by Robin Hill
Okay. I love that too.
“Ever been fucked on the beach in the middle of the day?” he whispers against my mouth. His hands move to my waist and he flips me onto my back. “Because you’re about to be.”
My body dissolves like warm sugar beneath him. He pulls off my bottoms and unclasps my top. Then he’s inside me, driving me up the spongy sand.
I close my eyes. “God, Darian…”
His thrusts sync with the waves crashing over us. It’s rhythmic. Almost hypnotic. His weight, combined with the friction of the sand against my skin, ignites my nerve endings. My orgasm is instant. I come hard, my eyes snapping open to the mid-morning sun, its rays like fireworks as Darian explodes inside me.
“Christ, I love fucking you,” he says, giving me one last bruising kiss before lifting off of me. He pulls up his shorts as I feel around for my swimsuit.
“Oh no.”
A laugh bursts from his throat, and I realize I’ve lost it. “Don’t worry; we’ll get you another one.”
“It’s not that,” I say, jumping to my feet. “You gave me that bikini. It was a gift.”
“Wait, Francesca. Don’t…”
I take off through the surf, not heeding Darian’s warning as it fades in the background. I only make it a few dozen feet before I tumble off a sandbar, but a long, muscular arm brings me back.
“I tried to stop you,” he says, pulling me toward him.
The corner of my mouth quirks up. “Not hard enough.”
Even on the sandbar, I’m barely above water. Darian lifts me up and I tie my legs around his waist.
“No. Running. Away.” He stresses each word with the touch of his forehead to mine.
I’m not the one running, I think as I catch sight of my suit drifting toward the horizon. I let out a hmmmph and then turn back to Darian, whose eyes are locked on me.
He grins. “Good thing you won’t be needing that.”
Turns out, actual sex on the beach is just as tranquilizing as the cocktail. We turn in early and crash hard, but it appears I’m the only one who’s slept in; Darian’s side of the bed is cool and empty.
I kick off the covers and sit up against the headboard with my legs drawn and folded in front of me. The sun bursts through the window in blinding light and I shield my eyes.
Jeez, how late did I sleep?
I turn toward the alarm clock. A yawn rips from my throat and then settles into a six-year-old’s grin when I see the Easter basket sitting on the nightstand.
It’s Easter? I’m so turned around, I didn’t even realize it was Sunday.
The basket is filled to the brim with a rainbow of plastic eggs. I pull a pink one from the top, open it, and find a small strip of paper inside that says, Chocolate.
Then I see the note.
YOUR PARTY GAME GAVE ME AN IDEA.
FOLLOW THE TRAIL TO THE CLEARING.
BRING THE BASKET, AND DON’T PEEK.
“Oops.”
It’s late morning when I step outside and everything is still fresh with dew. Darian drew a simple map on the back of his note, but in the light of day, the trails aren’t that hard to navigate. I remember the flame tree where I need to make a left and the red maple where I need to make a right. The walk takes me roughly ten minutes, and if I wasn’t carrying a basket, I probably could’ve made it in five.
Darian’s shirtless and sprawled out on layers of blankets and pillows when I finally reach the clearing. His fingers are linked over his stomach and his eyes are closed. I think I caught him sleeping. A week ago, my mind would be brimming with salacious thoughts, but right now, all I want to do is curl up beside him.
I try to be stealthy as I cross the sandy ground, but the shuffling of plastic eggs gives me away. His head jerks in my direction, and he sits up.
“Good morning,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stretches his legs out in front of him and then glances at his watch. “Or should I say afternoon?”
“It’s only eleven thirty.” I kick off my flip-flops and sit across from him. “Happy Easter, by the way, and thanks for this,” I say, holding up the basket. “Whatever it is.” I notice a cooler sitting behind him and a small storage tub just beyond that. I cock my head. “What is all this?”
His grin is elusive. “Thought we could do something…Easter-themed.” He gestures to the cooler. “And I brought brunch.”
