Stripped

by Nicola Marsh

  I shift my arm so her hand dislodges. Irrationally, I miss her touch. ‘Any dickhead can don a suit, crunch numbers and issue orders.’

  ‘You’re underestimating yourself.’ She folds her hands in her lap, the prim posture not detracting from her subtle sexiness one iota. ‘You’re a brilliant CEO.’

  Thankfully she hasn’t pushed for answers about my behind-the-scenes work with foster kids.

  ‘Yeah, so brilliant I need to perform miracles to reverse the chain’s downward spiral.’ I eyeball her. ‘And why you’re here, remember?’ I snort, showing exactly what I think of anyone having the tough job of using me to make the Rochester brand more appealing. ‘You’re a miracle worker if you can instil consumer confidence in me.’

  I’m used to people not liking me; to making people not like me. It’s what I’ve always done. But my bitterness is audible and the corners of her mouth droop. I’ve soured the mood. Typical.

  ‘Want a tour of the yacht?’ I hold out my hand to her, willing her to take it and forget our conversation. This is why I don’t do deep and meaningful. It brings nothing but regret.

  ‘Sure.’

  I exhale in relief when she places her hand in mine and I tug her to her feet. I should release her hand. It’s too...romantic, standing close on the bridge of the yacht, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.

  But I don’t. Instead, I duck my head to brush a kiss across her lips, a promise of what’s to come.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Daisy

  THE MASTER STATEROOM is bigger than I expect. Pale wood cupboards and bedside tables, a cushioned curved love seat under the porthole window and a king-size bed covered in a lemon and blue bedspread with matching scatter pillows. I stare at the bed, imagining Hart doing all sorts of wicked things to me.

  He’s gripping my hand tightly, like he’s expecting me to make a run for it. I figure I don’t have to tell him there won’t be a ‘woman overboard’ situation today, not when I’m so hot for him I can barely see straight.

  It’s not good, the way we bonded up on deck. Sharing snippets of our past. Chatting. Joking around. He’s way too charming when he lowers his barriers and I find myself considering ways to make him do it more.

  I can’t get close to this man. It can only end badly for me. Aloof, reserved, hands-off, he’s the kind of guy who would screw with my mind if I got too close, making me want to solve all his problems and make all the hurt go away. I’ve already lost too much of myself in the past getting caught up in a guy’s life and trying to change the unchangeable—never again.

  Hart is nothing more than my sexual sorbet. I must keep telling myself that and stay clear of personal topics. Because that underlying vulnerability I glimpse every time he mentions his grandfather slays me.

  I know why I’m indulging this fling. Hart is the complete opposite of any guy I’ve ever been with. I like that he’s dark and brooding and mostly silent. Words are frivolous and wasted on him. Which explains why I practically hang on his every one whenever he speaks.

  With what he revealed up on deck it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here, taking his grandfather’s place as head of the hotel conglomerate. He’ll leave once the business is stabilised, back to his altruistic work with kids. It’s a noble cause. Which makes it harder to understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s like he has a hate-on for the world and doesn’t give a crap, when he obviously does.

  I can’t fathom how tough it must’ve been growing up in the foster system, but that was a long time ago. He speaks highly of his grandfather so I assume they had a good relationship. In fact, he wouldn’t be back here assuming control if they hadn’t.

  So why is he so damn grim all the time?

  I don’t have time to ponder when I hear the door close and he comes to stand behind me. His body doesn’t touch mine but I can feel the heat radiating off him. I’m hot from head to toe, knowing I’m in way over my head but powerless to stop.

  When we had sex in the cave it was spontaneous and wild and hedonistic. Today is different. Revealing snippets of ourselves has made us more aware of each other. I saw it in the way he looked at me up on deck and I’m sure my expression mirrored his: like I’d made assumptions about him, only to find there’s so much more simmering beneath his glowering surface.

