Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  “Pick a different name,” Declan orders through clenched teeth.

  “Would you like to choose? I will make an immediate order and inform the staff.”

  “Can’t be Jacoby,” I muse. “And certainly not Coffin.”

  “Tapas,” Declan announces.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Tapas?” I gasp.

  “Make it so,” he dictates to Mr. Miyadori, who nods and leaves, departing with apologies and assurances that all form a blur in our minds.

  “Mrs. Raleigh!” I whoop.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “And now I’m Mrs. Tapas?”

  He looks at my shirt. “Not yet.”

  Even I have to laugh at that.

  He doesn’t smile, the smoldering look enough to make me reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head, a warm breeze tickling my bare skin at the perfect moment.

  “I love watching your skin react in real time,” he says, just observing me. I feel vulnerable, but not awkward. He’s my husband. If you can’t be naked and fully seen in every possible way with your soul mate, then when do you become real? This is it. The big time. He walks toward me, and I step into his space, expecting more.

  Yet he holds back.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  I stroke a slash of chocolate on my belly. “Minty fresh, too.”

  He doesn’t smile, eyes narrowing into green slivers, his thick, dark brow full of authority and contemplation.

  “Shannon, I—”

  Tap tap tap.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he groans, deflating and expanding at the same time. “Who is it?”

  “Bottle service, sir. And fine cheeses.”

  My stomach rumbles. Sounds exactly like the sound Declan makes right now.

  He looks at the door.

  Looks at my bare breasts.

  Door.

  Breasts.

  My stomach votes. It’s like Brexit; does he tell the guy to remain or leave?

  “Come in,” he says with a sigh, waving me into the bathroom, where I wiggle into my filthy purple shirt.

  A beaming staff member rolls in a room service tray with enough cheese for a fromagerie.

  “Mr. and Mrs. McCormick! Allow me to—”

  Dec grabs the bottle of Gewürztraminer. “Thank you. We’re good.”

  The man panics. “But I have strict orders to air the wine and—”

  Shove.

  Click.

  Pressing his back against the door, Declan closes his eyes, weary. “I’m so glad we’re not being interrupted by the paparazzi,” he drones on.

  I chuckle, moving across the room, finding a piece of sheep’s milk manchego and a delicious slice of what looks like overripe cantaloupe. I shove both in my mouth, juice pouring out of the corner of my mouth.

  “Mmmm. What is this?” I point to the orange fruit. “Not cantaloupe.”

  He opens his eyes and follows my finger. “Papaya. Fresh.”

  “They make it fresh? I’ve only ever had it dried.”

  “That kind of papaya comes from a different tree, grown pre-dehydrated.”

  I toss a grape at his head. It pings off his forehead and back at me.

  He charges.

  “You’re going to pay for that.” Hot hands cup my breasts, the fruity taste of papaya mingling with his lips on mine.

  Tap tap tap.

  “GO AWAY!” we shout in unison.

  “Your couple’s massage appointment, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick? We are here with tables ready for your pleasure.”

  “My pleasure is under me, more than ready,” Declan says, banging his forehead gently on the tile floor.

  I’m torn.

  On the one hand, hot sex with Declan.

  On the other hand, a nice massage.

  No reason we can’t have both, right?

  “Let’s get the massage, and then we’ll be all oiled up and ready for slick sex,” I whisper, biting his earlobe. “So smooth, so slippery, like oily eels finding new ways to make everything fit.”

  He perks up, sitting on his knees like a prairie dog poking his head out of a hole. “I like how you think.”

  “I hope so. You’re stuck with my way of thinking for the next sixty years.”

  Declan kisses my cheek and strides across the room, opening the door to find two workers carrying massage tables, dressed in scrubs.

  “Come in,” he says, damn grumpy for a guy who’s about to get a luxury massage on the beach in Hawaii at night, under a beautiful star-filled sky. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter 6

  A shard of bright glass pierces my eye. Turns out sunlight can feel like a weapon if used in the right quantity and at just the right time. I roll over on my back, my neck cosseted by fine silk, goose feathers making my pillow perfectly lumpy. I’m naked, and smooth.

