by JA Huss
And then he walks off, his feet slapping in the puddle of water his body is creating.
My mouth is still open and even though I’m still on the raft, he’s not the only one sopping wet.
Chapter Six - Grace
#GodIHopeHeLikesThatShit
HOW did he know my name?
This question runs through my mind all the way back to the bungalow. I saw him in the bar and outside of the lingerie shop.
Is he stalking me?
Grace, you have lost your freaking mind! He’s a movie star! He doesn’t stalk nobodies, nobodies stalk him!
I shake my head and laugh as I push the key card into the reader on the door. It flashes green and I push it open. The air-conditioning makes me sigh as I kick off my flip flops and fall back onto the bed.
I met Vaughn Asher.
I scream and kick my feet. I met Vaughn Asher!
Oh my God, I’m having a fangirl moment. I get my phone out and text Bebe.
You are never gonna believe who I just met.
I add some hearts and flowers and then press send as I wait for her reply so we can play the guessing game.
He was every bit as much the Prince Charming in person as he is in the movies and magazines. Better even, because you never know how many of those pictures are retouched and how many of those interviews are fake. I barely got a look at his abs, but they were just as delicious as his back. And even though he was sorta dirty-talking to me, in his defense, I started it with the tweet. He is…
Lickable. Definitely fairy tale material.
I giggle and look down at my phone screen. “Where are you, Bebe?” I say to the empty room. They should be done parasailing by now. How long could something like that last? I need to tell her everything. I need to get her to tweet things to the Dirty Heaven list for me just in case he’s watching for his name. He cannot find out who I am on Twitter. No.
I blush just thinking about it. Jesus, the things I’ve tweeted about him over the years. I would never be able to look him in the face. I tweeted about things I’d like to do to his face—hehe, I have to stop and take in a quick breath at that. The man’s got a nice chin. I tweeted about how I imagine his cock looks. Another chuckle escapes. Thick and hard. And I should know, I saw it through his wet shorts.
Oh God. Whew.
The room phone rings and pulls me out of my erotic dreaming. I roll over on the bed, reach for it, and put it to my ear. “Bueno, Señorita Kinsella speaking.”
“Miss Kinsella,” a male voice says from the other end. “I have a message from Miss Chambers.”
“Oh, Bebe! Where is she?”
“She is spending the night on Water Island and will be back tomorrow. She sends her apologies.”
“Hmmm.” That’s disappointing. “OK, thank you.” I hang up the phone and roll back over on the bed. I’m really not clingy, but this is a little much. I mean, we’re on our honeymoon!
A soft knock pulls me out of my rant and I sit up and look over at the door just in time to see an envelope slide through.
I jump up, run over, and fling it open—I scan the pathway in front of our bungalow, but it’s twisty and thick with tropical foliage, so of course there’s no one in sight. I close the door and pick up the thick paper. This time the envelope says nothing, so I just take out the card.
Meet me. 9:00 Sunset Cove Beach.
Mr. B
What?
Mr. B? Mr. Buttinski? I gasp and clasp my hand over my mouth in shock. Is this note from Vaughn Asher? It has to be, that’s what I called him at the bar.
Oh my God, can my day get any more fantastic? Vaughn Asher wants to… well, he never said what he wanted, only where I’m supposed to go and when.
Maybe I shouldn’t go?
Ha! Like hell! I’m going. I get up and go over to the closet where my meager wardrobe is hanging. I have three sun dresses, six pairs of shorts, four bikinis, three sexy camis, two tank tops, and a pair of jeans.
A sun dress it is, I guess. I was not expecting to meet a movie star on this trip. I wasn’t even expecting to get lucky. Not many single guys my age come to a resort like this. It’s more for anniversary celebrations and honeymoons.
I check the time. It’s only four, and I’m wiped out from the martinis and sun, so I figure I have plenty of time to catch a nap, shower, and pull myself together for a date with Vaughn Asher!