  He takes a step closer and rests his hands on my waist. I burn beneath his touch, my stomach falling away when he kisses the back of my neck. A soft kiss that grazes my skin and sends a shiver of sheer want through me.

  His hands slide down over my hips and bunch my skirt, then his palms are on my skin. I quiver and lean back against him, grateful for the support considering my knees are wobbly.

  ‘You feel so good,’ he murmurs in my ear, nipping the lobe as his palms slide higher. ‘Smooth. Hot.’

  Wait until he hits my really hot spot.

  I don’t have long to wait as he hooks his thumbs into the elastic of my panties and eases them down. I like that he’s taking things slow this time, in contrast to our frantic sex in the cave. I’ve fantasised about this, about being with him with a bed in the vicinity, and I’m so turned on from his simple touch I can’t see straight.

  My senses are heightened, not being able to see him. I can’t get a read on him if I can’t see him and not knowing where he’s going to touch me next is so hot.

  As he slides my panties down he kneels. I know this because my back is suddenly cold and his hands return to my waist, gently insistent in turning me around.

  When I do I gasp because he’s staring at me with adoration. This stubborn, recalcitrant man is on his knees in front of me, relinquishing control, ready to give me pleasure. It’s incredibly heady stuff for a girl like me, who thinks all the talk of prolonged foreplay in magazines is a myth.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me there.

  I whimper.

  I sense him smile as his tongue darts out and zeroes in on my clit, making me clutch the top of his head for balance.

  He licks me over and over, his tongue delving and probing and driving me wild with an expertise that is definitely no myth. Hart is giving me the best head of my life and it’s real.

  Pleasure snakes through me as he laps at my clit, short, sharp strokes designed to drive me over the edge. It usually takes me a while to come this way but as my muscles clench and the ripples of release shimmer, I realise it’s no fault of mine, and everything to do with the guy.

  His hands grab my ass, anchoring me, as his tongue circles me faster and faster, and I’m gone. Writhing against this mouth. Tugging on his hair. Screaming my release as I buck against him, wanting this exquisite pleasure to never end.

  My knees buckle but he’s there, standing, and holding my ass he lifts me onto the love seat. It’s the perfect height and I wrap my legs around him.

  His expression is fierce as he unzips, like he’s hell-bent on pleasuring me. He won’t get any protests. But we haven’t spoken since he gave me the best orgasm of my life and I have no idea if I should thank him or return the favour.

  ‘I’ve wanted to fuck you since we set foot on this yacht.’ His tone is barely above a growl and it reverberates deep inside where I want him most.

  ‘Then do it.’

  I tilt my chin up in defiance and spread my legs. His hungry gaze zeroes in on where I want him to be. My breathing is shallow, my nipples so hard they hurt, my skirt is rucked up and I’ve never felt so wanton.

  I watch him tear open a foil and roll on a condom like he has all the time in the world. Either he’s teasing me or he has the self-control of a monk.

  I wriggle closer until I’m teetering on the edge of the love seat. Sensing my desperation, he claims my mouth in a kiss that defies logic. His tongue plunders my mouth, ravaging me with a precision that makes me go a little wild.

  I claw at him, trying to gain purchase
, grasping at his chest, his shoulders. And just when I’m on the verge of begging, he slides inside. Full and long and thick, making me gasp with the depth of his penetration, making me crave everything he’s willing to give.

  I tear my mouth away so I can watch, leaning back on my outstretched arms. My boldness is a turn-on if his reaction is any indication: he withdraws slowly, inch by exquisite inch, before thrusting into me hard. Over and over until I’m panting, desperately clinging to the edge of sanity, the pleasure is that intense.

  My muscles tense and I writhe, eager for release. His gaze, smouldering and confident, locks on mine as he lifts my butt slightly and changes the angle of his hips, driving into me with calculated precision.

  He hits my sweet spot and I come apart, wave after wave of soul-searing release swamping me until I’m floating.

  He groans a moment later but I’m oblivious, lost, stunned.

