Bad Business

by JC Harroway

  I’m about to ask him if he has a condom in the pocket of his board shorts when he releases the tie of my bikini top and shifts his mouth to the other breast, which is achy and impossibly more sensitive than the first.

  Spontaneous combustion threatens. I’m drugged on the hormones raging through me. Paralysed. Cries trapped in my throat.

  All the while he’s laving and sucking, his hand rubbing the other breast, fingers toying and tweaking, his eyes are open and either glued to the attention he’s lavishing on my breasts or watching my reactions to his touch. When I moan aloud, my hips jerking against his thigh so I rub both myself and his hard length, he repeats the soft stroking touch of his fingers on one side while he adds extra pressure to the other nipple by pressing it between his tongue and the back of his teeth. I’ve never been so turned on, every part of me tingling. An out-of-body experience.

  ‘Ryan...’ I don’t know what I’m asking for, I only know I don’t want him to stop worshiping my nipples, but I simultaneously want more, want everything he has to give. I’ve forgotten my pledge to touch and explore every inch of him, selfishly wallowing in his glorious attentions. But he’s started a chain reaction in me and I can’t stop.

  He’s rock hard against my hip but makes no move to hurry this along, as if he has all day to play with my breasts. Not that I’m complaining, because I’m too breathless, the tension building inside too overwhelming, the sight of him sucking and toying with rapt focus and sporadic grunts too erotic when combined with the incredible sensations.

  ‘Ryan,’ I gasp again. I want this. I want more. I want everything. But he ignores my incoherent pleas and continues, his face intense, as if he’s enjoying what he’s doing too much to stop. If I’d known this last night, I wouldn’t have run.

  I think of my dream, my sleeping orgasm, think of my fantasy of him licking between my legs with the sun on his back. I cradle his head, holding him tight, my fingers tangling in his decadent hair as my hips buck against his erection to their own, innate rhythm. The orgasm sneaks up on me, building with as much slow care and gentle stimulation as Ryan delivers to my nipples, and with a final grind of my clit against his thigh I detonate, slow rolling waves of biting pleasure consuming me until I’m spent and weak and almost part of the sand at my back.

  I can’t speak, but I want to sing hallelujahs. I’ve never had a nipple-only orgasm before. Is it just the excitement of a new partner? Someone different? The sexual frustration of last night? Or is Ryan some sort of sexual god rising up from the ocean for my pleasure?

  When I open my eyes, he’s gently blowing a stream of warm breath over one nipple, which is damp from his mouth, his face still intensely focussed. Then he looks up. ‘That was so fucking hot. I’ve never met a woman who can do that. You are so sexy...’

  I’m still panting but I laugh too. ‘I didn’t know I could do that. You’re clearly a breast man.’ After the depth and intensity of that orgasm, I’m surprised he didn’t feel the island shifting.

  ‘I’m a Grace man.’ He trails his hand over my stomach to my hip, his touch sure and firm and all-consuming so I want him to lavish my entire body with that degree of focus. I direct his mouth back to mine and then slide my hand to the front of his shorts where he’s straining and hard against the fabric.

  ‘Do you have a condom in your shorts?’ I ask, grinding the damp, molten heat between my legs on his thigh. Still needy, still wanting.

  He kisses me for a beat, two, three and when he pulls back, his face tight with arousal, I deflate, disappointment a bitter taste on my tongue because I see the regret in his startling blue eyes.

  ‘I don’t. I didn’t want to assume. I thought I’d been...I dunno...friend-zoned or something. Thought I’d got you all wrong and you didn’t actually like watching some bloke jerk off over you. Now I hate myself for being so...’

  ‘Chivalrous?’

  He snorts. ‘No, not that. I wouldn’t use that adjective to describe myself. I was going to say stupid.’ A small frown settles between his brows. He reaches for my bikini top, covering my still-tingling breasts with the triangles of fabric. I take the ties from him and finish the job of refastening the bikini, my high draining away with the knowledge he’s now the one applying the brakes.

