by Julia Kent
Nine comes and goes.
Declan’s just gone.
Where are you? I text again, giving the luau dancers a weak smile and another round of applause. The performances are impeccable. The food is fabulous. The atmosphere is romantic and relaxed, couples enjoying each other, holding hands, sharing bottles of wine.
And I’m staring at the roasting pig like he has my husband’s face.
Still in meetings. Almost done.
We need to go home, I text back. This is ridiculous. I want sex.
They won’t leave us alone! he replies. Might as well work.
If all you’re going to do on our honeymoon is work, I reply, then we might as well go home so we can have sex!
He doesn’t reply.
That’s it.
I call Grace.
“Hi, Shannon. What’s he done now?”
Grace is Declan’s second mother. Sure, she’s his executive assistant, too, and she practically runs his life, but more than any other role, she’s a mother hen.
“He won’t stop working.”
“Tell me about it. I was supposed to have a light week. Jeannie and I are celebrating our fifth anniversary in P-town and at this rate, she’ll divorce me.”
“I’m pretty close to getting an annulment.”
She laughs. “You can’t do that. You guys already had sex.”
I stay silent.
“Oh, no! Oh, honey—is that the problem?”
“Well, we only had sex once. Ok, twice.” I frown, recalling details. “Well... not enough!” I fume.
“What’s going on?”
“The resort management is sucking up to us. Couple’s massages and cheese courses and chocolate and lobster lunch buffets.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” Grace has a master’s degree in Sarcasm, with a minor in Boo Hoo.
“This isn’t remote enough,” I hiss to Grace. “I need someplace where there are no cell phone towers. No cell phones. No way for him to communicate with the outside world at all.”
“You need a serial killer’s lair.”
“YES!”
“That wasn’t a serious suggestion, Shannon.”
“But it would work!”
Silence.
And then I swear I hear her mutter, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” but that can’t be right.
“Let me see what I can do,” she says in that clipped, officious voice she uses when it’s time to get down to business. A man with three flaming spears walks by, oiled up and impressively muscular, making my mouth water.
I wonder what Declan would look like in that?
“Can you get him outside?” Grace asks. “Pretend you’re doing a helicopter volcano tour?”
“Pretend?” Maybe if I act like the volcano has coffee growing in it, I’ll have a shot.
“I have a plan.”
“You have a plan? We haven’t been on the phone for twenty seconds, Grace, and you already have a plan involving a helicopter escape?”
“You and Declan set a precedent for that, Shannon.”
Ha ha.
“Do you trust me?”
“To unwind Declan from his workaholism? Yes.”
“Then get him to the heliport tomorrow morning. Ten a.m.”
“Great. And don’t say a word to James. Please.”
She snorts. “As if I talk to him at all.”
“He’s the one turning our lives into one big free PR junket.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be your wingwoman.”
My throat goes dry. “Uh...”
Deep, throaty laughter is all I hear before the line goes dead.
* * *
At three a.m. I hear the door creak open, and Declan crawls into bed. I ate so much roast pig I feel like one myself. The last thing I want is sex.
I play possum.
He shakes me gently. Lovingly.
I get nauseated from the movement, like I’m seasick.
He tries. He does. Five times.
Finally, he sighs and gives up, curling behind me.
And I don’t know what to do.
Tears pool in my eyes, silently soaking the sheets.
By the time I roll over, ready to talk, he’s snoring lightly, face angelic in the moonlit night.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper. “I swear.”
Chapter 8
Room service bangs on our door at eight a.m. I get up and shower, a familiar tightness in my lower abs.
No.
No no no no no.
I knew that lobster dipped in chocolate tasted a little too good.
I google “how to delay your period.” Oh, sure. Every bit of advice involves advanced planning. If I could have planned in advance, I wouldn’t be googling now, would I?
I shake my fist at the sky. This would be a perfect time for thoughts and prayers. Which, for the record, do not appear on the list of ways you can delay your period.
They did work in college a few times for people who were hoping to get theirs, though.
Ignoring the pending signs, I suck down my Mayan mocha and look at the clock. 8:45 a.m. Maybe a well-timed little something before—
Bzzz.
Damn it.
That’s my phone.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Shannon?” It’s Grace. “There’s a storm coming, and we need to move the helicopter flight up to 9:30 a.m.”
I look at Dec in a panic. He’s rolling over, doing that stretchy thing that makes his perfectly-sculpted calf peek out from under the wrinkled sheets. Man, do I want to lick him.
“Lick what?” Grace asks.
Oh, shoot. Said that out loud.
“Lick the storm!” Lame. I know. “What about packing?”
“I’ll have staffers do it. Just get to the helipad by 9:30 a.m.”
“Got it.”
“Wha’s up?” Declan’s rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Volcano tour!” I chirp, turning away as a cramp seizes me. I close my eyes and do a Kegel, as if that will help. My uterus isn’t a hose I can fold in half, after all.
“Volcano what?”