  So smooth.

  Why am I so smooth?

  And alone.

  “Dec?”

  Silence.

  “Declan?” Next to the bed, there is a tray with coffee in an insulated pitcher, cream, sparkling water, papaya and pineapple, and chunks of peeled coconut.

  Someone’s attended to my needs.

  Well, most of them.

  I do a mental check. Then a halfway physical one, reaching down, correlating what my mind knows with how my body feels.

  Nope. We did not have sex last night.

  So where’s my husband?

  “Declan?” I sit up, plump pillows behind me, and pour some coffee and cream. The aroma arouses me before I even take a sip, the rich, resonant tones of Kona coffee playing across my tongue like I’m royalty.

  I’m suddenly way more interested in that Kona coffee plantation visit.

  I look on Declan’s mussed side of the bed. The sheets are stained with little oil streaks. Given how slippery I am, I imagine my half of the bed is the same.

  I remember the massages we had, next to each other.

  And then—nothing.

  Did I fall asleep? How did I get in bed? I tent the covers. Huh. Panties. All I’m wearing is panties.

  Which is what I wore when I crawled onto the massage table.

  “Declan?”

  Nothing.

  It’s not as if I’m suffering. Might as well make the best of it. I start picking up pieces of fruit in twos and threes, alternating bites between thick swallows of this delightful coffee. A strong breeze whips through the open wall, bringing a few flower blossoms, a palm frond dancing on the wind. The sun isn’t in my eyes now, but it’s illuminating everything, giving the powerful surf a strong glow.

  By now, I assumed I’d be sore from so much sex I’d be begging for a break. Instead, I’m drinking coffee and chewing my way through breakfast with a part of my body throbbing so hard it might as well have a beeping alarm attached to it whenever I step backwards.

  “Where the hell is my husband?” I mutter.

  A white and blue bird with a red head hops to the edge of our villa, making eye contact with me. I stare. It stares back. I sip my coffee.

  It leaves.

  I’ve had more intimate eye contact with that bird than I have with my husband.

  Smoothing the sheets around me, I sigh. Morning sex with Declan is the best. The best. Long before the busy brain kicks in with checklists and notes and hyper-prioritization and optimization, the versions of ourselves we encounter in that first reach-over run on pure instinct. Still deep in our bodies, we are arms and legs, abs and thighs, tongues and kisses, moving against each other without words, until a hoarse cry of ecstasy reminds us we can speak.

  Beg.

  Direct.

  I whimper, the sound lost to the wind, the bird on a tree branch now, which shimmers, palm fronds weaving like drunken soccer fans after a World Cup final. Sweet morning sex is lost already. It’s not the same if one of us comes back to bed.

  We only have six more mornings like this.

  Tomorrow, I’ll tie him to the bed so he can’t leave.

 
; Or, you know, maybe he’ll tie me up.

  It could go either way.

  I’m flexible.

  Surprisingly flexible.

  The door opens and in walks Declan, wearing a soaked t-shirt, a sweaty semi-circle ringing his neck. His lightweight soccer shorts barely cover the rippling muscles of his legs as he jumps on the bed, kicking his shoes off by the heels, giving me a hot, wet, sweat-soaked kiss that doesn’t quite make up for his absence, but it comes close.

  And so do I.

  Pulling him to me, I spread my legs so his thigh is between them, my hips grinding into him, the pressure against my core exactly what I need as his mouth slants against mine, tunneling through layers of existential knowing that can only be unlocked through touch.

  There you are, I think.

  And here I am.

  Tap tap tap.

  “What. The. Hell?” Declan murmurs, mouth still against mine. I have both hands under his sweat-soaked shirt, the hard lines of his muscled back coiled with exertion.

  “Ignore them.”

  “They’re like cockroaches!”