  He peels his body from mine and I instantly miss his heat, his strength, his size. He sits up and faces the sea, his arms propped on his bent knees, giving me some privacy to pull myself back together.

  ‘I want you, Grace, don’t doubt that for a second. It’s just...’ He looks back over his shoulder, and I try to force my body into some sort of relaxed, easy-going posture so he can’t sense the disappointment boiling in my veins. ‘It’s just I don’t want to give you the wrong idea about me. I’m not looking for a relationship. I don’t really do relationships.’

  Ah...so this explains why he’s single.

  ‘Neither am I, believe me. I thought we were just going to have sex, you know—no strings, a good time, holiday-fling kind of sex...’ My mouth feels all sorts of alien speaking these oh-so-casual words, but it’s a good feeling. Liberating. Because we want nothing from each other but pleasure, and now I’ve stepped out of my own way, I’m all in. ‘That’s what I want, anyway,’ I add so there’s no confusion.

  He watches me closely, perhaps looking for reassurance. But I didn’t come here looking for love. A sarcastic huff blasts in my head. I came to the wrong resort for that. But now we’ve started this, my mind clears for the first time in what feels like years. I want what he’s offering. Fun in the sun. A fling with an expiry date. No big deal, just the kind of sex I already know is going to be amazing, from the couple of bases we’ve already covered.

  I can’t help the smile that dances on my lips. ‘But if you want to go getting all serious about it... I love you, Grace...let’s get married, Grace...’ I bump his shoulder with mine and grin wider.

  His eyes search mine for a few seconds longer, and then he chuckles, slings his arm around my shoulders. ‘All right, then.’ His ‘T’ is hard in that Irish way so it sounds as if he said ‘ten’. He must be accentuating the accent, playing up the brogue as if he knows how incredibly sexy it sounds.

  ‘We’re agreed—casual sex it is.’ He tugs me close and presses a firm heated kiss to my mouth, a kiss filled to the brim with the sexual frustration I know he must be feeling because I’m there too.

  I pull back, my voice playful. ‘Although if you want to get beyond second base, you might want to start carrying a condom in your shorts.’ I wriggle free of his arm and stand. ‘Come on—we need to cool off.’ I walk to the shore, leaving him seated.

  At the water’s edge I turn back, catching the moment his stare rises from my butt. ‘And so neither of us has an excuse next time—’ I tap one of the triangles of fabric of my bikini top ‘—I’ll tuck one into my bikini.’

  With a frustrated groan, he collapses back onto the sand.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ryan

  WHEN I ENTER the bar that evening, after another call to the nursing home, my burning eyes seek out Grace in the crowd. Wearing a simple denim dress that cups her delicious figure, she’s sipping a colourful cocktail and talking to the French couple that arrived at Lailai today. Laughing and carefree, her face alight with animation, she shifts something in my chest. A cold hard block of concrete there throughout my call to my grandmother’s nurses. Just the sight of her makes me feel lighter somehow, dragging a small indulgent smile to my mouth.

  I take a deep breath, trying to dissolve the gnawing and ever-present worry, despite the staff’s reassuring prognosis. But I can’t seem to shake the deep-seated kernel of dread that wants to sprout and expand.

  What if I lose her? My grandma.

  Despite the distraction of delightful and lovely Grace, that haunting vulnerable place exposed near the surface like an open wound coils my muscles tight and presses on my temples with sickening p
ressure.

  I break out in a fine sheen of sweat.

  I’m seventeen again. Terrified for my grandma, who has just suffered her first stroke. Alone in the frigid dark. A homeless boy in a man’s body.

  The panic makes me latch onto Grace, a foreign, almost overwhelming urge to get her alone taking hold. Her company will crush the worst of the trepidation and impotence eating me alive. It happened on the beach last night and again this morning, her sometimes hard-won smile, her grit and sense of humour an anaesthetic.

  And I crave that numbness with every daily reminder of my grandmother’s frailty, even though I know not to trust another soul for my happiness.