I flop down on the bed and stuff my face in the pillow as I kick and scream with excitement. I grab my cell off the nightstand and I’m already pulling up Twitter to tell my bitches before Dirty Heaven tonight when I realize I can’t tweet about him! I already messed up and copped out to my past indiscretions, so there’s no way he can know.
In fact, I’m not sure I want my girls to know either. I mean, they will out me in a snap. All in good fun, to them, at least. But I will die of humiliation if he ever reads half the shit I’ve said about him.
Once I get home and have time to process all this, I will tell them all about it. And I’ll stalker-pic him all night so I have proof.
I’m smiling so big my cheeks are beginning to hurt, so I just roll over and hug the pillow to my chest, my eyes drooping as I daydream about what a night with a famous movie star means. I’m sure he wants it all on the down low. I’m nobody and he’s probably only looking for a one-night stand.
Am I up for a one-night stand with a sex god?
Ha! As if. Yes. Yes, yes, and more and more yeses. I’ve never had a one-nighter, but if a girl needs to lose her booty-call virginity, why not do it with—wait. If I sleep with him tonight he’ll think I’m cheap.
I am cheap. At least in this case. But I know better than to get involved in games. And I’m sure his game-playing skills are epic.
So no. I can’t sleep with him.
At least not tonight. Tonight I should just see if he’s normal or not. He could be a creep asshole for all I know. He could like choking or spanking or domination.
God, I hope he likes that shit.
Maybe he’s got a special room filled with accessories. I giggle at that. I’ve never done anything so adventurous. I’ve had plenty of dates and boyfriends, but they were all pretty vanilla when it came to sex. Only one got a little crazy, but when he started putting on my underwear, I knew his brand of crazy was not what I was looking for.
But Vaughn… I reach down between my legs and find my clit through my shorts and bathing suit.
Way too much fabric between me and my pleasure, so I shimmy out of my bottoms, then let my hand wander again.
I picture all the dirty things I’ve tweeted about his face. How I’d like to sit on it and rub myself against his scratchy chin. How his tongue would feel lapping against my folds. How my wetness would spill out and coat his lips, and then I’d scoot down and kiss him. Tangle my tongue with his so I could share in the taste of me.
I don’t usually get so excited sans vibrator, but the tingling between my legs begins to build, cresting higher until I have to pull my hand away to stop the release.
I don’t want to masturbate to his image anymore. I’ve done that hundreds of times. I want the real thing.
God help me. Because I’m not sure I could say no if he wants to have sex with me tonight. And from what I’ve read about him in the tabloids, he’s dirty. He’s a talker, one article said. Of course that was only from a “reliable source” so it could all be made up. And another equally suspicious one said he wished he was chosen to play Christian Grey in Fifty Shades so he could take a girl to the red room.
My fingertips are slick with my own juices again, my hand wandering down of its own accord. And I bring my fingers to my lips and suck, picturing what it might be like to suck Vaughn Asher’s dick.
And that’s it.
Dreaming about blowing him is all it takes.
I gush for him. I come for him. I moan his name and buckle my back for him. My body aches for more as soon as I’m finished. I bring my fingers back to my mouth as I imagine how hot the sex might be.<
br />
How thick is his cock? How long? Will he go slow and give kisses? Or fast and hard up against the wall? Will he eat me out? Make me beg? Will I beg? Fuck yes, I’ll beg. Will he have stamina? Or will he be a huge disappointment?
My eyelids become heavy and before I know it I’m dropping off as all these things flash through my mind.
I dream of hard cock.
Of my sopping wet pussy.
I dream of his fingers inside me, caressing my most sensitive spots. I picture his cock as it pushes past my wet folds and plunges into me for the first time, giving me the best orgasm of my life.
It’s the perfect fairy tale ending.
Chapter Seven - Grace
#MyFirstFairyTaleDate
I JOLT awake, not sure where I am for a moment. A breeze passes over my hot sweaty body and I smell the sea.