  I’m boneless when he lifts me and lays me on the bed. I don’t expect a cuddle. I’m not that naïve. We’re indulging in a sexual fling and it’s stupendous.

  But when he stares at me, an inscrutable expression in those fathomless eyes, I feel compelled to say something to articulate how freaking fantastic that was.

  However, as I try to come up with something suitably light-hearted, a wave of nausea washes over me.

  Crap.

  While I was upright the rocking boat didn’t bother me but now that I’m lying down my stupid body is registering the change in posture. Repeated ear infections as a kid ensure I’m not a great traveller and motion sickness can be a problem.

  I’d been fine with the boat moving while standing but now, with it anchored and bobbing and me horizontal, I’m in trouble.

  My stomach gripes and a cold sweat breaks out over my body. Hell. This isn’t going to be pretty.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I manage to say, surging off the bed and making it to the bathroom just in time.

  I slam the door and bend over the toilet, retching. It’s not good. That tropical fruit salad I had for breakfast was a bad idea.

  I try to stand but my body has other ideas and I retch again and again until nothing is left. Weak and woozy, I finally push to a stand and prop myself on the basin. Glancing in the mirror is a mistake. I look like shit, a weird grey-green colour with watery eyes.

  Groaning, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth out. I open the glass cabinet and thankfully there are fresh toiletries there. I tear open a plastic-covered toothbrush, squeeze a dollop of paste from a mini dispenser and brush my teeth. Only then do I start to feel slightly human again.

  This time when I look in the mirror the green has given way to pale but I feel better. Time to face Hart and explain my humiliating bolt from the bedroom.

  I open the bathroom door and he’s pacing, his expression formidable. When he spies me, he takes two steps towards me then stops, as if he doesn’t want to get too close.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I nod and wrinkle my nose. ‘Sorry about that.’

  His eyes turn flinty. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

  Too late, I remember he has a weird thing for apologising when it isn’t one’s fault.

  I point at my ears. ‘These go wonky sometimes so when I lie down on a moving vessel...’ I mimic barfing. ‘It’s not pretty.’

  He doesn’t say anything for an eternity and when he moves it’s so swift he startles me. He pulls me into his arms, one hand clasping me tight at the waist, the other cradling the back of my head against his chest.

  I feel his heart thudding against my cheek and it’s disarming how much I like being comforted. I’m under no illusion that’s what he’s doing. He may be a man of few words but his actions speak volumes and he looked tortured when I opened the bathroom door.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I murmur, when he finally releases me. ‘Though I feel like an idiot for disrupting your plans to spoon me.’

  I smile, hoping my joke will alleviate the tension bracketing his mouth. It doesn’t.

  With a final glower, he stalks out of the cabin and slams the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hart

  I’M IN HELL.

  I don’t do emotions. I don’t do closeness. And I certainly don’t do comforting, but I indulged in all three and am reeling because of it.

  I hated hearing her retch. I wanted to barge into the head and do something to help but I couldn’t, gripped by a foreign helplessness when I’m usually decisive. Then to make matters worse she opened the door, I took one look at her wan face and a surge of protectiveness made me hold her, wanting to do anything to make things better for her.

  I’m not that guy.

  I can’t be any woman’s fucking hero.

  So I dragged my sorry ass up here, drew the anchor and we’re moving again. The faster we get to the other island, the best vantage for Gem Island, the better.

  I hear a footfall behind me, followed by a murmured, ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’ I will myself not to turn, waiting for her to climb the few steps up to the bridge.

  Like the bastard I am, I studiously avoid looking at her, still shaken by my feelings back in the cabin.

  ‘Why the hell did you run back there?’ She sounds confused rather than angry, with just a hint of uncertainty. It’s like a slug to the gut all over again.

  ‘I thought you needed time to recover,’ I say, brusque to the point of rudeness.

  ‘Bullshit.’

  God, I love her boldness.