  Been there done that with my absent parents.

  I prowl to the bar, wound tight, every nerve ending vibrating. I could play my owner’s card. Clear the bar of everyone but Grace and me. Touch her freely, watch her eyes glaze with passion, splay her out on the table under the stars and pound us both to oblivion until my troubles exhaust themselves. Instead, I signal Charlie, the barman, for my usual, which he produces with a speed that pleases the businessman in me, and that’s where I hang my pinballing thoughts.

  Business.

  The resort is perfectly placed to be the next Dempsey success. Some minor refurbishments to the communal areas, installation of Jacuzzis and plunge pools near the spa, a designated nightclub and some specialised rooms for the voyeurs and other kink-lovers and it will be good to go. A second call, to my assistant, confirmed that work can commence as soon as the current guests vacate. I take a drag of my beer, waiting in vain for the rush of satisfaction.

  Thinking about catering to people’s kinks draws my stare back to Grace. She’s still laughing with the French couple, but she can’t stop looking my way any more than I can clear her from my head.

  But focussing on her is better than dissecting my thoughts. She makes a delectable conundrum. She looks classy, almost regal. When she lets go of her reserve, she’s gutsy and determined, but beneath the surface there’s a passionate goddess, candid and dauntless.

  Who knew the hesitant woman who baulked at a drink with a stranger would enjoy watching me jerk off in the shower? How spectacularly uninhibited she was on the beach earlier... And how stupidly unprepared I was.

  I spin my beer bottle on the bar, my fingertips against the cool glass—which is slick with condensation—the only part of me not on fire. Would she enjoy being watched, or having others watch her orgasm, the way she’d watched me? As if it fascinated her... As if her honest desires shocked the hell out of both of us.

  Need roars through my blood. Here, away from the reality I managed to dodge in our conversation this morning, we can indulge in pleasure. Just what Dempsey resorts sell. But the idea of her at one of my establishments, her openness and fearless abandon, turns my stomach inside out, that possessive urge peaking once more.

  What the hell...? I blame sexual frustration.

  I’m still staring, trying to keep the alien feelings from my expression. The French couple smile in greeting before moving to the small dance floor, which is open to the gardens and lit by thousands of sparkling lights wound among the rough sawn timber rafters of the roof.

  Grace cocks her head, her pretty eyes searching my face as if equipped with X-ray vision. ‘Why don’t you join me?’ She taps the stool next to hers in invitation.

  She sees it, the turmoil I battle.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ I ask, sliding onto the seat. ‘It’s making my teeth ache.’ The purple cocktail is garnished with slices of star fruit and a perfect frangipani bloom. I lean my upper body close enough to detect her light floral scent and take an indulgent deep breath, which goes some way to calming the storm in me. ‘You smell fantastic, by the way.’

  She laughs, offers that little smile—half hesitant, half sexy temptress—that makes my blood pound and renders me hard. There’s a very satisfactory way to banish my demons and have Grace all to myself. Then I remember I need to confess my true identity. Dammit—for the first time in years I wish my life were as simple as the beach bum I’ve been acting like since I arrived on the island.

  Acting...? Try hiding.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘While you were teaching paddleboarding, I spent the afternoon back at the spa. I had the most relaxing aromatherapy massage.’

  Irrational jealousy grips me, my mind whirring to remember if we have any male staff working at the spa. Then Grace clinks her glass against the neck of my bottle. ‘Cheers. This is the house cocktail. A Beachcomber.’

  ‘Sláinte,’ I say, taking a long refreshing swallow of my beer, resting my arm next to hers on the bar so our skin brushes and her pupils dilate. I could be making her relax in other ways, ways that would help me forget my woes for a while.

  Her perceptive stare raises the hairs at the back of my neck. There’s an inquiry coming. I see it in the set of her mouth against the tip of the paper straw in her drink.

  ‘You seem troubled tonight—is everything okay?’ Her voice is low, soothing, her compassion creating what feels like a safe space for any confession I might have.

