by Lee Taylor
He was locking his door. "Mornin'," he said, beaming a big smile that sent jolts of arousal up her thighs. Her eyes wandered to his torso, clad in a well-used navy blue T-shirt with a small crest of VIC PD emblazoned on the pocket.
"You work for the Victoria Police Force?" she asked, her gaze darting from his waist, over the bulge in his red shorts, down the length of his long legs and back again.
Had the day suddenly gotten a lot hotter?
He moved closer. "Used to," he replied, towering over her. "I work for myself now. Private investigations stuff, you know."
She leaned back against the door of her room. Thoughts of inviting him to her bed and spending the day exploring each other's bodies flitted through her mind. There was a glint in his mesmerizing blue eyes that suggested he knew she'd just climaxed. Had she moaned out loud? Had he listened through the wall?
His voice penetrated her lust. "Going swimming?"
"What? Oh. Yes. After breakfast."
"Me too. Care to join me?"
Once they got to the restaurant, Michael pulled out a chair for her. "Thank you, s--" She stopped herself just in time. Michael looked at her curiously, a strange smile on his face.
He took his seat. "You're welcome."
Elena brought menus.
Jessie hoped her face wasn't bright red. What was wrong with saying Sir to someone who held out a chair for you? It didn't automatically imply you were submissive. Did it? "I think I'll have bacon and eggs, and hash browns again. I really enjoyed it yesterday. And coffee."
Michael perused the menu. "I'll have a bowl of oatmeal, OJ and yogurt, por favor."
Elena jotted down their order and scooted off to the kitchen.
Michael focussed his piercing blue eyes on Jessie.
"What is it?" she asked finally.
"It's not a good idea to start the day with a heavy breakfast, especially when you're going in the water."
Her first reaction was to go on the defensive. She was on holiday, for goodness sake. What was wrong with indulging in fatty foods she rarely ate at home? You didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know bacon and hash browns every morning weren't good for you.
Plus, he'd been direct in his criticism. No preamble, no Hope you don't mind me saying so, but--
Goosebumps broke out on her nape. He expected her to change her order. Well, she wouldn't.
She caught Elena's eye as the girl emerged from the kitchen. "Sorry, I think I'll have the same as Michael, please. Cancel the bacon and eggs."
Elena nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Anxious to avoid Michael's gaze, not wanting to see him gloat, she stared out to sea. Was he some sort of Svengali who could make her do things she didn't want to?
"You apologise too often," he said quietly, reaching for her hand. Static pinged between them. "It's okay to change your mind. You don't need to be sorry."
Tears threatened, to her dismay. It was true. She'd spent her whole life apologising for everything. Sorry had become her automatic response. Pursing her lips, she lifted her eyes to his gaze.
He squeezed her hand. "What did you do before you took up writing?"
The question surprised her. She'd expected some gloating remark, like Good Girl. Oatmeal is much better for you.
Strangely, she was disappointed he hadn't praised her.
"I was a teacher. Elementary. In a catholic school."
~~~
Now, that explained a lot.
"No wonder you're always sorry."
Jessie frowned. Had he pushed too hard? She looked so damn sexy in the flimsy see-through beach robe that revealed a different swimsuit--red and silver, strapless. The dreamy look in her eyes when they first bumped into each other made him suspect she'd just had an orgasm. Did she know he'd stood by his door for ten minutes listening for the sound of her leaving?
He'd been tempted to suggest they adjourn to her room for a day of Dom and Sub, learning each other's bodies. He'd bring her to climax again and again, but only with his permission.
"Yes, sir, I want to come. Please, sir, I want your finger in me."
J is for Jessie.
Jesus, where had that thought come from? Keep your mind away from Scallywags.
She looked back out to sea. "You're right, I do apologise too often."
Elena brought their food.
"Buen provecho," Michael said.
"Buen provecho," Jessie echoed, eyes on the bowl.
He wolfed down the delicious oatmeal, rested his folded arms on the table, and stared at her. "Why do you always cover up your lovely body?"
