Buck Moon Party on the Beach

by Alice May Ball

  Buck Moon Party on the Beach

  Alice May Ball

  Copyright © 2020 by Alice May Ball

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Up next: Prince on the Beach

  Insta Love Island

  Alice’s Readers’ Group

  Chapter One

  Walking over sand is harder work than I remember.

  Soft, hot white sand gets between my toes in the slipping flip-flops. A salty breeze flicks my hair in my eyes and across my face. I’m making for the shade of a bar under a palapa, with a sign that says, ‘Surf Sup.’

  No way is the beach my natural habitat.

  How did I let Kayleigh talk me into coming here?

  My plan for the enforced week-long hole in my work life was a quiet little cabin on the lake. Take some time to recharge. Think of some way out of the trap I’ve fallen into, of below minimum-wage jobs and constantly rising bills. Flying to a beach on what they call ‘insta-love island’ was not what I had in mind, but, hey. This was free and beggars can’t be choosers.

  Kayleigh, my BFF from college is not exactly making bank writing for the entertainment ‘news’ site TheShizzle, but she’s making the rent and she’s doing something like the thing she loves.

  Meanwhile, I’m getting my hours cut on one of my two lousy jobs. Good news, the other one wants me to work more hours. Bad news, for the same money. Now I have five days with no work at all, and I want to rest up and see if I can’t figure a way out. I want to take some me-time, relax and write.

  Talk of the devil, my phone rings and it’s her.

  Fighting to keep my hair out of my eyes, I jam the phone between my ear and my shoulder. “I hope you’re having a fantastic time.” Kayleigh’s voice is bright and brisk. “Wish I was there.”

  I wish you were here instead of me. Still, the island is sensationally beautiful. Clear, turquoise sea, cresting in rolling waves under a wide blue sky, framed by the perfect crescent of the bay. Under all the shouts and whoops, there’s a laid-back atmosphere, a tranquility. The place is kind of perfect. So many people, though, jumping around on the beach.

  Surfers and swimmers bob and splash in the clear waves. The beach is crowded with bodies. Bronzed, tanned, golden and dark bodies. All lean and fit, running, jumping, playing volleyball—shouting. All in groups, or playing games. Looks like everyone’s having fun. And as far as I can see, every single body is definitely ‘beach ready.’

  I’m more library cozy. I know it and I’m okay with it. All except for the prickly feeling of being a fish out of water. It’s great to see people having fun, but they make me feel like an alien.

  “You have to go to the King George jewelers. Jean-Jaques is the creative director. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Sure, Kayleigh.”

  I’m having second thoughts about going into the bar. There’s noise inside. Also, headed for the shade is a huge man, all rolling muscle and heavy sinew, wearing nothing but a kilt, of all things. He’s indecently older, too, making him seem all the more indecently undressed.

  A guy his age has no right to look so filthy hot. His ass and his thighs are distracting under the kilt. He looks more raw and naked than if he was, well, naked. Image now fused into brain.

  Ducking his shaggy brown head under the palapa, he steps into the shade.

  He’s so muscular it’s scary. Not as scary as the electric burn in his eyes. A trickling buzz in my spine drops down and makes my knees weak.

  “Um, Kayleigh, I’m not really in the market for jewelry. I’m only…”

  “Sure, Amber. But, please, go and see Jean-Jaques for me. Please? He’ll give you something to bring back for me.”

  I’m getting the hang of how Kayleigh has an almost endless list of ‘little things’ she wants me to do. My BFF is very special in a lot of ways, and one of them is that she’s pretty needy, and very high maintenance.

  “I think I should have taken a cabin on the lake instead of coming here.”

  “Amber, you’re going to have the best time, I promise. I really am envious. I’d rather be there than trudging around Los Angeles, trying to find a contact for the world’s most reclusive billionaire.”

  “Yeah, the world’s most reclusive billionaire, who you’re hoping to snag.”

  “I’m only hoping to snag him for an exclusive interview. And be fair, Amber, my career only depends on it.”

  “I heard the way you described him, what was it you said? ‘Hot, hard, and heavily endowed’ was that it?”

  The man with a kilt is standing inside the palapa, looking me up and down. Intently. I blush, wondering if he heard what I just said. I’m sure he did. The way he looks at me, all my bones feel like they turned to water. I don’t want to go into the bar at all now.

  But I won’t let him intimidate me.

  Kayleigh says, “Jack McCaber is a reclusive billionaire rugby player. How strange is that?”

  “I don’t know, Kayleigh. I don’t know anything about rugby players.” I want this call to end now.

  “Well, he’s also a laird or something. The head of a family thing… a clan or whatever they call them.”

  “Okay.” I’m uncomfortably close to the man in the kilt. And a frightening urge to get closer wriggles in my stomach. Is that how people behave on a beach? I have no idea.

  “Amber, he’s a triple-A, plus-plus-plus lister. International coverage potential. A rugby player with movie star looks, and the heir to two fortunes. An ancient fortune and a modern one, too. Which part of this are you not getting?”

  “I need some downtime, Kayleigh. That’s what I came here for. I’ll do what I can to help but, please, don’t micromanage me here.”

