by Nicola Marsh
Stick to the plan, dickhead, and you’ll be fine.
I have to be.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Daisy
I CAN’T LIE. I’m glad to be back on terra firma.
‘What do you think, landlubber?’
How does he do that, home in on exactly what I’m thinking yet again? He gestures at the stunning vista before us, squaring his shoulders in pride, like he manually constructed Gem Island by hand.
‘You’re right. This is the perfect spot to take pictures of the island for the revamped brochures and online advertising.’ I squint a little. ‘Though to be honest, it’s almost too picture perfect. Tourists will think all that cerulean ocean and lush greenery is digitally enhanced.’
‘Isn’t the whole point of PR to talk up the place so they come and see for themselves?’
‘Yeah, but this...’ I sigh, wishing I could be so lucky as to live and work here permanently. Hart has that opportunity but he can’t wait to escape. Madness. ‘It takes your breath away.’
‘I thought that was me.’
I chuckle. I love a dry sense of humour and he has one of the best when he lets his guard down, which isn’t often enough. ‘Keep telling yourself that, stud.’
‘I didn’t hear any complaints earlier,’ he murmurs, his deep voice so damn compelling I feel it all the way down to where he had his tongue buried on the boat.
‘I’ve praised you enough for that.’ I sound priggish and toss my hair for good measure.
He laughs, a genuine bellow that startles some parakeets out of a nearby palm tree. ‘You can never praise a guy enough for his prowess. We’re a bunch of egotistical Neanderthals that way.’
Enjoying our sparring more by the minute, I respond, ‘Well, just so you know, I don’t give praise lightly and there’s a lot of difference in prowess between Neanderthals.’
‘Then I’m flattered.’
‘You should be.’
His expression is relaxed, almost serene, and at complete odds with his perpetual glower. All this playful banter about him giving me the best head of my life has me focussing on his mouth and remembering...
‘You’re easy to read, you know that?’
I drag my eyes from his mouth to find him staring at me, wild-eyed, like he did back on the boat right before we went down to the cabin.
‘So I’ve been told.’ I circle my face with a fingertip. ‘Open book here.’
‘We all have secrets,’ he says, eyeing me with an intensity that makes me want to tear off my clothes. ‘And I don’t give a shit. All I care about right now is fucking you.’
His husky response ripples over me like a physical caress and my skin pebbles. My nipples are tight peaks, begging for attention. But I know it can’t be all about me, not this time.
I glance around the secluded slice of beach hugging the south side of this tiny island. He moored at a jetty about a mile away and we walked along a rough-hewn rocky path between lush, jungle-like foliage to get here. It’s uninhabited, owned by some preservation society determined to protect islands in the Whitsundays.
I’ve never been gladder for the conservationist cause because if we’re alone in paradise I know exactly what to do.
‘Come with me.’ I grab his hand and tug on it. An eyebrow rises but he lets me drag him higher up the beach towards the tree line.
When we reach the shade of the palms, I glance around one last time, nerves making me second-guess this wild decision. But we’re completely alone and unless there are some serious badass zoom lenses on a satellite far above, no one can see what I’m about to do.
‘What is it about island heat that makes me so damn horny?’ He doesn’t answer my rhetorical question as I release his hand and reach for his zipper, his eyes wide, his expression solemn.
‘Fuck,’ he mutters as I lower his zip carefully, delighting in his tortured expression.
This is going to be fun. I undo the top button of his shorts, then slide my hand inside his jocks.
Velvet steel. Soft and hard. Perfect.
He moans as I take his cock out and kneel. The head brushes my cheek and I turn, swiping it with my tongue.
‘Fuck, Daisy...’
‘You will, later,’ I say, before taking him into my mouth.
He tastes salty, musky, delicious. I work my hand up and down his shaft in time with my mouth, an easy rhythm that makes me feel confident and empowered.
He starts to thrust and we work in sync, my tongue swirling while my hand pumps, over and over until he’s muttering incoherently.
It’s heady stuff, knowing I can make a commanding guy come undone. It’s incredibly empowering, and I squeeze and suck harder at the same time, relishing his moans.
‘Daisy...’ His cry is raw as he comes in a hot rush, followed by a long, drawn-out guttural groan that is so damn honest I feel like a queen.
I ease away and when I stand he’s staring at me like I’ve bestowed the greatest gift.
‘You are phenomenal.’ He cups my face, the intensity of his stare beginning to unnerve me.
Oddly bashful, I try not to squirm. ‘One good head deserves another.’
The corners of his mouth lift. ‘You’re mixing up your metaphors or analogies or whatever it is.’
‘I’d rather we continue to mix business with pleasure.’
I need to get away, to put some distance between us, because I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me.
Like I matter.
I got the message loud and clear on the boat: we’re sex, nothing more. He’s my sorbet. That’s it. Any bonding is superficial at best. I want it this way.
So why do I get the feeling that having scorching sex with this guy has the potential to lead to complications neither of us want?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hart
I’M IN SO much fucking trouble.
Drowning, in way over my head, and it’s got nothing to do with the water surrounding us as we head back to Gem Island.