I’m on Saint Thomas. I’m on Saint Thomas and… I have a date with Vaughn Asher! I jump up and check the time. Only eight. An hour is not great, but it will do.
My bottoms are still missing after my solitary orgasm and my fingertips slide between my legs automatically. I’m still slick. I suck in a breath as the tingling starts again. But there’s no way I’m going to masturbate. If Vaughn Asher wants to have sex with me tonight, I want to be damn sure I come when it happens.
A cold shower takes care of my wanting and leaves my whole body with chills. My nipples are perky and hard when I slip the yellow sun dress over them. No bra tonight.
I look down at my pathetic pair of tighty-whitie underwear, wishing I could go commando on the bottom too, but I can’t. That really sends the wrong message when you’re wearing a dress, not to mention when you’re on a first date.
I reluctantly pull the underwear on. They are not so bad, really, I’ve seen girls at the gym wear these. Not the men’s variety—they were always some cute color and they were shaped for a woman’s hips. But these are not so different.
The front sags over my pubic area and no matter how many ways I try to fold the waistband over, the ass sags too.
I slip them off and pull on a pair of bikini bottoms. These are better, right? Except all my bikinis are held together with strings and this dress is a little form-fitting over the hips.
I put the TW’s back on and sigh. That’s what I get for not making a packing list. And I have such cute underwear at home. Not the really expensive kind, but cute stuff.
I let it go and blow-dry my hair instead. It’s one of my best assets. It’s a color that can only be described as honey-blonde. It’s thick and long, almost to the middle of my back, and perfectly straight. I love that. Some girls wish for curls when they have straight hair, but not me. I love the fact that I can let it dry naturally and it barely has any wave to it at all. And when I blow-dry it, it falls over my shoulders and down my back like a waterfall.
My makeup bag is filled with all the usual, but I opt for a light dusting of powder and some eye makeup and that’s it. I’ve spent the entire summer bumming around in the sun on the cheap, so my tan is perfection. Why hide it with makeup?
I smile at that and adjust my girls inside the built-in dress cups. My breasts aren’t overly large, but they are decent and they are natural.
I slip my feet into my favorite pair of espadrille wedges and take stock in front of the mirror.
Cute.
I’ve always been cute. People never call me sophisticated or glamorous or beautiful. No. It’s always cute.
But it could be worse. I could be plucky or perky.
If someone calls you plucky, you’re a side character. That’s how they describe side characters in movies and books, right? The plucky sidekick.
I admit, I’ve been Bebe’s plucky sidekick before. Many times. She’s definitely the stock image of glamorous and sophisticated. Her long hair is dark, wavy in all the right ways, and perfectly matches her dark eyes. Everything about her look says mysterious sexy woman you want to take home and fuck.
A sigh escapes before I can stop it and a wave of self-doubt washes over me. Everything about my look says always a bridesmaid, always a sidekick, always an afterthought.
Never a star.
“Oh Jesus, Grace,” I chastise myself out loud. “Stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re young, you’re pretty enough, you scored a fantabulous job that’s waiting for you back in Denver, you have your own apartment—finally!—and you’re about to go on a date with a movie star while enjoying a free vacation on one of the most beautiful tropical islands in the world.”
I kick my leg up and smack my butt with my shoe. “A reminder,” I tell the cute face staring back at me. “A reminder that life is what you make it. Happiness is a #Hashtag. You do not look like Bebe and that’s OK because you look like you.”
Do I have this pep talk often?
Yes. I admit I do.
It’s not Bebe’s fault she’s beautiful. Plus, she’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends for years and never once has she ever made me feel inferior even though she excels at everything she does. She’s always supported me. She’s always been there when things were falling apart. She never once questioned my past choices and she stood by me through all of it.
It’s not her fault I’m so messed up.
I shake my head and my perfectly straight hair gently laps at my face.
“Snap out of it!”
