smile was utterly unapologetic. “Sorry.”
She should refuse. She certainly shouldn’t encourage him. But she thought—what the heck? She was on holiday and had every reason to drown her sorrows. “A strawberry daiquiri, thanks.”
He signaled to the bartender before taking a seat on the lounger adjacent to her and stretching out his long legs. They were carpeted with soft-looking, shiny black hair, the muscles of his thighs and calves taut and strong. Her attention snagged on the juncture of his thighs, her eyes taking on a will of their own. Good grief. Had she really just checked out his crotch?
She pushed her gaze back to his face. It was enigmatically handsome, not in an Armani suit, corporate kind of way but in a just-come-in-from-the-sea, hadn’t-shaved-in-a-week kind of way. There was a dark shadow of growth along his chin and across his top lip that didn’t exactly qualify as a beard but went far beyond stubble. His hair fell in silken ebony curls to his shoulders, and his eyes were a fathomless, mysterious obsidian. When he smiled his teeth were a white slash in his swarthy face.
“Fear of Flying?”
“What? Oh.” Sophie dragged her attention from his face and looked down at the book she had open, spine up, against her belly.
“Must be great in-flight reading.”
“It’s not actually about a fear of flying, it’s about…” a woman in search of the ideal brief erotic encounter. That smile of his would surely turn sinful if she told him that. “It’s a classic that I never got around to reading before. I figured I’d have time on this trip.”
“Because stodgy-pants isn’t with you?”
Sophie looked at him, her brows hiking. “Are you talking about Brad?”
“You’d better tell me you’ve broken up with him for good, or I suppose you’ll tear strips off me for that stodgy-pants crack.”
“We’ve ended it.” No way would she admit it was Brad who had ended it in the most humiliating of ways. “About a month ago. I was too late to get my money back for the trip so I decided to come alone. I guess that seems pathetic.”
“Pathetic isn’t the word I would use.”
“What word would you use?”
“Gutsy,” he said. Sophie was surprised at how much she liked the compliment. His teeth flashed. “Either that or stingy.”
Sophie felt her lips tug, trying to smile. “Actually I probably could have afforded to lose the deposit. But I had to get away.”
He regarded her seriously for a moment, his slight nod telling her he had experienced that urge once or twice too.
Their drinks arrived. Sophie watched him tip his Coke to his lips and take a long swallow, his throat muscles undulating. A droplet of condensation fell from the bottle to land in the mat of smooth hair on his chest.
Sophie took a long sip of her daiquiri, willing herself to tear her gaze away. Before she could Nick turned and caught her staring.
His gaze flickered over her sedate blue bikini, making Sophie feel like she was practically topless. Her skin flushed at his perusal, the intensity of her reaction disturbing her. It wasn’t as though she’d never had men flirt with her before, or give her the once-over. But for over four years Brad had been there like an invisible force field, protecting her from possible consequences. Now Brad offered no protection from this man—the only man in a long time who made Sophie feel like protection was in order.
His gaze came back to rest on her face and he smiled. Oh, but that smile could lead a perfectly sensible woman into reckless territory. To her astonishment, Sophie wanted to go there. Being dumped at the age of thirty-two by the man you’d assumed you’d one day marry had a way of seriously bruising the self-esteem. Being hit-on by an attractive, exciting male certainly seemed to be an effective antidote, if the spike of titillation she experienced was any indication.
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
It sounded less like a request than a command, and Sophie bristled. Already unsettled by her sexual response, her query came out sounding more terse than idly curious. “Tell me, is this your usual routine?”
“Routine?”
“It hasn’t escaped my notice in the past that women here seem fairly open to the idea of being hit on by you.”
“I guess you’re saying you’re not.”
She didn’t want to answer that. “I think you’re avoiding the question.”
“It was a stupid question,” he told her, a surprising note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “I don’t have a routine. If I see something I like, I say so. But if you have a problem with that, you don’t need to tell me twice.”