“I have a confession. I accidentally opened an egg before I saw your note.”
He pulls his knees in. “What did it say?”
“Chocolate.” I smile. “And if you’re planning on stuffing me full of confections all day, I’d be wise to skip brunch.”
A hearty laugh bellows out of him and he rolls back into a pile of pillows.
My eyes narrow. “What am I missing?”
“Sounds like you’re missing brunch,” he says, lifting onto his elbows.
“You really made me brunch?”
“Made is a strong word. I have fruit and muffins. And mimosas. At least have a mimosa with me.”
“I can do a mimosa,” I say. “I’ll save the muffin for later.”
A smile slides over Darian’s face as he digs in the cooler for champagne and orange juice. He’s much more careful when getting into the tub. He lifts the lid just enough to pull out a pair of plastic champagne flutes. Whatever else is in there is meant to stay hidden.
“You’re being very secretive,” I say when he hands me my drink. I take a sip and then set it in the sand. “Your note said something about a game?”
“And you’re being impatient, Francesca. Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I’m not in a hurry. I’m just curious.”
“You’re just curious because you think it involves chocolate.”
I feign a frown. “It doesn’t?”
“I think my idea of chocolate and your idea of chocolate may differ a little.”
He waggles his eyebrows, and I shake my head as realization sets in.
“This is going to be kinky, isn’t it?” I blow out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh well. Chocolate’s chocolate. How do we play?”
Darian takes a long drink of his mimosa and sets his cup beside mine in the sand. “I do appreciate your enthusiasm,” he says, reaching for the basket. He glances up at the sky. “And I suppose it wasn’t much later than this when I had you naked in the sand yesterday.”
“That’s a very valid point.”
He picks an egg from the basket and rolls it around in his hand. After a long, deliberate pause, he pops it open and pulls out a small piece of paper. “Ice,” he says, grinning.
“Ice?” My shoulders fall. “Not ice cream?”
“Lie down, Francesca,” he says. “Pull up your shirt and use it to cover your eyes.”
I give him a pointed look. “I think I liked this game better when I thought I was going to lick chocolate off you,” I say, lying back. I pull my tank over my eyes and try to ignore my bare breasts pointing toward the sky. I skipped a bra this morning, and the jury is still out as to whether or not that was a good decision.
I hear Darian rummage through the cooler, for ice I suppose, and I wait patiently until—“Ahh!”—he places a pile of it on my belly. It’s so cold, my whole body clenches.
“Sorry, babe. I thought you were ready,” he says. His voice is laced with humor.
“And I thought the eggs held yummy surprises, not torture devices.”
“Torture devices?” He laughs. “I think ice is a yummy surprise.”
“For you maybe.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He unfastens my shorts and slides them down my legs along with my panties. I’m completely naked with my eyes covered and my ankles bound. For someone who usually spends Easter working doubles at the diner, this is definitely a change.
He spreads the ice over my chest, my navel, my—
“Shit, that’s cold!”
It’s a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold and easily supports my original assessment of it being a t
orture device. My skin is frozen gooseflesh, and the little bit of ice melting from the sun dribbles down my sides in rivulets. They’re acutely cold and ticklish, and when I begin to wiggle, Darian lowers himself on top of me.
“Try to stay still,” he whispers.
He crushes the ice between us, grinding against it, liquefying it with the heat radiating from his body. The sensation of hot and cold is arousing in a way that completely takes my mind off chocolate. Need for more pools low in my belly and I go from wiggling to writhing.
“Darian…” His name is a moan followed by a giggle, then a grin. “The ice is a yummy surprise.”
“Not a torture device?”
“Only the best kind.” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own.
He moves down my body, his lips and tongue trailing over my cold, wet skin. I fight the denim binding my ankles with no success.
“Let me help you,” he says. His fingers slip inside my shorts, but instead of pulling them off, he pulls them up. “Your turn.”
