The Rivals

by Allen , Dylan

  A loud shriek pulls my eyes to the other side of the pool just in time to see a woman fly through the air and land in the water with a splash so big that several cries of complaint rise up around us.

  When I turn back toward the horizon, I scan the dining area and see Regan Wilde sitting across the pool in all her windswept, golden brown glory.

  She leans back in her chair and I get a view of her upper body that makes my mouth water.

  Her white romper opens from her neck to her navel, exposing just a hint of the rounded full breasts beneath. A gold chain glints against her exposed chest and snakes a trail down her flat, toned stomach and disappears into the waistband of her shorts.

  Beautiful is too tame a word to describe her. Even when I was just a boy who didn’t know my ass from my dick, I knew she was something rare and special.

  I take a swig of my beer to wash down the nostalgia that’s clouding my judgement. All of that was a whole lifetime ago; In this lifetime, Tyson Wilde, her younger brother, is one of my best friends and one of the few people in the entire world that I trust.

  I met him when I tried out for the track team at U of H. He brought a box of Shipley’s glazed donuts to practice and offered them around. Everyone reacted like they were nuns being asked to suck a dick.

  Except me. We paired up for team workouts and discovered that a weakness for glazed donuts was just one of the things we had in common.

  When the team workout was done, everyone else was laid out, legs turned to jelly, lungs ragged with exertion. I headed outside for a run. Tyson, who’s competitive streak asked if he could join me. I humored him and said yes but warned that I was setting a six-minute mile pace.”

  “Why? You tired?” he asked before he took off. At the end of a fast, hard, flat out run that left us both gasping for breath he extended his hand, a grin of respect on his face and said, “I’m the Tyson Wilde, not to be confused with my less handsome, much older brother Remington.”

  My heart was already racing from the exertion of the workout, but like a deer who sees the headlights too late, I blurted my name and said “I think we’re supposed to be enemies”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking a feud that has nothing to do with me is a dumb reason to not work out together. I won’t tell, if you won’t.”

  We laughed, but I’ve never told my brothers about our friendship and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t either. But when he talks about Regan, I feel guilty pretending not to know her at all. He’s as protective of her as I am of my brothers. If he knew that she has been the inspiration of every wet dream I’ve ever had, he’d probably kick my ass.

  I don’t want to risk my friendship with Tyson. We don’t talk often, but when we do, this trip will come up and how can I pretend I had no clue his sister was here?

  Determined to do the right thing, I grab my phone and shoot him a text.

  “Just saw Regan at my resort.”

  “You’re in Cabo?” His answer comes back instantly.

  “Yup. Just saw her.”

  “Is she okay?”

  I recall her tears

  Why wouldn't she be?

  “Her marriage is over.”.

  ” I pump my fist at that. Hell, yes.

  “What happened?” I text back and hold my breath for his answer.

  “He’s fucking the nanny.” He responds.

  “Woah.” What kind of idiot has sex with other women when they’re married to Regan Wilde?

  “Yup. Buy her a drink and help her get laid.”

  If only he knew just how much I’d like to do that, he wouldn’t ask.

  “By anyone *but* you. You dirty fucker,” his next message reads. I laugh nervously

  Duh. And I think she can buy her own drinks and get laid just fine if she wants. I’ll just say hi.” If she happens to climb on my lap and ride my dick again, I most certainly won’t say no.

  “I’ll text her, let her know so she doesn’t think you’re some random hitting on her and kick you in the balls before you can introduce yourself.”

  “I’m looking at her right now. Tell her to look up and she’ll see me.”

  “Cool. Getting a call, later.”

  I watch her intently now. She and her friend are still laughing and talking. I wonder what she’ll think when she realizes Stone is me. She looks down at her phone and frowns.

  I hold my breath when she looks up suddenly and scans the pool area. Tyson must have texted her. I stay stock still and wait for her to find me.

  Her gaze moves past me and then comes back suddenly. She lifts her sunglasses up and a smile spreads on her lips.Her smile is so bright, I feel the heat of it from all the way over here.

  She looks…excited to see me. Maybe she’s forgiven me for stabbing that dude and cussing her out that night.

  I wave.

  She lifts her hand and waves back.

  Her smile disappears abruptly, and she looks down at her phone, again.

  Her expression becomes a frown, and as she lifts it to her ear, speaks briefly and then with a quick, but heated glance in my direction, she stands to leave and that mouthwatering body of hers comes fully into view. The crocheted hem of her shorts skim the tops of her supple, shapely thighs. The sight of which set my palms tingling. I stand, intent on following her, and nearly collide with the server standing at my table with a tray of food balanced on one hand.

  “Oh, shit,” I mutter, as I lose sight of Regan. I sit, a frustrated sigh slips past my lips before I press them together and give the woman a halfhearted smiled. “That’s mine?” I ask.

  Her brows furrow and her smile flattens as concern creases her eyes and she reaches for the small pad of paper in her shirt front pocket. “You are leaving? Or, maybe I have the wrong table?”

  “No, no, this is right. Sorry, go ahead.” I gesture at the table.