Sex has served me well. Uncomplicated, no strings, a release. That’s what this thing with Daisy is supposed to be but the reality is getting...complicated.
I’ll take all the earth-shattering blowjobs she cares to dish out but I can’t deal with my irrational reaction whenever I’m near her.
Like a quickie isn’t enough.
The sex is phenomenal and that’s part of the attraction, I get it. But her feistiness in not copping my bullshit arouses me as much as her hot curves. And that’s not a good thing. Indulging in mutually satisfying sex is one thing; wanting to know more about her is quite another.
I can’t believe she confronted me after my freak out when I comforted her in the cabin. Worse, she knows we’ve bonded beyond the physical today despite all protestations to the contrary.
I can’t let her get too close. My head’s in the game about this being just sex, but is hers? She’s saying all the right things but I’m wary. I need to re-establish distance. So I’ve turned mute.
She’s abandoned me on the bridge in favour of taking a seat in the shade starboard. Said she wanted a nana nap, determined to stay vertical to do it after her earlier hurl. But I know better. She got tired of my silence. Hell, I’m sick of myself in this kind of mood.
Pa knew to leave me alone when I was like this. He never pushed or questioned, he respected my need for quiet. I should be thankful Daisy is the same, but I can’t help wonder what’s going on in that pretty head of hers.
Is she regretting hooking up with me?
Is she really okay with this casual arrangement?
Is she expecting more of today: more talk, more revelations, just more?
I need to maintain my distance for a while. Regain perspective. Ensure I’m hardened to the riot of uncharacteristic emotions whirling through me like a cyclone.
I usually don’t feel much of anything. I’m not emotionally stunted, I’m dead inside. I had to be, to cope with the horrors of my past. Feigning lack of interest worked with my first foster father, a sadistic bastard who forced me to call him Dad, when enduring a beating with a metal rod or being flayed with a whip, the only way to survive was to detach myself. It soon became a habit.
My next foster family was uninterested rather than nasty and my last was great, but by then I was thirteen and already closed off.
Only Pa got through to me and that was because he was as bull-headed as me: he never gave up. He pushed until I had no option but to let him in. But now he’s gone and it’s all too easy to revert to what I know best: disengaging.
As we dock at Gem Island’s marina it has to start now. I ignore her as I kill the engine and tie up, only acknowledging her presence when I give her a hand up onto the dock.
‘Thanks.’ She shoots me a tentative smile and I glimpse confusion in her eyes.
She must think I’m a crackpot; my moods swing that erratically. I don’t care. I need to do this. Self-preservation has always come first for me.
‘Will I see you tonight?’
I hate how my first response is ‘hell yeah’ so I say the exact opposite. ‘Sorry, I’ve got a shitload of work to do after skiving today.’
‘Understood.’ She pins me with an astute stare. ‘Before I set up the online media profiles, I need to clarify one thing.’
Relieved she’s reverted to professional, I say, ‘What’s that?’
‘What to include in your bio.’ She hesitates, before tilting her chin up. ‘You didn’t respond earlier when I mentioned your charity work with kids—’
‘I don’t want any of that mentioned,’ I snap, feeling like a bastard when she recoils. ‘Focus on the hotels, that’s it. My work with foster kids is off-limits, got it?’
‘Fine.’ But it’s not. Her jaw clenches and her eyes shoot daggers. ‘I’ll get the staff profiles done and I’ll organise the photographer to get across to that island tomorrow.’
‘You do that.’
I feign lack of interest to prevent her asking further questions I’d rather not answer and predictably she draws her shoulders back like she’s preparing for battle. But I don’t want to fight. I want to be left the hell alone so I don’t do something I’ll regret—like blurt out exactly how much I want her but without all the accompanying complications.
‘I get that you’re not a people person.’ She folds her arms and glares at me with contempt. ‘But if my research is correct and you do spend time with kids, they smell bullshit a mile away. So that means you’re just rude and tetchy around me. And you know what my response to that is?’
Before I can berate her for mentioning the kids again, she flips me the bird and stalks away, leaving me filled with admiration and clamping down on the urge to run after her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Daisy
I HAVE A lot of work to do. Emails to answer, final approvals on campaigns to be given. However, when I get back to my villa, I head straight for the shower.
I need to wash off the day.
If only memories could be as easily soaped and slicked away as the sweat clinging to my skin in this infernal humidity. But I can’t get bloody Hart out of my head. He’s the most infuriating, boorish, moody guy I’ve ever met.
I still want him more than ever.
Flipping off a client isn’t the smartest thing to do but I was so mad on the dock I could’ve easily shoved him into the water and hoped he choked on a lungful of it.
He can be so attentive one minute and a frosty asshole the next. I’d like to say I’m done but that would make me a liar. I want more of the mind-blowing sex and his talented tongue. I just need to get my head around the fact he’s an irritable jerk and focus on the physical stuff.
I can do this.
Besides, sorbet isn’t always sweet. It can be tart and edgy but in the end it achieves the same result: leaving the palate cleansed. Hart is my sorbet, so no more shared confidences or moments of intimacy. We have sex, we enjoy it, that’s it.