  I flinch, looking at the floor, curling my feet up against my ass involuntarily. “They don’t have those here, do they?” Dad and Mom took us to Florida once when I was a kid. The “palmetto bugs” were just enormous versions of cockroaches.

  “Not really. The only major invasive pests we have to worry about are fire ants, according to some of the resort reports I’ve read. And they spray regularly for those, so.” He frowns. “But this whole ‘going the extra mile’ in service is killing me.”

  “Tell them to stop.”

  “I have. I ordered them to stop. They don’t believe me. They’re convinced because you’re here, that we’re engaged in some covert mystery shopping thing.”

  “Me?”

  “Miyadori doesn’t seem to get that I mean it when I want them to back off.”

  Knock knock knock.

  “Mr. and Mrs. McCormick? I am here with your chocolate and lobster buffet.”

  I whimper again.

  For a different reason.

  “A portable chocolate and lobster buffet? Just for us? What are we—on a cruise ship?”

  “S.S. Shannon, prepare to be boarded,” I joke.

  He shoots me a vicious look. “The only thing boarding you is food and massage therapists.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We haven’t had sex since we got here!”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “You fell asleep last night.”

  “You could have woken me up with morning sex!”

  “I couldn’t. The yoga instructor got here first. My head was under the covers, about to assume a porny position, when our personal asana tutor appeared.”

  “What?” I hiss. “Is that why you’re so sweaty?”

  “No. I got rid of her and went for a run.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?” I can’t keep the whine out of my voice.

  His eyes go shifty. Declan doesn’t do shifty.

  “You worked!”

  “Did not.”

  “You had a meeting!”

  “Did...okay, yes. Over coffee. More like a coffee gathering. I wouldn’t call it a meeting...”

  Knock knock knock.

  I jump up, grab a robe, and throw it on. Flinging open the door, I point to the kitchen area.

  Frank the staffer smiles at me. “Aloha, Mrs. McCormick!”

  “There better be some damn fine chocolate in there.”

  His eyes go round.

  “Let me get the burners started for the fondue.”

  I soften. “Fondue?”

  “And the homemade sea salt caramel marshmallows for the Mayan hot chocolate.”

  I give Declan a helpless look. His hands are planted on his hips, churning out testosterone at a healthy clip. Tongue rolling in his cheek, he looks like he has a wad of chew in there.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, frowning.

  “This is what the cheery yoga instructor was like,” Declan says through gritted teeth. “They’re all so damn nice.”

  “How dare they!”

  “It’s obscene.”

  Frank takes a series of decorated chocolates and stacks them, like Zen rocks, until there’s a perfect balance of color and rich cocoa that looks like a game of Jenga.

  Then he pulls out a camera.

  “Excuse me?” Declan coughs. “What’s this?”

  “Oh! We’re recording your personal culinary experience. At the end of your stay with us, the photos will be available in your personal cloud storage, and a print book of highlights—carefully curated by the resort’s Director of Photographic Authenticity—will be shipped to you, signed by each member of the staff and any transient guests with whom you shared a deep moment.”

  “The only deep moment I want involves your body,” Declan mutters to me. He said that a tad too loud.

  “Um, sir?” The look Frank gives him says he’s really not okay with sharing his body with Declan, but if the job requires it...

  “Nothing. Just talking to my bride.”

  “What’s the fondue for? The marshmallows?”

  “And the lobster.”

  “You dip lobster in chocolate?” Declan and I say in unison, my voice carrying a tone of marvel, his revulsion.

  “New trend. Our lead chef invented it.”

  “The Premenstrual Kitchen, coming soon, from Anthony Bourdain,” Declan whispers.

  Frank really looks disturbed. He gives Declan a look I’ve only ever seen used on my mom.

  “Is there anything else I can do, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick?”

  “Yeah. Leave.”

  I know I didn’t say that, because I’m dipping a lobster tail in the fondue before Frank’s hand is even on the doorknob.

  “Why are we getting a special buffet like this for breakfast?” I mumble around the gooey, stringy, tender perfection in my mouth.