“My what?” I lift onto my elbows and adjust my shirt. “What do you mean my turn?”
Darian pushes the basket toward me. “Your turn,” he says again. His smile is mischievous.
I’m beginning to get the game part of the game.
“Okay,” I say. “You asked for it.” I close my eyes and blindly choose an egg. It’s pink, and hope flares in my chest that I drew chocolate again.
Close enough.
“Whipped cream,” I say, arching my brows. “Not very original, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Darian pokes through the cooler until he comes to a can of Reddi-wip.
I slip him a curious glance. “You came prepared.”
“You have no idea.” He lies on his back. “Okay, Francesca, do your worst.”
“You might as well remove everything before you get comfortable,” I say.
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Darian kicks his cargo shorts to his feet but makes a show of stripping out of his Easter bunny boxers.
Of course.
“Sexy,” I say.
“Thanks, but I was going for eggs-cellent.”
I blink. “Oh Lord.”
He links his fingers behind his head and lies stretched across the blankets like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His eyes are shut and his smile borders on a smirk.
Kneeling beside him, I give the can of Reddi-wip a fervent shake. “All set?”
“All set.”
“Open wide,” I say in a singsong voice.
His lips curve into a half-smile, and then he slowly opens his mouth like he’s visiting a dentist. Giggles burst out of me.
“This isn’t supposed to be funny,” he says.
“I know, I know.” I blow out a breath. “Okay, I got this.”
Holding the dispenser steady, I pump whipped cream onto his tongue. The sight of him—eyes closed, mouth open and filled with white foam—is beyond amusing, but I try to power through it.
“Mmm.” I lean over him, touch my lips to his, and drag my tongue through the cream. “Mmm,” I say again and then collapse against his chest in another fit of giggles.
Darian’s eyes snap open. “What’s so funny?”
“You. This.” I laugh harder. “I don’t know if I can be serious.”
He gives me a playful glare.
“But I’m determined to try,” I say, fighting a grin. “Close your eyes.”
This time, I straddle him. I dispense a thick trail of whipped cream down his torso and then follow it with my hands, smearing it over his skin. Darian’s cock grows hard and shifts between my legs. When I feel more laughter bubbling inside me, I stop and wait for it to pass.
“Really?” Darian says.
“I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
He sits up with me still straddling him and makes a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “You only have yourself to blame.”
“For what?” The words barely leave my lips before I’m flat on my back, looking up at him. “Did not see that coming.”
He lifts my shirt to my neck, and I squeal and squirm beneath him.
“I bet you didn’t see this coming either,” he says.
“See what—ew.” My face pulls into a grimace as Darian rubs the sticky cream all over my bare chest and stomach. I laugh again. “I hope you know this is the polar opposite of sexy.”
He stops moving and pushes up on his elbows. “What would Francesca find sexy?” His sugar-coated lips touch mine briefly, then curve into a smile as he lifts his head. “My turn.”
“Of course it is.”
He puts his shorts back on and sits beside the basket. “The beach might have been a better location for this now that I think about it,” he says, scraping the last of the drying whipped cream from his chest.
I pull my shirt down as I sit up and then lean against my hands. “I don’t mind getting a little dirty.”
“Let’s test that theory.”
Darian digs in the basket and pulls out a yellow egg. He shakes it and then rolls it around in his hand like he did the first time. His lips purse when he reads the piece of paper inside. “Feathers. Nope.” He picks another egg, lime green this time. “Candle wax. Don’t know what I was thinking with that one. Pass.” And another—blue. “Handcuffs. Hmm, maybe later.” And another—purple. His face brightens. “This’ll work,” he says. “Lady’s choice.”
“And what, pray tell, does lady’s choice mean?”
“It means just what it says—it’s your choice,” Darian says, smiling. “Your wish is my command.”
“I can pick anything?”
“Anything.”
Hmm…
I take a long sip of my warm mimosa.