And then I paint on my trademark smile and after a few seconds, it’s real.
I’m going on a date with Vaughn Asher.
When I glance at the clock it’s quarter to nine and I decide to head out early just in case I get lost. I sorta know where the Sunset Cove Beach is—on the other side of the lazy river—but I’m not sure which path to take to get there.
When I open the door the fragrant flowers mixed with the sea air bathe me in peace. This place really is something else. It’s one of the oldest resorts on the island, but they take very good care of it. All the bungalows are updated with modern fixtures and electronics, the staff is friendly and attentive, and all the pools and beaches are immaculate. Never in a million years would I be able to afford this vacation.
Hell, I’m pretty sure this one is even out of Bebe’s price range now that she’s on her own. Her family is not super rich, but they are well-off. And Bebe had every opportunity growing up. But her parents believe in hard work and pulling yourself up on your own. Her family paychecks stopped the day she graduated from med school last May. She’s adjusted well. Not like some trust-fund kids. She knew it was coming and planned for it all through undergrad and when she was accepted into the physical therapy program at the University of Colorado Health Science Center, she roomed with three other students in a crappy neighborhood the entire time. She saved most of her living expenses and now that she’s an actual licensed physical therapist with an actual paying job at a local gym in Denver, all that scrimping and saving is gonna pay off.
My life was not so easy. I’m a few years younger than Bebe, and I have never aspired to a PhD like her. But I’m not doing too bad. I went to Colorado Mountain College, a small two-year school up in the Rocky Mountains where they specialize in hotel management, resort management, restaurant management—all kinds of recreational management, in fact. As well as culinary training, renewable energy and event planning.
That’s what I do. I’m an event planner.
Yes, like weddings and stuff. But I was mostly hired to plan parties, not weddings. You have to work up to that level of responsibility. My professional life the past few years was mostly Super Bowl parties and bar mitzvahs, but I’ve been doing more and more weddings the past several months and I’m really good at it. I just got a new job and that is a huge step up for me.
I feel like my life is finally starting. Like the past is behind me.
All this deep thinking has me turned around on the winding paths and for a moment my heart beats fast at the thought of being lost out here in the dark. Silverware clanks on plates off to the right, so I take that path to try and get my bearings.
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br /> The path turns a corner abruptly and I find myself staring at an extravagant sit-down dinner party. There are several dozen round tables covered in white tablecloths and fancy place settings. Hundreds of guests, at least. All dressed to the nines in what I’d call summer formal. Cream-colored suits, crisp white shirts, flowing linen dresses, hair up in sparkling pins, and everything has a feel of being light and airy. Like these people are all caught up in a summer breeze.
It’s a gorgeous event. There’s a path that surrounds the party and I walk along it, trying my best to remain unnoticed and invisible. I take stock of the fine china, the silver on the table, the cut of the crystal that the fresh flowers are sitting in. I notice the engraved place cards, the subtle lighting, the flowing curtains of the large tent where a band is setting up for a night of dancing. Out here in the dining area there is a string quartet playing soft melodies that allow you to enjoy the music without it being overpowering.
This event is perfect and I’m jealous. Not because I wasn’t invited, but because I didn’t plan it. I shake myself out of that stupid funk and pick up my pace. I’m going to be late for my date with Vaughn Ash—
Wait. There he is.
He’s here, at this party.
Hmmm. I stop and watch him for a few moments. He’s deep in conversation with a tall, beautiful woman. Her hair is dark, like his, and she’s dressed in a pale pink strapless gown that flows down her slender body and pools at her feet like satin water.
Vaughn cups her face with both his hands, his eyes intent on hers. Her eyes are glued to his lips as he whispers. And then she nods and wipes a tear. Vaughn leans in and kisses her gently on the cheek and then pulls her into an intimate hug.
I turn away, my heart beating so fast inside my chest I have to take deep breaths. I swallow down the lump in my throat and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running.