  ‘Leave it alone,’ I grit out. She’ll think I’m a selfish prick, treating her with disdain after great sex. Then again, I should be glad to alienate her considering how out of sorts I’m feeling.

  ‘The hell I will,’ she snaps, her signature brashness making me smirk. ‘And what’s so damn funny?’

  ‘I’m a dick and you don’t hold back in calling me out on it.’ I risk a glance at her and she’s frowning, but colour has returned to her cheeks.

  When she made an odd sound on the bed I thought it was excitement for more, until I took one look at her sickly green face. I was seasick the first time Pa took me out on the yacht so I know the signs. I wanted to make it easier for her because I know how shitty it felt, that’s all, but my urge to protect has made me feel off kilter ever since.

  ‘At least you acknowledge you’re a dick.’ She sounds begrudgingly admiring but is still frowning.

  ‘I’m in this for the fuck-fest, I’ve made that more than clear. If you’re expecting hearts and flowers crap, it’s not me.’

  Her eyebrow arch is signature. ‘You think I’ll be scared off because you’re an emotionless drone?’

  ‘Just saying it how it is.’

  She makes a cute snorting sound. ‘You don’t need to spell out we’re just sex, I know that.’ Her eyes sparkle with mischief. ‘But FYI, holding me after I’ve barfed may be misconstrued as you actually having a heart.’

  ‘Don’t spread the news around.’

  My flippancy earns her first genuine smile since she came back on deck.

  But it fades all too soon. ‘Seriously, I get it. This is a fling. Nothing more. But it’s inevitable we’re going to bond a little beyond the obvious.’ She shoots a pointed look at my groin and my dick hardens. ‘So don’t freak out when it happens. Because it will. And I want to have more of that sensational sex and you going all strong and silent isn’t helping.’

  Damn, I admire her bluntness. She’s the female version of me.

  ‘Bonding isn’t my style but yeah, you’re right. We’re working together, we’re fucking, it’s bound to happen.’

  The corners of her mouth twitch when I add, ‘Just don’t go getting any ideas.’

  ‘Like what? That you might actually care beneath that frosty exterior?’

  ‘Hey, watch it, all this sentimental crap is making me want to
barf and we both can’t be fighting for the porcelain bowl.’

  She laughs as I intend. ‘There must be other toilets on this floating palace.’

  ‘They’re called heads on a marine vessel.’

  A slow blush steals across her cheeks. ‘Speaking of head...damn, you’re good at it.’

  Her sense of humour kills me as much as the rest of her. She’s so goddamn addictive and I’m in serious trouble. Because, despite my protestations that I don’t bond, we already have. First the phenomenal sex, then my urge to hold her. Emotions are for saps and I turned mine off a long time ago.

  Focussing on sex is more my style. ‘I can’t wait to get you on dry land.’

  ‘Why wait?’ She bats her eyelashes. ‘I’m fine while the boat is moving, I just can’t lie down.’

  ‘And who’s going to steer?’ I lower my voice. ‘Because trust me, babe, when I’m deep inside you, as you well know, I want all my focus on you.’

  I watch her throat convulse in a swallow. ‘Okay.’

  We fall silent but it’s comfortable. Another surprise, because when I date women all they want to do is talk when we’re not fucking, incessant chatter for the hell of it; endless inane questions that do my head in. It’s why I don’t usually date the same woman twice. Because after one date they feel entitled to delve and I don’t want that.

  If I wanted some woman to stick her nose into my business twenty-four-seven I’d get married.

  Never going to happen.

  When the silence stretches to five minutes I risk a quick sideways glance, sorry I did. She has her face tilted to the sun, eyes closed, a small secretive smile playing about her mouth. A woman enjoying the day on a beautiful yacht under the perfect Queensland sun, a beguiling mix of angel and vixen, like she knows something I don’t.

  Lust slams me like a punch to the jaw, ferocious and startling, before the inevitable emptiness sets in. I can’t want her this much. I don’t want to know what’s behind that smile. I won’t get too attached to my island fuck-buddy.