With that he swung his legs over the side of the lounger and rose to his feet. He tipped his dark head at her, his eyes mocking. “Enjoy your alone time, Sophie.”
* * * *
Nick cursed himself as all kinds of stupid later that evening when he surveyed the restaurant full of diners and realized Sophie wasn’t amongst them.
Shit. He hadn’t meant to make her avoid him. He hadn’t meant to sound like a petulant jerk. It was just that her opinion of him, which put him somewhere in the category of thoughtless Lothario, had stung like the devil.
He shouldn’t have tried to hit on her. It was pretty thoughtless, given she’d not long ago ended her relationship with that tight-ass Winslow. But three years—three Februaries—she’d come here on holiday and he’d been forced to admire her from afar, knowing a woman like her would never go for someone like him—boyfriend or no boyfriend. When his right-hand man, a Fijian native named Joe, had told him she’d arrived from the airport alone, his anticipation had gotten the better of him.
And now he’d blown his chance with her.
Despite resolving to give her a wide berth from now on, he was concerned about her skipping dinner. If all she’d done today was eat airline food and toss back daiquiris, she really needed a good meal. Nick asked his chef to serve up a plate of kokoda, a local delicacy of raw fish marinated in lime juice that he knew Sophie had ordered on previous occasions. He was stepping out the restaurant’s side door into the balmy evening air when he saw her.
She was wearing a simple ankle-length dress made out of some floaty white material. Thin straps held it on her shoulders, a long row of tiny pearl buttons closing it over the inviting swell of her breasts, the indent of her waist and the flare of her hips. Her thick, smooth hair curtained her shoulders, the honey-brown strands shining in the moonlight. When she saw him standing in the doorway her steps faltered, her big blue eyes widening.
“Oh…hello.”
“Evening. I thought you weren’t coming to dinner.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. Will the chef still make me something?”
“Taken care of,” he told her, gesturing toward the foil-covered plate resting on his upturned palm. “I was going to bring this to you.”
“You were?”
He shrugged as she studied him with open speculation. Had she thought he was delivering the meal with ulterior motives in mind? He was a little surprised the thought had never crossed his mind, a little disappointed that it had crossed hers. She really didn’t think much of him.
“Figured you’d get hungry,” he said brusquely. He gestured toward the only empty table left in the small restaurant,
a two-seater on the deck overlooking the pool, rimmed now with burning torches that reflected fire in the glassy dark water.
He couldn’t help looking his fill of her backside as she walked in front of him. The white dress was sheer enough that he could see the G-string she was wearing beneath it. Shit, a G-string. His groin stirred to life. Why couldn’t she be a sensible granny-panties kind of woman if she was going to give him the brush-off?
He held her chair out for her and waited until she was comfortably seated before he plopped the plate in front of her. “Kokoda is one of the house specialties. Enjoy.”
When he turned to leave she said, “You’re not going to join me?”
Nick spun back and looked into her face. Her wide eyes were the color of the Coral Sea, her pink lips shimmering with subtle gloss. They were slightly parted, making Nick wonder what her mouth tasted like. He had to swallow down a surge of lust. “Is that an observation,” he asked carefully, “or an invitation?”
The way her eyes flickered indicated discomfiture but she kept her gaze steady on his. “An invitation.”
Chapter 2
When he settled into the seat across from her Sophie observed, “You usually eat out the back with the staff after the dinner rush.”
“Usually.”
“I’ve never seen you eat with any of the guests before. I mean the other times I was here with…Brad.” Redness tinged her cheeks. “Thank you for making an exception.”
Nick realized he would make a lot of exceptions for her, but held on to his reason enough not to say so. Instead he tried for a more flippant response. “I hate to see a beautiful woman eating alone.”
“I have no trouble eating alone. I’m a busy lawyer—it tends to become the norm.”
“What about Brad?”
“Brad and I didn’t live together. He preferred his own space—we both did.”
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