  She nods, but there’s a bemused smile on her face, as she lays my food out on the table and the aroma of sweet roasted garlic, caramelized onions and sizzling Carne Asada makes my eyes roll back in my head, and my empty stomach growls its demand.

  I start building my fajita and plan my assault.

  Even if Tyson’s intel about her marriage is right, Regan Wilde is still out of my league.

  But being close enough to touch the one horizon I’ve always wanted to explore, the adrenaline junkie in me can’t resist. It’s a long shot; she might not be so keen now that she knows I’m not a stranger.

  I attack my meal with gusto and eat every bite.

  It’s said that fortune favors the bold. I’ll need all the stamina I can get because the next time I see her, I’m going to put that theory to the test.

  Chapter 13

  Head Start

  Stone

  I’m sitting at the bar, watching the entrance of the restaurant for her, when the intangible, but unmistakable sultry citrus scent of her fills my lungs. I stop typing mid-sentence and lay my phone down, just as she slides that fine ass of hers onto the bar stool next to me.

  “Long time, no see,” Regan drawls, in her smooth as cream, sexy as fuck voice. Her impossibly dark eyes glint like obsidian coins, as she drags them over my face in a frank, possessive appraisal.

  “Have you come to bring me your panties?” I drawl.

  She shakes her head no, but a slow smile lifts the corners of her lush mouth, before she leans in, so close, that her lips touch my ear when she speaks.

  “I wanted to see if you were recovered. I felt guilty leaving you in such a state of obvious need when I got off…on your lap.”

  She draws back, and the twinkle in her eye is as intoxicating as her scent and as captivating as her smile. God, the things I want to do to her…aware of where we are and of the rapidly withering integrity of my restraint, I lean away from the temptress and sip the warm, bitter dregs of my beer, so that I can speak without clearing my suddenly parched throat.

  “It’s nice to know there are still women out there who don’t just hit and quit it. Than
k you for your concern, unfortunately, I’m far from recovered.”

  “I could take your word for it, or you could come to my room and let me see for myself.” Her gaze is unflinchingly direct, the invitation in them, unambiguous.

  I’d been prepared to wear her down. That she’s the one, propositioning me, slackens my jaw and scrambles my wits. I look from her face to the card and back again, as I try to force my brain to work.

  At my hesitation, doubt clouds her dark eyes, and she glances down to my lap. Her frank gaze lingers there, watching my hardening dick demonstrate what’s trapped on my tied tongue.

  Like the proverbial cat eyeing her bowl of cream, the tip of her tongue strokes her gloss-slicked lips. God, how I want to fuck that mouth.

  As if she heard me, her gaze snaps to mine, her eyes hooded, luminous, and clear of the uncertainty that flashed in them, a few seconds ago.

  “You may be something of a tease, but your dick certainly isn’t,” she drawls.

  I lean in until I’m close enough to smell the juniper on her breath and the brush of her soft exhales tickle my lips.

  “Those are fighting words. I must defend my honor. My dick challenges your mouth to a duel.”

  Her eyes widen, her chest heaves, but her smile is sure and sensual as she reaches into the back pocket of her tiny shorts. “I accept.” She pulls a keycard out and slides it over to me. “Give me ten minutes. Room 3260. At the top of the hill.” She steps off the stool and with a wink, she saunters away. I watch her until she leaves the restaurant and try to catch my breath.

  My pulse quickens the same way it does at the start of a difficult race. I know she’s not a thing to be won or a mountain to be conquered, but damn if I haven’t wanted to do both since the day she wrapped her arms around me and changed the course of my entire life.

  When she got married, my hope of catching my Venus stopped being a deferred dream. At sixteen, on the cusp of manhood, I discarded it as the fruitless fantasy of a boy too young to know better.

  Today, there’s too much between us for anything more than a tryst.

  I live on a different continent.

  She’s married.

  She’s my best friend’s sister.

  My brother is fighting like hell to rebuild our family’s tattered reputation and I promised to help him. Getting involved with the wife of a man he does business with would shatter that oath.

  I signal the bartender and order two fingers of whiskey, throw it back and set my timer for ten minutes.

  When the alarm trills, I settle my tab, drop some cash in the tip jar, and make my way up the hill. I wave away the shuttle that slows to pick me up. I need the walk to clear my head. At this point in my life, the kind of trouble she spells is the very last thing I need.

  I churn the same arguments while I make way to her room. Yet, I never consider turning back because for each argument, there is a single, compelling rebuttal that resounds until it becomes a refrain; The woman of my every dream just offered herself to me.

  So, tonight, I’m finally going to have what I want, how I want. And I’m going to enjoy her very much.

  Chapter 14

  I Want More

  Regan

  “If you didn’t know me, would you want to fuck me?” I prop my iPad against the bathroom mirror. I step away, place my hands on my hips, throw my shoulders back and wait for my friend Charlie to give his verdict.

  His dark eyes bug out of his head. “If my wife walks in right now, which she might ’cause she gets twitchy when you call, she would flip out. Put some damn clothes on.” His volume progresses over the course of that sentence and by the time he’s done, he’s shouting. He winces. “Please?” he pleads in a hushed voice.

