She nodded. “And you . . . you value sex alone that way, without intimacy?” she asked as if sincerely trying to understand.
“Yes,” he replied easily. “Humans were built for sex—our bodies were designed for it. It’s one of our most basic instincts and among life’s greatest pleasures. Everything about sex—every nuance, every physical response, every little kink or fetish—fascinates me. I’ve never seen the point in trying to hide that or be dishonest about it.”
“You know,” she said, pausing to take another sip of wine, her meal now appearing long forgotten, “maybe I wish I were like you. But I’m not. And the trouble with people like you—and with my friends Shannon and Kevin—is that just because you’re satisfied by the act of sex without emotion, you think everyone else should be, too.”
At this, however, he shook his head in firm disagreement. “I never said that. And I’m in no way suggesting you shouldn’t feel emotion with sex. That’s how you happen to be put together and it’s fine.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
He considered his answer—how could he make her understand? “Sometimes,” he began, “there are bigger issues at work than intimacy and emotion. And if you let me design two weeks of fantasies for you, I guarantee that every time you have sex after leaving here, it will be better , even more emotional, with more intimacy.”
Her eyes went wide with doubt. “That’s a bold claim, Mr. Powers.”
“Damn right.” And he wasn’t backing down from it a bit. “What I’m suggesting, Jenna, is that if you can temporarily push aside the idea of romantic intimacy, you’ll leave here with a much clearer, healthier, happier view of sex, which will make you a happier person more likely to find healthier, longer-lasting relationships.”
She peered across the table at him as if maybe she was actually thinking it over. Her blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight now that dusk had fallen over the gazebo. The sunset painted the sky to the west in shades of vibrant pink and orange, but he didn’t bother looking because he found himself liking the view of Jenna more. He knew her. In a primal way. He understood her so much better than she thought. And beyond the obligations of his job, he was struck with the surprising urge to rescue her . . . from herself, whether she liked it or not.
Jenna could scarcely believe the promises Brent Powers was willing to make. They were ridiculous. And he must think she was ridiculous if he expected her to believe them. Given how weirdly personal the conversation now felt, she decided to come completely clean. “You want to know the whole truth, the reason I’m here?”
“Very much so. Because like I said, most people don’t come to the Hotel Erotique to turn down the sex.”
“I didn’t even enter the contest,” she confessed. “My friend Kevin entered my name—because he thinks I’m not having enough sex. I wanted to kill him when I found out, but then I decided I could use a free beach vacation. I filled out the forms online on a lark, just for fun, and also figuring if I admitted up front that I didn’t want the fantasies, maybe I’d lose the trip. So there you have it. I didn’t enter. I don’t want more sex than I already have. I’m a perfectly happy, content woman. So what do you think of that?”
Brent’s eyes nearly burned a hole through her, but he didn’t look angry. So far he had never looked angry; in fact—he simply looked like . . . a sexy, presumptuous know-it-all. And ever since the “presumptuous know-it-all” part had been added to “sexy,” she’d felt much less intimidated by him. Even if the way he looked at her right now still had her breasts aching and the crux of her thighs throbbing. But that was just . . . the whole sexual aura of this place, of this discussion. It meant nothing.
“What I think,” he finally said, soft, low, his voice almost intoxicating, “is that this means it’s fate.”
“Huh?” she mumbled in disbelief.
“Maybe fate brought you here, Jenna, to help you face your sexual issues.”
At this she rolled her eyes. “For the last time, I do not have sexual issues. The way I see it is—just because someone like me chooses to be selective about my sexual activity, someone like you thinks that makes me some kind of prim and proper Little Mary Sunshine. Basically, you think your way is right and my way is wrong and that I need to be . . . liberated or something.”
“Not true,” he said, still calm and smooth, despite the fact that she’d just ranted a little. “Someone like me knows there are reasons—valid reasons, by the way—that someone like you is overly careful about sex. All I want is to change that, change the negative perceptions that were ground into you over time.”
She didn’t answer for a long moment. Why had she been so freaking honest on those forms? About her loving yet superconservative parents always acting as if sex were a dirty word, acting as if everything about it were wrong. About her older cousin, Donny, who had, on more than one occasion, made obscene remarks to her when she was an adolescent, and had once rudely grabbed her between her legs at a family picnic when no one else was around—and, of course, she’d been too mortified to tell her mother, afraid it would seem like her fault somehow. And—oh Lord, this meant he’d also read about that time she’d been in a crush of people at an amusement park when she was fourteen and a man’s hand had snaked out of the crowd to squeeze her breast, leaving her to feel helpless and violated. She’d never even seen his face.
Sitting there across from Brent Powers, she hated that this man had gotten such a close look into a private window of her life. She was long over all those things now—she’d written them down in response to pointed questions, thinking only a woman would ever see her answers. And never expecting anyone to think they’d . . . scarred her, for heaven’s sake.
“Just so you know,” she finally said, wondering if she appeared weak after thinking back on unpleasant things, “I’m a well-adjusted adult who is perfectly capable of overcoming a few less-than-ideal situations in my youth.”
“Less than ideal? That’s a mild way to put it.”