  “Amber, you wouldn’t be being that way if you saw him. I promise you.” Kayleigh said, “I’d send you a pic if there was one anywhere I could grab one. There are almost none. As soon as a photo appears, it gets taken down again.”

  Too near and far too not-wearing-any-clothes. The voice is dark and rich, like it comes from an ancient forest. “Have you got permits for all those curves, lassie?” His voice scrapes, like Jamie Fraser in Outlander. But darker. The way he says ‘permits,’ the ‘r’ bubbles like a little motor. His accent is deep and his voice is so self-assured, it makes me want to slap him. If only I could reach up that high.

  I ask him, “Do lines like that work for you?”

  “What?” Kayleigh says in my earphones.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I tell Kayleigh, and hang up.

  “I’ll be looking forward to it,” he says, and the ‘r’s in the word ‘forward’ seem to go on a long time.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “How come you’re made of soft curves, and yet your tongue has such a sharp edge on it?” My breath catches as he says, ‘currrrrves,’ another long, slow ripple.

  “It’s to cut through BS from random dudes.”

  “Ah! A random dude, now, am I?” His laugh is a firecracker with an accent. And when he rolls his ‘r’ in ‘random,’ it’s like a nail scraping velvet. A troubling sensation sets me on edge.

  “That’s a real kilt, right?” It’s not the question I want to ask.<
br />
  “Aye, it’s my tartan.”

  “And what’s the – the…” I’m looking down. Hanging on the front of the kilt is a big, hairy pouch.

  “That?” He looks down then back up. His eyes flash into mine and I feel my knees sag. The burr of his laugh shakes me. “That’s where I keep my treasures and my necessities,” with a maddening grin, he says, “Have you no seen a sporran before?”

  As I look down, I swear it moves.

  My face flushes and his laugh cracks like a whip as I hurry inside the bar.

  I find a table in the quiet shade, near the back. I put down my bag and take my purse to the bar counter.

  “So, what can I get you?” The barkeeper has an accent like the guy with the kilt. I guess they must be both be Scots. “Should I make you a Pole Island specialty cocktail? I can fix you a Slippery Pole Plunge, a Honey Pole Blitz, the Kings Pole Tonic—with coffee. Nice in the morning. Wakes you up and mellows you out at the same time.” He sees I’m shaking my head.

  “Thanks, no. I just want a cold beer and a cool, quiet table in the shade.”

  “Cold beer. Coming up.” He draws the beer from the pump on the bar. “Are you saving yourself for the party?”

  “Party?”

  “You’re here for the Buck Moon party, no?”

  “Never even heard of it.”

  “No? DJs, musicians, dancers from all over the world come for the full moon beach party.” He slides the beer across the wood counter. “Biggest event in the island’s calendar. Unmissable.”

  “I’ll settle for the quiet table and the cold beer for now, thanks.” I reach in my purse.

  “You only just got here, right?”

  “You can tell?”

  “It takes a day or two to slide into the rhythm. To relax and shake off the big wide world. Meanwhile, your first beer is on the house. Welcome to Pole Island.” He stretches out a hand. “Banger Doon, at your service. Proprietor of Surf Sup.” He extends his arm in a sweep, “the Blood Moon beach surf shop and this fine bar.”

  I take his hand, “Amber Purdue. Hi, Banger,” and I thank him. He tips his head toward the mountain man in the kilt over in the shadows. “And don’t mind Jock. He’s a good man and nowhere near as fierce as he might seem.”

  I take the cold beer mug to my table. I’ve seen posters for a party in my hotel and everywhere on the island. It looks like a ridiculously over-the-top, hedonistic experience. Like a tropical Burning Man. Something I’m way more likely to read about than go to.

  Next to the poster at the bar is another about the ‘missing Pole Island Long Pearl.’ A treasure hunt or something, I guess.

  My table in the shade is quiet and cool. The beer helps. The only noise is from three rowdy pool players a long way off on the far side of the bar, nearer to the water’s edge. I take out my butterfly notebook and start to lose myself immediately.

  I used to write and tell stories all the time when I was younger. In my later teens, I somehow slipped the groove. Lost the habit.

  Now, as soon as I start, words flow easily. I’m most of the way through the beer, and a couple of pages into my notebook, not noticing how time passes.

  I look up and two of the pool players are leaning over my table. I’m starting to smile when I notice they have big grins that I don’t like.

  One holds out a hand. “Show us what you’re reading, gorgeous.”

  His friend says, “Must be something sexy, right?”

  The first one grins, “You need a feed?”

  “What?”

  “Cos’ your ass looks like it could take some meat.” They both laugh. Like it’s the funniest thing they ever heard.

  Pleased with himself, the first one says, “Does your rich friend know she’s never getting that dress back? Because it loves you nearly as much as I do.”

  While I’m looking at him, the other one snatches the notebook out of my hand. My precious butterfly!

  He reads aloud, “The powerful Scotsman has a rough, weathered look about him. Like he could be a seafarer, or maybe he an oil rigger. His brooding looks burn with a dark, commanding passion.” Oh, no! I’m wilting inside. I can’t see the man, but I just know he’s somewhere in earshot.