  Declan gives me a sour look. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

  I would gag, but that would be a waste of perfectly amazing lobster. “Oh,” I finally choke out.

  “You slept for a long time.” His anger starts to fade. “You needed it, after what happened yesterday. How are you?”

  “Filthy.”

  “Attagirl.” He kisses me, licking chocolate off my mouth. “Mmm. Good thing neither of us has a shellfish allergy.”

  “Bite your tongue!”

  “How about I bite yours?”

  He does. I giggle. He lets go, looking me up and down.

  “We’re both filthy.”

  “Mmmm.” I can’t talk over the second bite.

  “We need showers.”

  “Mmmph?”

  He’s in the bathroom, turning on the spray, before I can form words. I am coated in sweat and massage oil and melted chocolate minty mess. A shower would improve matters dramatically.

  So would sex.

  “Sex first, shower second?” I suggest, eyeing his jogging shorts, which currently look like he’s hiding a cricket bat in there.

  “How about shower sex first, bed sex second?”

  “Always the optimizer.”

  Declan’s phone buzzes.

  He cringes.

  “Your phone is on?”

  “We agreed to this before, Shannon. I wouldn’t work, but you’d let me leave the phone on.”

  Then Grace’s ringtone fills the air. It’s a Melissa Etheridge song I can’t place right now.

  He makes a strange grimace. “If she’s calling, there’s a glitch.”

  “Our entire honeymoon so far has been a glitch! A glitch you haven’t been able to scratch! A swollen, blue glitch! Please don’t answer that.”

  “I have to.”

  “Please, Declan.”

  We breathe, facing off, like two worthy generals in battle, at a crossroads where the only choice left is a poor one.

  Knock knock knock.

  “Mr. McCormick?” It’s Mr.
Miyadori. “I know this is unusual, but we have a code red situation on site and could use your counsel. It is a convenient blessing that you’re present.”

  I start banging my head against the wall. “Convenient.”

  Declan closes his eyes, the gesture one of regret, the look someone in an action movie has on their face as they decide to be an astronaut on the assuredly-fatal mission to save Earth. The look my mother gets when she realizes the fifty-percent-off sale at the thrift shop only applies to yellow tags and she’s got a bunch of red-tag clothes in her arms.

  You know that look.

  “We need to leave,” I declare. “Go home.” I’m bitter. Too bitter, and dejected, and all the feelings you’re not supposed to experience on your honeymoon are rising up in me, vibrating at different speeds, making me shake.

  “No,” Declan rasps. “I’m not giving up on our honeymoon. We’ve come too far. I just need one minute—”

  “If you hold up your finger to get me to wait, I’ll break it off and shove it up your—”

  He kisses me before I can finish the threat.

  Then again, if I did that, he’d be getting more action than we’ve had since we arrived here.

  “Give me twenty minutes. Whatever’s going on can be solved that fast. They’re just taking advantage of my being here.”

  I pull out the nuclear option, saying the one threat that might make him change course. “If you’re not back here in twenty minutes, I’m masturbating.”

  Declan was already opening the door when I say that, so the words ring out as Mr. Miyadori’s in mid-bow. He remains in mid-bow, poised there, trapped in time.

  I wouldn’t want to look up and make eye contact with me right now, either.

  Declan’s eyebrows meet his hair line, tongue against the line of his upper teeth, mouth open in surprise. He gives my body a crawling look of appreciation.

  I sprint into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

  I do not masturbate, because hope springs eternal.

  Clean and shampooed, groomed and shaved, I emerge from the bathroom thirty minutes later.

  To an empty room.

  And an endless supply of chocolate and lobster buffet.

  Chapter 7

  You ever attend a luau alone? It’s not fun. At all. By dinnertime, all I have is a text from Declan that says, On conference call with legal. Turns out half the landscaping staff are undocumented immigrants, and our rivals turned it into a page one story. Sorry. Will be back by nine.