It was evident she wasn't enjoying the oatmeal, and she almost choked at his question, her face reddening. She wiped her mouth with her serviette. "I didn't think it was appropriate to sit in the restaurant in my swimsuit."
"Take off your top."
She tensed, her eyes darting around the restaurant. "No one else is wearing just a swimsuit."
He peeled off his T-shirt. "Take off your top."
After raking her eyes over his chest and another glance around, she quickly lifted the beach robe over her head. This suit had no ties. It was like a body glove, molded to her breasts. He was disappointed it was too tight to slip down when she stretched.
"Pull the top down a little, just enough to show a hint of nipple."
She stared hard at him, but obeyed.
"Good girl," he murmured.
Somehow, his Dom side seemed to instinctively know how to behave with this woman. Keeping his eyes fixed on her breasts, he walked behind her to pull out her chair. "Now let's get wet."
~~~
Jessie squirmed, nervous that when she stood, Michael would see evidence on the wooden chair that she was already wet.
She thought she might be having a heart attack. The vital organ seemed to have stopped working. Swiping the beach wrap across the chair as nonchalantly as she could, she came to her feet, hazarding a glance at his face. His enigmatic smile gave away nothing. She resisted the urge to check the chair, opting instead to walk quickly towards the rancho on the beach.
"I'll grab towels," Michael shouted, heading for the pool.
Moments later, he jogged up, carrying four blue towels. He spread them on the white plastic beach chairs, shucked off his crocs, grabbed her hand, and pulled her towards the water.
The sand was red hot. "Ow, ow, ow!" she exclaimed.
Michael scooped her up as if she were a little girl, carrying her to the water. She laughed nervously, clinging to his neck. His body was warm. He smelled of some subtle aftershave that struck a chord of memory. But from where?
Sure he meant to dump her in, she was relieved when he set her down gently on her feet. He waded to where the waves were huge, and dove into an oncoming breaker like a dolphin.
Cripes, he had the body of a thirty year old. The sun had bronzed his broad back. He must have a gym membership.
Of course! The workout equipment in his den. He probably exercised naked in the privacy of his own home.
Oh God.
He disappeared each time a wave broke over his head, then, to her relief, popped up, his hair plastered to his head, water cascading off his body.
Every time he resurfaced, she hoped for a glimpse as the elastic waistband rode lower and lower on his hips.
Pulling up his shorts, he beckoned, a broad smile on his face. Had he seen her almost drooling at him?
She was content to stay where the waves had spent most of their power. It was safer. There was no way she'd risk going underwater. She shook her head.
He disappeared under another wave, beckoning again when he resurfaced. She shook her head more forcefully.
Michael walked back to her. He took her hand. "Come with me. It's exhilarating. Trust me."
A fear she recognized as irrational skittered through her belly. She pulled back.
Michael held fast. "Come with me."
There was no mistaking the hint of command in his voice. Reluctantly, she moved in
to deeper water. An enormous wave loomed. She hunched her shoulders, preparing to be swept off her feet. She would flounder, gasping for breath, panicking until her feet hit bottom again.
As the wave crested over them, Michael put his arms around her waist, lifting her to his hard body. He jumped, so their heads remained above the water, then set her down as the wave continued its journey to shore. She was wet from head to toe from the spray, but there'd been no panic, no sense of drowning.
"I told you to trust me," Michael said, slicking wet hair off his face.
Jessie nodded, blinking away drops of seawater from her eyelashes. "I know. It's just that I'm afraid of--"
Another wave swept them both off their feet. She flailed about, spluttering and choking, but soon felt Michael's arms around her again. Relief washed over her.
"Sorry about that," he laughed. "Wasn't paying attention. Too busy admiring your boobs. I won't let go again. Promise."
His hard erection pressed against her. It felt huge. They bobbed in the waves, chest to breast, her hands gripping his biceps, his arms around her waist.
He was right. It was exhilarating. "I'll hold you to that promise," she said.
