Cocktails on the Beach

by Helen Hardt

  “Of course.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “You don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook, do you? You owe me a dance.”

  “Marlow?”

  “Fionn?” I draw his name out the way he does when he says mine.

  “I don’t want to be off the hook. Ever.”

  8

  Sex on the Beach

  The line of casually dressed twenty-somethings waiting to get into the club snakes around the side of the building. I’m wondering if the curse of the shite curry has carried over to the club, when Fionn wraps his arm around my waist and leads me to the front of the line. The bouncer greets Fionn by name and waves us inside. The club is packed with beautiful young things nursing overpriced beers. We make our way to the bar.

  “Whadya have?” he asks.

  “Surprise me,” I say.

  The bartender returns with a seltzer with lemon and an icy bottle of Irish cider. Fionn hands me the bottle, grabs my free hand, and leads me through the crowd. We find a free stool close to the stage. Fionn offers it to me, but I shake my head. He sits, and I position myself between his legs, leaning my back against his solid chest.

  Four guys take the stage, each carrying a different instrument. The singer has a sweet face and a shock of long, frizzy hair secured into a manbun, like Post Malone without the face tatts. He has a guitar strapped around his chest.

  The singer sits on a low stool, adjusts his guitar, and starts strumming the strings, playing the first chords of “Take Me to Church” by Hozier. His voice is soulful, haunted, like he’s lived a thousand lives. I’m mesmerized by it, by the way he pours feeling into every word, the way each note hangs in the air. The other musicians join in at the chorus and the song picks up tempo, transforming into something other than just another derivative cover. They reel through a dozen songs before jumping down from the stage to deafening applause. I’ve finished three ciders and am feeling a happy, warm buzz.

  The sweet-faced Post Malone doppelganger with the guitar comes over to us and Fionn stands up. They do one of those side bro hug things, slap each other on the back, and speak in a flurry of indecipherable Irish.

  “Marlow,” Fionn says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “This is one of my best mates, Cillian. Cillian, this is Marlow Donnelly.”

  “Hello, Cillian.” I hold out my hand. “I am in love with your voice. Love or lust, I haven’t decided which yet.”

  He swings his guitar to one side and grabs me in a big, sweaty bear hug. I laugh. I’ve heard the Irish believe there are no strangers, only future friends. Cillian is proving that stereotype true. We talk about music, the embarrassing political situation in America, and the best beaches on Ibiza. Cillian tells me about Fionn’s triumphs on a football pitch.

  “Your one is a legend in Clare. A legend, for fuck’s sake,” Cillian says, looking at me. “He holds loads of records.”

  I’m about to ask him which records when a gaggle of girls who were hanging back finally pluck up the courage to approach Cillian. One of them is wearing a T-shirt that reads, “I’m with the band.” It takes all of my self-control not to laugh out loud when she sticks out her chest like she’s a fembot about to fire bullets from her breasts. Cillian looks back over his shoulder at Fionn and waggles his eyebrows.

  A DJ takes over and the club is filled with an upbeat, sexy jam.

  “Come on.” Fionn grabs my hand and leads me to the dance floor. “They’re playing our song, love.”

  Fionn puts his hands on my hips and pulls me to him, holding me so close I have no choice but to wrap my arms around him. He leans down and presses his lips against my ear, singing a song about a man who wants to break some rules and have a rendezvous. His hands are firm on my hips, moving me back and forth like a boat swaying on the water.

  By the time the song ends, my body is vibrating. I imagine tearing his clothes from his body and riding him until I’m too weak to stay upright. When he puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me from the dance floor, I orgasm—a warm, wet rush that soaks my G-string and thighs. I like to think I am sexually responsive, but I’ve never orgasmed from a simple touch.

  He must be able to read my body language, because he leads me out of the club and hails a taxi. The ride back to the hotel passes in a blur.

  He walks me back to my room. We’re standing at my door, a sexually electric charge passing between us, when I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him until we’re both breathless.

  “Do you want to come in for a drink?” I say, gasping. “I have sparkling water.”