“Resort staffers can’t find you there. I get you to myself. And remember that one time, when we—”
He perks up. “You’d give me one on the helicopter?”
I smile sweetly. “As long as we’re there by 9:30, we can do whatever you want.”
Never seen him move that fast before. Fifteen minutes later, he’s combing his wet hair, throwing on a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and Birks, stuffing a chocolate croissant in his mouth.
“Ready?”
He swallows, puts down the comb, and reaches for me.
“I am so sorry about yesterday.”
I try to pretend it’s fine.
I fail.
“We have five more days,” he assures me. “Legal’s got the mess under control. You are my priority now. No more—”
Tap tap tap.
Right.
He opens the door to find Mr. Miyadori there.
“Mrs. McCormick?” He winks at me, stepping aside, sweeping his arm out in a gesture of welcome. “Your helicopter is ready. The car service is downstairs in the private driveway for our very special guests.”
Declan’s eyes dart between me and Mr. Miyadori, who takes on a professional look.
“Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand. He pulls me in for a very friendly hug, kissing both cheeks, and on one of the kisses whispers, “We have staffers packing the instant you leave, and the other helicopter will deliver your belongings.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
He smiles. We leave, climbing into a Land Rover. The driver points out sights of interest along the drive, but Declan and I are lost in each other, making out like high school kids on their first date in Dad’s car with the big backseat.
Not that I’d know anything about that.
The Anterdec helicopter is there, ready and waiting. I have no idea who the pilot is, and as long as
he doesn’t speak Russian, I don’t care.
“Where are we going?”
“Volcano tour.”
“Shannon.” His look says, I don’t believe you.
My look back says, You want that blow job?
He stops with the skepticism. Instantly.
“Don’t worry. I arranged everything.”
“That’s exactly why I should worry."
“We are,” I say, words sprinkled between kisses, “going to be exactly where we need to be.”
“Stunt people for a new Castaway movie?”
“Just don’t mistake me for Wilson.”
He stares at my breasts. “I can see how that could happen.”
I laugh.
“Last time we flew in a helicopter, we were escaping your mother.”
“This time we’re escaping Anterdec staff.”
“I’ll take my own employees over Marie any day.”
I punch him.
He kisses me.
Fair exchange.
I have no idea where we’re going, but I trust Grace. I have to.
It’s not like I have a choice.
“Fifteen-minute flight, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick. A quick jump.”
Declan frowns. “That’s too short!”
“Huh?”
“There’s not time for—you know.” He looks down at his groin.
“Where we’re going, there’s plenty of time for so much more.”
“Really?” He perks up. I rest my palm on his thigh and slide up and in. Oh, yeah. He’s ready.
“Oh, yes.”
“I’m not sure I can wait,” he confesses.
“Oh,” I say sweetly. “Don’t worry.”
And then I hold up one finger as the helicopter pilot starts the lift.
For fifteen minutes, I tease him over his Bermuda shorts until Bermuda has grown from a tiny island to a continent with an awfully large peninsula jutting out.
“Tease,” he hisses in my ear.
“What do you think you were yesterday! I’m more a Smurf now than when I was covered in airplane toilet water!”
“What?”
“Women get blue...you know...too.”
“Do not.”
“Do too!” I shout over the chopper sounds. “It builds up.”
“There’s nothing to build up. Guys have semen. Women just...”
“Have orgasms.”
“And that’s not fair, either,” he says, clearing his throat as if I’ve committed some grave offense.
“What’s not fair?”
“You get more than one.”
“More than one...”
Oh.
That.
I give him a big smile.
“Beginning descent,” the pilot cuts in, his voice clearly filled with restrained laughter.
I look at Declan’s headpiece. I reach up and touch mine.
Oh, damn.
We’ve been on global microphone the entire time.
The landing involves zero eye contact as we climb off the helicopter, onto a cement helipad right off the beach. It’s morning, a crystal-clear sky where the blue deepens as you go up from the horizon.
“Mr. and Mrs. McCormick,” says a young man who can’t be more than eighteen, with closely cropped dark hair and a face covered with moles. He has warm brown eyes and wears an outfit nearly identical to Declan’s. “I am David. My instructions are to take you directly to your quarters, and to respond to requests, but otherwise provide you with privacy.”
“What is this place?” Declan looks around in marvel. There are about ten hut houses along the beach, a huge zero-entry pool, a poolside bar, and...
Nothing else.
David looks at me. “Should I answer that?”
Declan gives him a WTF? look, then shines it on me like a searchlight.
“Excuse me?” I gasp.
“Our instructions were to avoid all discussion of business.”
Declan’s mouth tightens. He’s about to argue.
I reach for his hand. “Business later. Personal first.” I rub my hip against his. He looks down at me, jaw still grinding, but he nods exactly once.
And I lead him by the hand to our quarters.
Five minutes later, we’re alone, a tenth of a mile from the next hut house, every luxury at our fingertips.
Including the luxury of privacy.
Money can’t buy happiness.