  I open my mouth to argue. His wife’s jealousy is annoying as hell. But the last thing I want is to make it even more difficult for Charlie to be my friend. I position the camera so he can only see my face and flash him an apologetic grimace and perch on the edge of the claw footed tub. “Sorry, I’m just freaking out because I’m about to be naked in front of a man for the first time in five years and I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

  His expression darkens. “You’re letting Marcel back into your bed? I hope you’ve got extra strong condoms because there’s no--”

  “It’s not Marcel, someone I met on vacation.” Normally, I’d let him pillory my husband for being a manwhore, but he’s the last person I want to talk about.

  “Wow. Okay.” He lets out a low, long whistle of surprise that raises my hackles.

  I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you judge me. You know I’ve never even considered anything like this.”

  “Woah, you know I would never,” he admonishes me with a glare. “Look, I believe in the institution of marriage. But you and Marcel—what you have isn’t even close to that. I’m just praying this is your first step to finally leaving that son of a bitch.”

  Relief and gratitude swell simultaneously. “I hope so, too. I can’t regret him because of my children, but I don’t want to live like this anymore,” I confess.

  He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Excellent. It hurt like hell to lose you to him and I’ve been waiting for this day for more than ten years.”

  Guilt that lives right below the surface simmers. “Charlie, I—”

  “No, don’t apologize,” he snaps and then softens his rebuke with a tender smile. “I’ve got my girl and we’re happy. And you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Regan. When I got fired from V&E and not even my brother in law would have lunch with me, who invited me to be her plus one at every single event and paid my legal fees when I thought they were going to cost me everything I’d managed to hold on to?”

  Giving Charlie the benefit of my social credit when he was fired was one of the few times, recently, that I’ve felt useful. I roll my eyes and flush at the naked gratitude in his eyes. “What good are friends if they’re not there for you when you actually need them?”

  He grins. “Exactly. I’m just glad you’re ready to make you the most important person in your life. And let me add that your body is one of the great wonders of the world. Everyone wants to fuck you. Even a few straight women I know.”

  I laugh out loud, “Oh shut it, flatterer.” I chide through a fond smile. Charlie’s a better friend than I deserve.

  “I only speak the truth. Call me when you’re back in Houston. We’ll get the kids together, throw some steaks on the grill, and catch up. And since I didn’t get caught, I’ll thank you for a peek at that very fine ass.”

  He winks and then hangs up.

  I turn back to the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door and my humor fades as I give myself a critical assessment.

  My mother jokes that we hail from the same gene pool that produced Naomi Campbell. It’s true that genetics have been kind and spared us cellulite and stretch marks, Naomi didn’t test the bounds of that generosity by carrying and giving birth to three children.

  When I told my mother I was pregnant, the first appointment she insisted I make was with a plastic surgeon. Between him, my personal trainer, and my Weight Watchers sponsor, I’ve managed to keep my stomach flat, my tits perky, and my ass firm. I believe Charlie when he says it’s generally appealing.

  But there are places on my body that haven’t been restored to their original glory. I run a hand between my thighs and wrinkle my nose at the soft, plump, looser than it used to be, flesh I encounter.

  My handsome stranger’s not co-ed or anything, but he doesn’t look older than thirty.

  Has he ever seen a vagina that’s given birth? Much less three times?

  I sigh and draw my hand away. Does it matter that my pussy’s not so pretty anymore? He’s going to fuck it, not look at it.

  I wash my hands and startle at the unfamiliar sight of my ringless left hand. Taking it off for the first time in a decade was fraught with a whole host of emotions. Not one of them is shame or regret.

  I pour myself a shot of
the exceptional clear tequila and throw it back without any ceremony. I glance at the clock. It’s been more than twenty minutes since I left that bar. What if he’s not coming.

  Like a divine reminder that everything is happening exactly as it should, my pang of doubt is followed by the sweet sound of knuckles rapping on my door

  “Remember, you deserve to feel good,” I tell myself as I reach for my robe. As soon as I slip my arm in, I hesitate. Why am I bothering? I look good and if this turns out to be my one chance at something like this, then I’m going all in.

  I lay it across the back of the chair, stride to the door, and fling it open. And feast my eyes on the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He’s leaning against the frame- – looking like he just walked out of a magazine called “Men Who Make Women Thirsty: The Dick Trap Edition.”

  There’s too much character in his face for him to be described as classically handsome. His mouth is too broad, his lips full, the top slightly more so than the bottom. His beard is close cropped but fuller than a five o’clock shadow. The smirk tugging up the left side of that sinful mouth widens.

  “Are you gonna come in?” I ask him after the third time he opens and then closes his mouth without saying anything.

  He nods but doesn’t say anything. But if the bulge in his pants were a word, that word would be “yes.”

  We stand there like that, like a couple that just ended a dance with a dip.

  I grab the front of his shirt and give him a firm tug. He kicks the door closed and loses his footing, and we both teeter momentarily. He recovers his footing and wraps one strong arm around my waist and cradles the back of my head with the other.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. But I could be falling through space and wouldn’t care.

  I’m riveted by eyes that call to mind the brown sugar, butter, and cream pralines I gorge myself on at Christmas—golden brown and endlessly tempting.