“I disagree. Much worse things happen to people all the time. I’m a grown-up—and I got over all those things a long time ago.”
“I don’t believe you, Jenna,” he said, his voice as dark and smooth as melted chocolate.
God, the man was insufferable. “Then what do you believe? And don’t give me this ‘You have to show me’ crap. Tell me what it is you believe about me.”
“All right,” he finally said.
Their gazes met and locked across the table, and her heart beat harder than she thought it should. She felt tense, a little tipsy, and still struggled against the fluttering sensation in her panties every time she looked into Brent Powers’ eyes.
“I believe you want, value, crave, and even revere sex a lot more than you think. But I also believe that, deep down, you fear that all but the tamest forms of sex are, on some moral level, wrong. I believe there’s a very sensual, sexual woman inside you, hiding behind a bunch of negative messages you received as a kid. I believe you’re in serious denial and that you need to be shown how amazing, how really phenomenal, sex can be. And further, I believe you need to trust me here—just take it on faith—that I know what I’m talking about, because your denial is thick enough that you won’t be able to see the truth without my help.”
She took it all in. Absorbed it. Felt a little abused. Embarrassed. Angry. Because none of that was true. Yeah, those bad things had happened—but most people, girls especially, had to deal with stuff like that at some point in their lives, didn’t they? It was awful at the time, sure, but it didn’t mean she was screwed up because of it. “You want to know what I believe?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“That you’re the most arrogant man I’ve ever met. And that you have a serious God complex.”
“No,” he said, “I don’t think I’m God, Little Mary Sunshine. But I do think I can save you.”
His words settled deep down inside her. They were too much. Too overwhelming of a promise for her to take. And why o
n earth did it make the juncture of her thighs throb even harder?
She couldn’t look at him anymore, just couldn’t. In fact, she wanted to run away—just like when she’d arrived here.
Instead, though, she simply stood up and walked a few steps to the gazebo’s railing to peer out on the beach. The sun had sunk below the horizon now, but the sky remained awash in color, and it was much easier to face the sunset than the man who was making her feel such conflicting emotions.
Lust. Fear.
Curiosity. Regret.
And the strange sensation of wanting to . . . somehow be possessed by him.
Oh Lord. That last part made her shake her head. Where had it even come from?
The wine, surely.
But she couldn’t keep attributing everything to alcohol. Something strange was taking place inside her—some of the most intense sexual feelings she’d ever experienced swirled and swam there, clashing with everything else she was. Jenna the historical biographer. Jenna the conservative dresser. Jenna the dependable friend, the academic, the library volunteer, the college wallflower, the student council president, the eighth-grade girl with braces . . . It went on and on, all the way back to her youth. None of those Jennas knew how this Jenna—this Jenna whose breasts ached with longing and who thought she might die soon if she didn’t have an orgasm—had suddenly come into being.
God, it had been a long day. A long day of thinking about sex. Of feeling it in the air here—even if it hadn’t been “in her face,” as she’d worried about. No, it was more subtle than that. It lingered in corridors and wafted among the palm fronds, being blown to and fro by the sea breeze. It had . . . soaked into her skin, she feared. How else could she explain the raw lust coursing through her veins now?
Wine and rum punch? Sure, maybe. But there was more. The aura of what this place was about. And then had come this man—this hot-as-hell, smooth-as-silk man who unnerved her, irritated her, and excited her all at once. This man who had somehow made her talk about sex and who thought she needed it. And worst of all, now she did. Now—because of all this—she needed it.
But she couldn’t have it. To agree to what he was suggesting would be insane.
All you have to do is turn around and tell him you still don’t want the fantasies—then walk away. That was the agreement—it’s all that’s required of you.
So do that. Do it now. Put an end to this. Get on with your vacation, and your life.
She sensed his presence behind her just before his hand closed warmly over the curve of her waist. His breath warmed her neck as he leaned close, speaking low. “What’ll it take, sunshine, to prove I’m right? To prove to you how much you want all the sex you’re not having?”
She tried to breathe evenly, think clearly. “I can’t imagine anything would convince me of that.” Go now. Walk away.
“Really?” he whispered. “Nothing?” His hand moved slowly around, sliding onto her stomach, and the warmth of his body cocooned her from behind.
And still she heard herself say, “Nothing.”
Yet—oh God. Oh God. What was happening? He was . . . touching her. At first, she’d tried to believe it was . . . not sexual, just supportive. But this was sexual. His thumb, gliding along the underside of her breast, was sexual. His breath on her ear was sexual. His body, pressing gently, seductively into hers from behind was sexual. And God knew the way her body yearned, the way the mound between her thighs practically hummed now—that was sexual, too. More sexual than she’d even known she could feel.
And she wasn’t walking away. She wasn’t moving at all. Except for the pounding of her heart. And that outrageous pulse in her panties.
And then—oh God, oh God, oh God—she felt . . . his arousal and gasped. She wasn’t sure if it shocked her more to know she was capable of that—arousing this man—or to feel the stunning hardness stretching upward against her rear. She’d begun to tremble.
His hold on her tightened gently, anchoring her as he whispered low again into her ear. “It’s all right, sunshine. Relax now. I’ve got you. And I just want you to feel good.”