“Well, Francesca? What will it be?” He taps the lid of the plastic bin behind him. “We have all sorts of fun stuff in here,” he says. “Feel free to take a look before making your decision.”
I smile.
No need.
“Do I have to pick something from the tub?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” he says.
“I don’t have to pick from the cooler either?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “You don’t have to pick anything. You can just make a request if you want.” A slow grin builds on his face. “An unfulfilled fantasy perhaps?”
I finish off my drink and toss the empty cup in the sand.
“Don’t tell me. You can’t take the torture anymore and you just want to attack me,” he says.
“No,” I say, drawing out the word. I smile nervously as I crawl toward him. “I don’t want to attack you. I don’t want you to attack me.”
The air in my lungs feels heavy, like it’s weighing me down. I sit back on my heels, Darian watching me curiously.
“I just…” God, this is harder than I thought it would be. “I just want to be with you. Without ice or feathers or—”
“Chocolate?”
I unbutton my shorts. “Or chocolate.”
“You surprise me, Francesca. I figured you might be getting bored with all this endless fucking we do.”
“That’s just it. I don’t want you to fuck me.” I unzip the zipper. “You’re right; we fuck all the time, and it’s great. Really great. But you picked lady’s choice, and this lady”—I smile on the last word as I pull off my tank top—“wants you to make love to her”—and throw it at him—“right here, in this beautiful clearing.”
Darian lowers his head just as my shirt hits his chin and falls to his lap. He rubs the back of his neck, and a deep, weighted sigh gusts out of him. Without looking up, he tosses it back to me. “Please put that on.”
I grab my shirt and hold it over my chest. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s not—I thought we…” He pushes to his feet. “It doesn’t matter. The answer’s no. It will always be no.”
My mouth falls open. “What are you talking about? I’m not asking for anything we haven’t done before.�
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“Yes, Francesca, you are,” he says, his voice growing louder. He paces across the blankets, shoves a hand through his hair, and then paces back. “Are you trying to tell me that every time I was gentle or slow, you thought we were making love?”
“Darian, that’s not—”
The veins cord in his neck. “Goddammit, Francesca, I don’t know what I need to do to get through to you. This will never happen. We will never happen!”
His shrill voice echoes loudly in the small clearing and I jerk back, swallowing a gasp. It takes a moment before the shock begins to fade.
Breathe, Frankie.
My eyes burn, my throat…
“Francesca,” he says, calmer now, “we talked about this.”
A few tears trickle down my cheeks, and then they all seem to come at once.
Darian’s jaw clenches. “What do you think this is?”
I don’t know. I don’t know what any of this is.
I realize I’m still hugging my shirt. I pull it over my head, fasten my shorts, and push clumsily to my feet. Darian crosses the blankets to get to me, and his hand against my cheek makes my heart ache. I close my eyes.
Oh God, what’s happening?
“Please don’t do this,” he says. “We have something really good going here.” His hand falls away. “Please don’t ruin it.”
“I haven’t—I didn’t…” My throat thickens with fresh tears. “Darian, I’m not—I think I just…” I stumble backward and knock over the basket. “I’m not feeling so hot.” Plastic eggs of every color spill onto the ground. “I think it’s the heat.”
I lose my footing and crush several of them with my bare feet. Jagged pieces of plastic slice through my skin, but I barely feel a thing.
I look at Darian. His eyes are wide and aimed at my feet.
“Francesca, wait. You’re bleeding,” he says. “Let me help you.”
“No, please. Just let me go.”
CHAPTER 13
When the Music’s Over
Drew: Just scored 4 courtside Heat tickets! Gonna ask that hot little receptionist we just hired.
Drew: Bring your mythical girlfriend. Or are you still hiding her?
Drew: Hello? Courtside!
Drew: WTF?
Drew: Where are you?
Drew: She Devil is an impenetrable fortress but sweet Gloria can’t resist me. The island? Really?