  When he looks into my eyes, I know this evening isn’t ending with a polite drink. It’s ending with dirty, dirty sex. The kind of sex you think about when you’re alone in bed, one hand in your panties, the other squeezing your breast. The kind of sex that becomes a movie in your mind, one you replay in slow motion.

  I slide the key over the magnetic sensor and push the door open.

  He’s going to lift my dress, hit it from the back, and drive me wild.

  I go to the minibar, pull out a can of sparkling water, and hand it to Fionn.

  I’m suddenly nervous.

  “You should see the view.” I walk to the balcony. “It’s amazing.”

  You should see the view? For fuck’s sake. I sound like one of those basic bitches on Instagram—Like, OMG, you’re fire—not someone who can pull from Doonbeg to Dallas. Not someone who works for a luxury lifestyle magazine writing articles about the super-swank.

  I walk out onto the balcony and stare at the ocean shimmering like mercury in the moonlight. The sea air blows against my heated cheeks, warm and salty. He comes up behind me. I feel him even before he touches me. He moves my hair to one side and presses his lips against my bare neck. I moan, low and throaty. I lean my back against his muscular chest, wiggle my bottom against his bulging cock. He moans and bites my neck. I turn around, slide my hands under his shirt, over his hot muscular chest. Pinch his nipples.

  And then we’re all over each other, hands on bodies, frantic. He lifts my skirt up, just as I imagined he would, looks from my bare legs and barely-there lace thong and says, “Oh, fuck yeah.”

  He turns me around.

  He reaches around and cups my bare bottom, squeezing my flesh with his broad hands, until I think I’ll orgasm again before he even pushes inside me.

  He lifts me up as if I’m an empty shot glass and carries me to the bed. Then we’re all over each other, tearing at clothes until we’re skin on skin. Tongue on tongue. His body is spectacular—even by the dim light of the moon I can make out the tatts covering his chest and biceps. I want to trace every line of the intricate Celtic knots and crosses with my tongue.

  He cups my mound and uses a finger to slowly, expertly stroke my clitoris. I slide my hand between us—down, down—until I feel the weight of his heavy balls and thick shaft in my hand. He moans and plunges his finger into my slick folds.

  When he hits my G-spot I turn into a mad woman, bucking and grinding against his hand. I want him to keep going, but I want his cock inside me and his mouth on me. It’s like having a fever, aching all over. I’ve never felt this aroused and agitated at the same time.

  He pushes inside me, and we move to a silent, ancient rhythm, as if our bodies have known each other through many lifetimes. I know the heft of him against the palm of my hand, the length of him pushing deep inside me. It’s familiar. He’s familiar. I look deep into his eyes, lose myself in their sea-blue depths, drown as wave after wave of desire drags me into a dark, disorienting abyss. I hold my breath until my lungs ache. When he grows thicker, harder, I will him to come with me.

  He draws a shuddering breath. He breaks eye contact, his long blond lashes drawing a veil over his gaze.

  He is going to come. God, let him come. Please let him come.

  His eyes snap open. He pulls out, lifts me off the bed, and carries me to the balcony. He sits on the sun lounger, still holding me in his arms, against his perspiration slick chest. I’m about to lick
his tattoo when he turns me around to face him.

  “Wrap your legs around me, love.”

  I obey, lowering myself onto his hard cock, and we make love—a slow, sexy grind. Forehead to forehead. Oblivious.

  “You are so fucking fit.”

  His Irish accent does it for me and just like that I orgasm again, tight spasms, squeezing him, deeper. Moaning, clawing at his back like a wild animal.

  “Fionn…Fionn…”

  “Yes, love. Say my name.”

  “Fionn…”

  He says something in Irish, brushes his lips against my ear, and the world goes dark.

  I am in my head.

  I’m naked except for Fionn’s cologne and a thin sheet of perspiration clinging to my skin. The fit AF Irishman spent several hours making slow, smoldering love to me better than any man has before. He’s asleep next to me, his beautifully tattooed body on full display, and I am stuck in my fucking head. I’m brilliant at being in my head, at complicating simple moments by overthinking. What am I doing here? Why am I with this guy? What happens if he wants to cuddle or stay for breakfast? What happens if he doesn’t want to cuddle or stay for breakfast? What will he do when he finds out I am not like other women? I am not normal. I don’t do the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I don’t daydream about a guy standing under my bedroom window holding a boombox over his head while it blasts our song. There has never been a Marlow and “fill in the blank” song.