In front of him, she bit her lip. How could this be happening? But . . . maybe that didn’t matter because—oh, it felt amazing. Especially after aching and tingling all damn day. It felt like . . . lush, intoxicating relief.
Finally, she gave in to it, sank into it, into his large, sturdy male body.
The next thing she knew, he was kissing her neck, making her feel it where she throbbed, each kiss like a tiny explosion between her legs—and she instinctively bent her neck to give him easier access.
And she knew she had to stop this before it got out of hand. Well, any more out of hand. Because she’d just told him she wasn’t comfortable having sex with strangers. And she wasn’t.
But when his hand eased up higher under her breast, when his thumb stroked upward, over her nipple—she couldn’t get the words out. Just another gasp. She wasn’t wearing a bra under the halter dress, leaving one less barrier between her chest and his touch, and the sensation had shot through her like a rocket soaring toward the heavens. A glance down revealed both her nipples, erect and poking through the cottony fabric of her dress, and she wondered if they’d been like that all through dinner. And then his thumb stroked the same hard, beaded peak again—and seeing it this time in addition to feeling it made her let out a tiny sob of pleasure.
Say something. Because you can’t just let this happen. You can’t. “I . . . I thought I read . . . that guides . . . are never involved in sex with their guests.”
“They’re not.” Now his voice came like a low growl in her ear.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m breaking a serious rule, sunshine.”
“Wh-why?”
“Because I need to show you,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across her breast yet again, making her shudder within his grasp. “I need to make you see how bad you need it.”
At the moment, she didn’t think she’d ever needed anything more in her life. But she wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, she insisted, “This means nothing. This is . . . seduction. You’re a sex expert—you know how to seduce girls.”
“This means everything,” he replied. “Because you’re not telling me no. And I’m not even sure you like me. But you can’t stop because it feels so good. Because you need it so bad. You need me to touch you.” With that, he moved his hand full onto her breast, massaging the soft fullness, leaving her helpless, unable to summon more words. Her breath grew thready and her only response was to melt a little deeper into his arms.
Yes, not just one arm now, but both—he wrapped around her from behind and she stayed agonizingly aware of his erection at her rear, pressing deeper now, even as his other hand slid, slow and seductive, downward over her stomach.
“You need me to stroke your hot little pussy, Jenna,” he breathed fervently.
And again, she shuddered at the promise as her legs grew weak and her cheeks flushed with heat, shock.
She held completely still as his fingers sank lower, lower, finally easing between her legs over the cotton skirt of her dress. She sucked in her breath as that part of her seemed to swell—she suffered the odd sensation of growing larger and larger in his hand.
Oh God, he was touching her there. Her eyes fell shut, her head dropped back. He caressed her fully—her breast, her crotch. She heard her own breath—she was panting for him now and hadn’t the power to stop it.
Without ever taking his hand from between her thighs, he began to gather the fabric of her dress in his fist. He was going to touch her. Really touch her. Thank God. Thank God.
Finally, he’d bunched the full length of the skirt in his fist, allowing him to slip his hand underneath—and straight into the lacy edge of her panties. His fingers moved surely, smoothly, over her pubic hair and down into her very core, making her let out a ragged cry of pleasure.
And then she began to move—her moisture against the solid pressure of
his fingers. Yes, yes.
“Ah, God, you’re so wet. That’s how bad you need it, honey.” Another deep, sexy rasp came warm on her ear as a tropical breeze lifted her hair from her shoulders and somehow made her feel even wetter.
And part of her wanted to deny what he’d said, about needing it, but she couldn’t think of an argument that made any sense. All she could think of was sensation. And moving against his big fingers as they stroked, stroked, ever so capably through her feminine folds.
His smooth voice was like another form of touching her. “That’s right, honey, move against my fingers. Fuck them,” he whispered more gently than she’d ever heard that word uttered before.
Jenna had never felt this way in her life: blinded by lust. She held on to the railing in front of her with both hands, bracing herself, moving more vigorously against him. Against his fingers in her wetness, against the incredibly hard column that slid up and down through the center of her rear.
She would come soon—she knew it. She bit her lip and thrust herself at his touch with sheer abandon. She kept her eyes clenched tight—she wasn’t sure why but didn’t examine it; maybe she’d always done that when approaching orgasm. And she was pretty sure she’d have climaxed already if she hadn’t been fighting this so hard, but she was unable to fight any longer. Oh God, she was wet for him, dripping wet, and for a brief, startling moment she allowed herself to revel in that, in how wet he’d made her and the knowledge that she was getting his hand just as wet.
“That’s so good, baby,” he purred in her ear now, “so damn good. But you need more, sunshine, and you know it. You need my hard cock in your tight little pussy.”
And—dear Lord—she did. The dirty promise vibrated through that very part of her, making it ache—for more than just his skilled touch, for . . . fullness, something thick and sturdy inside. And she knew she should end this—because sex was a big step beyond touching—but she felt almost paralyzed, stuck between two extremes, both nagging at her. Her instinct was to say stop, but if she did, he would, and that wasn’t what she really wanted.
What She Needs Page 4