But it can buy you space. Sometimes it can buy you time.
And if you’re lucky, it buys you freedom.
Chapter 9
The hut is a sex palace.
Not really, but we’re turning it into one, with each piece of clothing shed, each rasping kiss, every light and hard touch. No one’s around. No one will interrupt. No cell service. No Bluetooth. No laptops, no corded phones, nothing but us.
The island has all the conveniences of modern civilization, but they’re in the main resort building, a quarter mile away, which is just enough distance to make sure I’m Declan’s focal point.
And he is mine.
“Finally,” he says, the word rubbing against my neck like a spell he intones, his lips making their way up, tongue trailing down the curve of my ear, my shiver pushing blood from my pulsing heart through every part of me, quickening.
Sex isn’t about sex any more. It’s not about getting off, or turning into beasts who use friction to meet some biological destiny. It’s not about scratching an itch, or calibrating power balance.
It’s about creating that small, sacred space between the two of us where no one else may enter. For all time, there is this experience that only Declan and I share. No one else. Even if I tell someone—Amanda, or Amy—about the mechanics and emotions of this intimate act, it’s a poor copy of the truth. Because no one can recreate the exact dynamics of stroke and whisper between us. No one can know how it feels in my heart when our eyes meet, the trigger of impulse and relief that comes when we kiss, the cascade of pleasure that comes from a delicate timing that we invent as we go along.
“Finally,” I reply, my face buried in his shoulder as we embrace, fully nude, moving slow. As my hands slide up under his arms and find his shoulder blades, my biceps press against the hard ridge of his ribs, the soft against solid generating heat. Belly to belly, we kiss, letting all our skin say hello. I look up, his hands resting on the top of my ass, not pressing—just there—as my breasts flatten against his chest, thighs settling between each other, bodies working to find that puzzle-piece fit that gives this moment its own unique stamp.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Me, too.”
“It’s only been two days. I was between your legs on the plane. I can still taste you, Shannon, but it’s not enough.” He lifts my hair from my neck, letting a warm breeze stroke the back of my neck before moving the strands back, opening the lines of my throat for a kiss.
“I want you everywhere,” I whisper back as he licks the hollow, hands roaming, finding ways to claim me.
“Everywhere,” he echoes, until my heated pulse finds its home where he needs to be, and I’m on the bed, Declan between my legs, hands under my hips, lifting me up for the perfect angle.
And I disappear into this haven we create whenever we’re alone, together, and truly present. He is superb, his mouth finding me where I ache, and it doesn’t take long. Knowing my pleasure, my release, is his singular focus as I thread my fingers in his hair, feel his shoulders with the backs of my thighs, appreciate the fine mastery of hands that want to touch and tease and connect for the pure sake of knowing me fully—I shatter.
I shatter, and let him see me in pieces. Let him feel my body clench and release, pulse and collapse, moan and cry out with the sensitive nakedness of wearing yourself inside out.
And trusting the other person with your exposed, beating heart, offered like a sacrifice.
His breath against my inner thigh makes me hold mine, letting aftershocks run through me, his palm reaching up, up my torso, snaki
ng across my belly and ribs, up to find and cup a breast, his fingertips knowing my body so well.
Yet always a student.
“This is why I married you,” I tell him, looking down, unashamed as his face comes into full view below the curve of my belly, a wicked grin on those exquisite lips.
“For my tongue? Not my net worth?”
“As far as I’m concerned, your tongue is your net worth.”
He prowls up, erection dragging along my thighs, teasing at my V, then coming up my navel, brushing against my ribs as he bends on knees and kisses me, a lush connection without self-consciousness, without rules. He’s dark. I’m fairer. He’s bold. I’m contemplative. He’s self-assured. I’m still finding my way.
And yet we fit.
A small smile plays on my lips as he kisses me, the movement enough to make him break away and look at me. These green eyes are fully present, the flecks of color spectacular, like a miniature fireworks display in an iris. Declan searches my face, saying nothing.
We don’t need words right now.
Minutes pass. Perhaps hours—who knows? Where we are, together, has no clock. Marking time isn’t a ritual in this space between us.
Measuring love is, though.
Potentiating love. Making love grow.
Without asking, without needing permission, without conscious thought, I rest back and pull him to me, my thighs slick with my own response to him, with his ministrations, and in the moment he enters me, the space extends. Expands. My arms wrap around him as he fills me, a powerful urge building, a healing impulse that sets a charge between us.
“I never knew I could feel this,” he says, eyes locked on mine, moving above me. The interplay between our constant visual connection and his movements fuels so much more.
“Neither did I.”
“No, Shannon. I mean I had no idea—” He stops, closing his eyes, rolling his hips, the sound of his restrained inhale making my blood tingle. “No idea this was here, with you, waiting to be found.”
“I feel like all the years before I met you were just practice for living my real life, Declan.”
“And I feel like I find the missing pieces of myself I didn’t know were out there whenever we’re together, Shannon.”