  Then out of nowhere, my huge Highlander appears, looming behind them, a head taller than either of them.

  He leans down, his face between theirs.

  His voice is like ice. “Give the lady back her book, ye damn fuckwit.”

  One of them starts to speak, but his face creases as the Highlander squeezes his shoulder.

  “Nicely, mind.” He looks at the other one, his grin is evil. “You want to apologize. Hand her back her book and offer to buy her a drink. Isn’t that right, shithead?”

  The pool player hesitates, side-eyeing his friend for a cue.

  The man’s head snaps back. Red-faced, he winces as he says, “Yeah, okay. Of course.” And he stretches to slide the book, closed, neatly in front of me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, with his mouth stretched wide and his eyes bulging, “we only meant to have a little fun. Please,” his left knee buckles and he leans to one side. His voice is strained, “let me buy you a drink.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him.

  Jock’s grip tightens. “Now, see? You must have offended her. You need to be more persuasive. Ask her nicely to let you buy her another fucking beer. Or maybe she would prefer a fucking cocktail.”

  “Seriously. I’m fine.” I don’t want a drink from them. I just wish they would go.

  Yanking him back by his shoulder, Jock hurls him, skidding across the floor. Then he snarls as he does the same with his friend. The third pool player skulks out after them.

  “You okay, lassie?” His eyes are tender, filled with concern. I am drenched. I want to tell him what I wrote wasn’t about him. It was just some impressions. That he sparked an idea, and I just riffed with it.

  The more I think of to say, the less convincing it seems.

  “You may have a bit of a mouth on you,” he says, restoring my belief in what an ass he is, “But there’s no excuse for any of that kind of behavior.” My breath is heaving, I feel my skin glowing and his eyes are all over me. “He’s right about the dress, though,” he tells me. “You make it look like a million bucks.” My face flushes.

  “Does everyone here talk like they’re writing lines for a cheesy romcom?”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Around you, lassie, I’m betting everybody talks that way, all the time.”

  I can’t stand the damned look in his eye.

  “You put me in mind of my sister. She writes, too,” and he grins. “Not about me, though.”

  I want to tell him wasn’t really writing about him. I was just writing it about… Some big, scary, sexy guy. With an accent.

  I jut my chin.

  “Aye,” he says, “She’s defiant like you. And she has a build like you.”

  “Your sister’s half your age and a blob?”

  “You’re a babe, not a blob,” he laughs. “Matter of fact, I wanted to get a birthday present for her. Would you try on a bikini for me?”

  “Why don’t you see if Banger has any of those swizzle sticks they use for cocktails.”

  “You want one?”

  “No, but you can stick one up your ass.”

  Bastard.

  Chapter Two

  My thoughts keep drifting back to her. I swing drowsily in the hammock on the foredeck. Slats of afternoon sun heat my thighs as I sway, daydreaming.

  They always sneak back to her. It’s like my cock has got it into its head the most infuriating woman on the planet is the woman for me.

  The sun is strong and as the hammock swings, I feel it move between the slats of shade on my thighs and over my chest.

  My sporran rises as my kilt lifts beneath it.

  Banger’s boat, the Lady Don’t Ask is pretty nice, and he keeps it practically secret, which is nigh on impossible on Pole Island. As far as I know though, the two lassies who tr
y their damnedest to avoid running Banger’s surf shop, Poppy and Sunrise, and me, we’re the only people on this whole wide world who know about Banger’s boat.

  It makes the Lady a handy hideaway for me most nights. Banger hardly ever uses her, except when he’s got one of his projects on. Then nobody gets near the Lady.

  Every time I managed to yank my thoughts away from my little minx, it seems like the image of her steals back to me. It swells and develops, getting hotter. More complete and ripe. More full and sensuous. As soon as I let go the leash on my mind, it’s rushing back to her, slavering at her scent. I’m panting and swollen so hard it hurts.

  Erect and straight up. Fat, full and fit to burst.

  I imagine her shining eyes, and an image of her breasts, bouncing on my thighs. Her hot breath fans the underside of my cock. Her lips part. Her pink tongue slips out. My hand rises up my thigh. Under the kilt. I’m holding the shaft.

  I imagine the brush of her hair, soft and unbearably teasing, sweeping over the tops of my thighs and my hips. Her breath is hot and damp around the top of my cock. Her mouth opens. When I imagine her eyes flashing up at me, it’s almost too much. I feel the surge in my balls.

  The wet scrape of her tongue, over the throbbing heat of my cock, the heavenly darkness inside her mouth, all the while being driven mad by the scent of her, the tang that I got the faintest hint of when she stood close in front of me.

  My God, the soft globes of her tits, her warm cleavage, made for my cock to slip into.

  And her ass. I imagine her ass, swinging around, lowering down, toward my face. Her hot, wet, perfect pussy, glistening, dripping. I have to see it for real. Taste it for real. Suck on her pearl for real.

  I can’t hold out much longer. I’m keeping my hand from moving, but my hips start to roll and grind.