Gradually, she relaxed. Soon she could predict when he was going to jump without his wink forewarning her, and she pushed off with her toes, feeling completely safe. As one, they set their own rhythm to match the ocean's timeless flow.
~~~
Michael floated in a primeval dance. He was one with the sea and the woman he held. Though the ocean held the power, he was in control, invincible. If his arms weren't clamped around Jessie's waist he'd be beating his chest like a prehistoric caveman.
This felt so right.
Time stood still. He closed his eyes, licking the salty tang on his lips as Jessie lay her head on his shoulder. She too seemed at peace, completely relaxed, willing to let him keep her afloat. She'd surrendered her fear to him.
His cock ached pleasurably in the warm water. Jessie shifted position, winding her arms around his neck, her legs around his calves, their swimsuits the only barrier between her slit and his cock. She'd entrusted herself completely to him. Was that the theme from Titanic she was humming?
"Look at me," he rasped.
She lifted her head slowly. He wasn't sure what he saw in her brown eyes--longing, confusion, uncertainty, but not fear. He bent his head to kiss her, brushing his lips against hers. She opened for him immediately, their tongues mating, mingling. Her skin was warm and wet. He tasted salt, and orange juice. He tightened his hold, increasing the intensity of the kiss, plunging his tongue deeper, sucking hers into his mouth, until they broke apart, breathless.
"I want you," he said. "Come to my room."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alarm bells went off in Jessie's head. She shivered, despite the warm water and the body heat of the man who held her.
She craved him with an intensity she'd never known. He was desirable, sexy. She hadn't felt so out of control since--
The water and the exercise had resulted in her breasts all but overflowing the strapless bathing suit and she wanted to peel it down and press his head to her nipple.
But he was moving too fast, likely thinking she'd be an easy holiday romance, a lonely, middle aged woman who'd written a sexy book. Must be desperate, and a good lay, right? He was probably great in bed, whereas she--
Besides, the dog episode had proven how irresponsible he was. He was too sure of himself. It made her nervous. He must have sensed her lack of enthusiasm for his suggestion. He eased his grip on her waist. "What's wrong, Jessie? I can tell you feel the same."
She pushed away and started for the beach, afraid he'd try to pull her back. She glanced over her shoulder. He was still in the bigger waves, watching.
She'd regained the rancho and was towelling off, trying to calm the throbbing in her pussy, when he strode out of the water.
God, he was so luscious.
He grabbed a towel, using it to rub his hair. "You okay? You got nervous all of a sudden out there. Was it something I said?"
She avoided his gaze, but could tell by the sound of his voice he was teasing her. It was a relief he wasn't angry. His wet shorts clung to his body. Her eyes fell to his crotch. Her throat went dry. Most fully aroused men would be very angry to be denied what they wanted.
Right now he's thinking I'm an uptight bitch, or a tease.
He bunched the towel around his neck. "You turn me on, Jessie. I won't apologise for it, but I went too fast, and for that I'm sorry. I'd never want to frighten you."
He picked up a dry towel, rubbing gently as he draped it around her shoulders. How thoughtful to bring two for each of them. He wrapped the last towel around his hips, cinching it at the waist. He was smooth, no doubt about it. She wanted to trust him, but it would be devastating to become involved with him, only to be cast aside when he found something better, or tired of her.
Was he acting the part of a Dom because he'd read her book, or was he really a Dom? The possibility scared her to death. Did she truly want to submit completely to a man? Some Doms expected 24/7 control of their submissives. She couldn't see herself agreeing to that.
In the course of her research she'd come across some very disturbing images on Google. She wasn't into pain, and some Doms were obviously very sadistic. Sadomasochism filled her with fear.
"Why don't I get us a drink from the bar?"
She was torn between relief and regret he hadn't pursued his suggestion they go to bed. "It's a bit early, but why not?"
"Mai tai?"
She smiled tentatively. "Sounds good."