  I hear Fionn’s voice in my ear.

  “I’d like to get to know you better…”

  I don’t know what it means to be a girlfriend. My picture of what it means to take a relationship from booty call to boyfriend is gleaned from romcoms. Am I supposed to wear his T-shirt? Gag! Make a relationship playlist? Seriously? Leave love notes? Kill me now. Hide my quirks and flaws? Impossible. Wake up early and so I can put my makeup on before he wakes up? So not happening.

  What happens if I do all of those things and end up getting kicked to the curb again, like I was after Terrell? What happens if we marry and then he leaves me, like my father left my mother? I don’t think I could handle that pain.

  I’ve protected my heart like Scrooge hoarding his gold coins, never allowing anyone close enough to covet my treasure. Terrell broke me, and I’ve spent the last eight years breaking others before they could break me more.

  I stride around in towering Louboutins, my chin lifted at an angle somewhere between confident and come-at-me-bro.

  The designer heels? Purchased secondhand on the RealReal.

  The lifted chin? I’m running a Statue of Liberty play. I dated a quarterback once and he told me about this trick play he ran to get a touchdown. He pretended to snap the ball, but really he tucked it behind his back for another player to grab and carry down the field to the end zone. A fake. I’m good at faking it. I act confident, and people believe I am confident. I wonder if Kristin is right. Maybe my serial dater thing is an act. Maybe, deep down, I want someone to love me forever and ever, amen.

  Maybe fate has brought me to Ibiza. Maybe I was meant to meet Fionn O’Connell. Maybe I am meant to unfuck myself.

  Wait! What the fuck am I thinking?

  My biggest fear is I will have a one-night stand that goes horribly wrong. Like, I wake up the next morning in some strange guy’s bed wearing his boxer briefs and a sparkly wedding ring. I know what you’re thinking. That’s a weird fucking phobia. Most people are afraid of heights or spiders or slasher movies. Not me. I’m afraid of having a bad one-night stand.

  I love having sweaty sex with some fit-as-fuck rando, and I’m not afraid to wake up in his briefs either. It’s the ring. Just talking about waking up to find a wedding ring strangling my happily liberated ring finger has me breaking out in a cold sweat.

  I sneak a look at the Irishman sleeping beside me. I study his profile, the thick blond lashes resting against his tanned cheeks, the model perfect nose, the juicy lips that kissed me from lips to hips, and my heart does a ridiculous little flip-flop in my chest, like I’m on my first date and my boyfriend has put his arm around me in the dark theater. What the hell is happening to me? There must be something in this sultry Spanish air, or the Porn Star Martinis, that is turning me into a silly teenager daydreaming about her crush. I’m not mentally writing our names in loopy script and surrounding them with a big heart—thank Jesus—but I am acting like a gone girl, all in my feels, because some fit-as-fuck Irishman stroked my G-spot.

  My throat closes. I can’t breathe.

  I want out. Out of this bed. Out of this room. Out of this situation.

  I scooch sideways, inch by inch, until I feel the edge of the bed against my back. I’m on all fours in the dark, trying to gather enough clothes to make my escape, when I hear a sound that makes my heart skip a beat.

  “Marlow,” Fionn says, in a sleep-roughened voice. “Where are ye?”

  I stand, shivering against the arctic A/C.

  “Come here,” he says, lifting the blankets. “Roll into me, love.”

  This would be the time for me to make an excuse about having to be up early and send him on his walk of shame…but I don’t give him an excuse and I don’t send him on his way. I climb back into bed and roll into him, and I fall asleep replaying the sound of him calling me “love” in my head.