  A dangerous feeling.

  My first instinct is to reject her caring side. I stopped myself relying on others years ago, learning those bitter lessons every time my grandma’s door slammed closed on my retreating mother. That’s why her concern over my grazed ankle made me uncomfortable.

  I could lie, assure her everything is fine, but there’s something about her that I like. A lot I like, actually. She’s real and honest...smart and charming. And now we’ve crossed that line into a physical connection we’re trapped on the island until our flights home. I can risk giving her a few breadcrumbs.

  ‘I’m fine. Just distracted,’ I say. ‘My grandmother, the one I told you lives in London, is unwell. I’ve just finished talking to her on the phone.’

  ‘Oh, Ryan, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she murmurs with understanding. ‘Is it serious?’ Her hushed voice wraps warmth around me, when I hadn’t realised I was cold.

  I swallow, look away, not ready to confirm something so definitive, even to myself.

  ‘She had a stroke a year ago, which left her weak down one side. It’s not her first stroke. She has diabetes. But she’s been fine, until recently.’ A small, unbidden grin tugs at my mouth when I think about the powerhouse of a woman who raised me solo after my grandfather died not long after I came to live with them. ‘Her mind is still sharp, and fortunately her memory was unaffected.’ I chuckle, shaking my head. ‘I’m in my thirties, but she still has enough gumption to lecture me on wearing sunscreen and remind me that she’d like a visit when I’m next home in London.’

  I wince, guilt lashing me. The promise came easily—she’s all the family I have. The only person to truly care about me, unconditionally. The only person to never let me down.

  Why am I still here? I could leave tonight...first thing in the morning...any time I want, my private jet on standby at the airfield on the main island.

  ‘Well, that’s a positive,’ says Grace, ‘She sounds like a formidable lady—you’d best do as she says.’

  We share a smile, my throat thick with memories and ghosts and what-ifs.

  ‘So what changed recently?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s developed a chest infection.’ I sigh, spilling more details than I thought I’d share at Grace’s gentle probing. ‘She’s on antibiotics. Oxygen.’ I curl my fingers into a fist, the exposed feeling back. ‘It’s... I hate feeling helpless.’

  Grace nods, her warm hand settling on my arm, her touch a comfort I didn’t know I needed. ‘It must be hard being so far away. But I’m sure she’s in good hands.’

  I take a swill of beer to stop myself blurting my darkest fears. She’s so easy to talk to, opening me up when I’m normally a closed book.

  A big part of me, the part my grandmother picked up and nurtured after my mother l
eft, wants to jump on the first flight home and see with my own eyes that she’s as well as she claims on the phone, to ensure she’s receiving the best of care, even though I know she is, because I ensure it. And the other part—the part I bury deep inside—wants to pretend, to deny the ever-present knowledge that if anything happens to my grandmother I’ll be truly alone.

  My chest aches again, the pain reminiscent of so many times in my past.

  I glance around for a distraction. Then I wish I hadn’t. The place is wall-to-wall doting couples. Yeah, they all look loved up for now, but what happens when times get hard, when inevitably people lie and cheat and hurt each other? How many of these newly-weds will clutter up the divorce courts in years to come and how many children will be casualties of their parents’ disappointed expectations and changes of heart?

  I must make some sort of snort of disgust.

  Grace follows my line of sight. ‘What? You don’t approve of PDA?’ She watches the French couple smooch on the dance floor, a dreamy look on her face.

  ‘I have nothing against PDA, I just—’

  ‘I know you don’t “do” relationships,’ she says, quoting me. ‘But you must see how romance is good for business in a place like this. You know, they’re getting married here in a couple of days.’ She inclines her head towards the dancing French couple. ‘How perfect is that?’

  When I don’t comment, because I’ve clamped my jaw shut, she swivels on her stool, returning her undivided attention my way.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiles. ‘I don’t mean to rant—I have happily married parents as role models, and, according to my sister, romance novels are an antidote to all the crap in the world...’ She trails off, perhaps at the look on my face.