~~~
Waiting for Elena to make the cocktails, Michael drummed his fingers on the bar, wondering if he had enough time to duck into the guest bathroom in the pool area and get rid of his hard-on. The chill of the wet shorts had helped somewhat, but he was glad he'd kept the towel around his waist.
What was it about Jessie that turned him into a raging bull? He'd thought she was as aroused as he was, but she'd quickly rebuffed him. Maybe it would be better to forget the whole thing. Perhaps she enjoyed getting men all hot and bothered and then walking away.
Somehow that didn't ring true. His inner Dom told him she was worth pursuing. He'd simply pushed too hard, too quickly.
"Show some subtlety, Mikey, finesse," he murmured to himself.
"Cómo?" Elena asked, putting the cocktails on a small tray.
"Nothing," he said with a smile. "Just talking to myself."
He carried the tray over to the rancho, where Jessie sat in one of the chairs. She'd donned the beach wrap and sunglasses. That irritated him. He wanted to see her eyes. They betrayed her thoughts.
She smiled at him nervously. It bothered him that he'd frightened her. Gaining her trust was important.
He handed her the Mai-tai. "There you go. Complete with little umbrella."
Her smile this time was genuine. She sipped the drink, avoiding looking at him as he whipped off the towel and sat on the beach chair next to her.
He put his hand lightly on hers. "I understand, Jessie. But I still want you. We'll take it slow."
She let his hand rest on hers, enjoying the soft caress of his thumb. "I just don't want you to think--"
He touched his forefinger to her lips. "Take off your sunglasses so I can see those beautiful brown eyes."
She hesitated only a second before doing as he asked. "That's my girl," he whispered, elated she'd done as he requested. His heart leaped when she took off her beach wrap.
He was beginning to understand that winning the right Sub was all about patience.
Small steps, Michael. Small steps.
~~~
Michael's words whirled around Jessie's brain.
That's my girl.
That's my girl.
Where had she heard that before? Who'd said it to her? It was somehow important to remember, but the memory eluded her.
She sipped her cocktail, gradually relaxing, enjoying the sun an
d the breeze. After a few minutes she risked a glance at him. He'd stretched out his long legs, ankles crossed, face raised to the sun, eyes closed. She remembered what he'd said about being comfortable with silence.
Not wanting to disturb his obvious contentment, she couldn't resist raking her eyes over his profile, his long neck, his well-muscled chest with just the right amount of hair. He was still tanned from his earlier trip to Panama, a man who took care of a body that had felt good pressed against her in the ocean. How long had it been since she'd had a man she could lean on?
He peeled open one eye. "Like what you see?"
She felt her face redden, but smiled. "Yes," she murmured. "I do."
He squeezed her hand. "Good. Wake me if I snore."
She faked a groan. "And I thought you were Mr. Perfect."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jessie got choked up whenever she heard the theme from the movie Titanic. Sarah Brightman's rendition in Italian had always been her favorite version. Not understanding the language seemed to heighten the pathos of the haunting melody.
Listening to Michael play the well-loved piece on his flugelhorn as the sun set over the Pacific, she knew his version would be the one she'd always play over and over in her head. It seeped into her pores like a balm. The image of him silhouetted against the glorious pinks, golds, and reds of the sunset imprinted on her mind.
She stood behind him, but saw his face in her mind's eye. He poured himself effortlessly into the music, his unbuttoned shirt flapping in the warm breeze.
Other guests had gathered to share in his homage to the dying sun, like worshippers at a pagan ceremony. His music drew them.
As the last notes faded, people murmured their thanks in hushed tones, or merely nodded at him. His magic had enthralled them all.
He turned around, an angel come down from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His sudden smile melted her insides. "You're good," she rasped, "but then I already knew that."
He frowned.
"I heard you playing just before we--"
She coughed.
"--met."
He opened the water key of his instrument, tipped out the moisture, then blew into the horn. "Ah, yes. Perhaps if I'd let the music calm me like it usually does, I wouldn't have been so rude."