  I wake just before dawn with Fionn’s arms around my waist, his hard cock pressed against my bottom, and his fingers sliding between my slick folds. I move my hips so I’m slow-fucking his fingers, arching and rolling my spine, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I roll onto my stomach and push myself onto all fours. Fionn positions himself between my legs, grabs my hips in an erotically bruising grip, and guides me onto his cock. I catch our reflection in the mirror—me on all fours, vulnerable, hair tangled around my shoulders, Fionn kneeling above me, his tattooed chest slick with perspiration, his gaze on my arched back. He looks up and notices I am watching him in the mirror.

  “You are so fucking fit,” he moans.

  The sound of his sexy Irish accent does it for me. My body tightens. I orgasm even before he reaches around and plays with my clitoris. He grows harder, pushes deeper, and spills himself inside of me.

  9

  Kiss from a Rose

  By the time Fionn leaves to run to his place for a change of clothes before starting his shift in the bar, we have banged in the pool and the shower. I missed the day’s workshops but not the cocktail hour speed-dating event. I get dressed in a simple black maxi dress with slits to the thigh and strappy silver gladiator sandals and head to the resort’s pool. Brandy texted me earlier and asked if I would meet her at the poolside bar for a cocktail before the cocktail slash speed date. She’s waiting behind a potted palm. I only spot her because I recognize her dress. Actually, I loaned her the dress after a flurry of texts she sent asking me to help her pick something to wear. I asked Adonis to deliver the backless dress—which I spritzed with Flowerbomb—and a sexy backdrop gold necklace.

  We are two pre-cocktail cocktails into our speed-dating pep sesh, and Brandy is feeling it. Her glasses are in her room, replaced by contacts, and she’s bringing big lip game with a sexy red pout courtesy the tube of Yves Saint Laurent lip stain I bought her from the gift store. She’s Cinderella at the ball and I am as pleased as a plump wand-waving fairy godmother. So when a hottie in a blue button-down and khakis approaches our table, I’m ready to sing “Bibbidy-Bobbidy-Boo.” Okay, he’s not fit AF Irishman hot, but he would defo rep one of the months if someone decided to do a Sexiest Accountants Alive calendar. Prince Calculator barely acknowledges my presence. He focuses on Brandy, who looks more relaxed than I’ve yet seen her, even though her shoulders are still a little hunched.

  I make an excuse about needing to powder my nose and offer my seat to Prince Calculator. I catch Brandy’s eye, shrug my shoulders to get her to relax, and give her a “you’ve got this, girl” thumbs up before heading to the beach for a solo stroll.

  I untie my sandals, leave them on the st
eps leading to the beach, and then wiggle my toes in the warm sand. The sun is slipping into the Mediterranean, casting the beach in seductive golden light—the sort of light that makes for Instagram-worthy selfies, or romantic rendezvous against a palm tree.

  “Marlow?”

  My heart does a silly little traitorous skip.

  I turn around slowly. Terrell is standing behind me, his pants rolled up to above his ankles, his diamond stud winking at me in the setting sun. Same juicy lips, same devastating smile.

  “What do you want, Terrell?”

  What do you want? Where have you been? Why are you at a singles retreat?

  “Come on, girl. I just want to talk to you.”

  “What is there to talk about?”

  “Don’t be like that, Boo.” He reaches for my arm.

  “Be like what? You’ve had eight years to reach out to me, to explain why you broke my heart, but you didn’t. And don’t call me Boo. I am not your Boo or your Bae or your…your…”

  He laughs. “I can’t believe I have lived to see the day when Marlow Ann Donnelly is at a loss for words.”

  “Fuck off.” I shake my arm free of his touch.

  “Mad Girl in the house.” He raises his hands like he’s up in the club, raising the roof. “Whoop! Whoop! There she is!”

  I look at his stupid grin, his hands still in the air, and I laugh. I can’t help it. Terrell could always make me laugh, especially when I was angry.

  I see some movement out of the corner of my eye, on the pool terrace overlooking the beach, but Terrell grabs my hand, distracting me.

  “Come on, Mad Girl.” He pulls me down the beach. “Take a walk with me. A little stroll on the beach. Give me a chance to explain.”

  “Fine.” I yank my hand away. “But you’re not holding my hand.”