Humming a song about being a woman and being able to roar, I towel off and slip into my PJs. Room service as I work sounds perfect tonight. Staying in has the added bonus of not running into Hart and possibly strangling him despite my vow to view him as a giant, lickable scoop in a cone.
I deal with emails first. It takes thirty minutes and I only stop towards the end to order Moreton Bay bug ravioli and a deconstructed strawberry parfait. Considering I emptied my stomach contents on the yacht, I’m hoping it doesn’t take too long.
I’m absorbed in compiling a diplomatic response to Alf’s latest demands when there’s a knock on the door. My stomach growls in anticipation and I run towards it.
However, when I open it, I’m not served with ravioli and parfait.
I get sorbet instead.
‘What are you doing here?’
Hunger makes me grouchy and Hart’s taken aback at my less than cordial greeting. What did he expect, for me to throw out the welcome mat after the way he chastised me on the dock for asking a simple question?
‘Can I come in?’ he asks, but he’s not looking at my face. He’s checking out my attire and I resist the urge to put my hands on my hips and give a shimmy for good measure.
‘I’m not dressed for company,’ I say, sounding suitably snooty.
‘Get changed.’ That damnably kissable mouth quirks into a half-grin. ‘Or take them off.’
Heat arrows between my legs, damn him.
‘My PJs are staying on.’ I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. ‘Besides, I’m working.’
He’s still staring at my outfit. ‘Are those ice-cream cones?’
I shrug. ‘What can I say? I love the stuff.’
‘Sorbet in particular.’ His voice turns husky and I’m reminded by exactly how yummy he is.
‘You really have to go—’
‘But aren’t you hungry?’
I sigh and lean against the door. ‘I’m not in the mood for word games—’
‘I passed the waiter with your order and seeing as we were both headed in the same direction...’ He pulls a trolley out from behind the neatly trimmed hedge shielding one villa from another. ‘Your dinner.’
‘Bring it in please,’ I say begrudgingly, because I really am starving and the thing looks like it weighs a tonne. Even with his impressive biceps he struggles with manoeuvring it over the incline into the villa.
After he positions it near the desk, he turns to me. ‘Do I get a tip?’
‘Yeah, be good to your PR whiz.’
He gives me a lopsided smile. ‘I thought the PR whiz prefers it if I’m bad.’ He leans in closer and I grit my teeth against the urge to bury my face in his neck. ‘Very, very bad.’
‘Enough.’ I put up a hand. Like that’s going to stop him if he wants to come closer. ‘I’m mad at you.’
‘I know. And I deserve it.’ He shakes his head and his mouth downturns into its signature moue. ‘I came to apologise.’
I won’t make it easy for him, despite his hangdog expression. ‘How noble of you.’
He winces. ‘I’ve been a prick because it’s who I am and I don’t like getting personal and I’ve fucked this up badly.’
Okay, so his gut-honest declaration gets to me a little.
‘Just so you know, I’m not a fan of roller coasters. Never have been. They make me barf worse than stationary boats. So this temperamental thing you’ve got going on followed by lame-ass apologies?’ I make a slicing action across my neck. ‘I’ve had it up to here. It’s not going to cut it.’
His hangdog expression makes me want to hug him. ‘Yeah, I know. Can we talk?’
I shouldn’t waver. I should abandon talk altogether when it comes to this lunatic and focus on the physical. B
ut he’s staring at me with those big puppy eyes, practically pleading with me to hear him out, so I relent. I’m a wuss like that.
‘Fine.’ I shut the door and gesture to the comfy-cushioned cane sofa. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘I was way out of line when I snapped at you down on the dock in relation to my work with kids.’
‘Yeah, you were.’
I wait until he sits so I can sit opposite. The last thing I need is to have him too close on the sofa.
‘What I’m about to tell you is private and can’t appear anywhere in relation to the hotels, got it?’
I refrain from rolling my eyes at him for stating the obvious and settle for a nod.
‘I do a lot of behind the scenes work for foster kids around the world, setting up outreach centres so they have a safe place to go when needed.’
He glances away but not before I glimpse pain, the kind of soul-deep agony I have no hope of understanding. ‘It’s public knowledge I was a foster kid when Pa found me. He gave me so much that I like to pay it forward with other kids.’
He taps his chest. ‘I know what they’re going through because I’ve been there, done that. And I don’t need fucking praise from anybody for it, so that’s why I prefer to keep it private.’
There’s so much more he’s not telling me. I see it in the compressed lips, in the bunched shoulders, in the rigid neck. He’s hurting and it’s more than pity for the kids he empathises with.
But I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not going to push. I’m stunned he’s shared this much with me and for now it’ll have to do.
‘I hate having to explain myself to you...’ He shakes his head, his mouth so twisted it’s like I’m torturing him with nipple clamps. Not that I know what that’s like. I’ve heard. Online. As part of research for the PR I did on a sex-toy store. ‘We both know the score. We’re fucking, that’s it. But this just feels way too complicated.’
My heart sinks. ‘It doesn’t have to be.’
He waves his hand between us. ‘The fact I’m here apologising for my behaviour when I hate doing that is testament that this is more than sex.’
