Summer Attractions

by Beth Bolden

  The waiter set the glasses down. Jemma reached for one like she was in the middle of the desert and dying of thirst. “Be careful,” Gabe warned as she took a gulp.

  Jemma spluttered almost instantly, the alcohol burning a path down her throat to her stomach. “Oh my god,” she hissed, coughing between the words. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  He laughed. “I warned you,” he claimed with great amusement. Jemma glared at him, even more annoyed that she wasn’t more annoyed with him.

  She liked him too much already, and they’d just met.

  She thought it must be the side effect of finally being (somewhat) honest with Colin and giving herself the space to try to live a life free of guilt and constant self-recrimination for not returning his feelings.

  It was hard to say whether Gabe had turned her head because he was handsome and strong and the only familiar link in an unfamiliar country, or if he was simply the first young, unattached man she’d run into since making the decision to free herself from the ties that had prevented her from dating anybody else.

  Regardless of the reason why, Jemma knew her resolve to stay crush-free was being sorely tested as Gabriel grinned over their drinks, his body language the most relaxed since she’d arrived.

  Unfortunately, she knew how awkward she was around men she liked and of course, she’d probably make a mess of it.

  “Thank you for doing this, by the way,” Jemma said seriously. She chastised herself immediately for how serious she sounded. They’d been halfway to a decent banter and now she had to go and ruin it by being far too earnest. He struck her as the kind of guy who would be instantly put off by any kind of insistent pursuit. She’d have to be subtle, unfortunately a method that wasn’t in her repertoire—whatever kind of repertoire she even had after three years of consciously not letting herself date.

  “Nick promised me you wouldn’t be too much of a nightmare,” Gabe said with a shrug, though there was a gleam in his dark eyes that promised something he hadn’t confessed.

  “I think that was almost a compliment,” Jemma teased lightly and was rewarded with an even brighter smile. That was right, she thought, just have to keep it casual and witty and he’d stay comfortable.

  She tossed her hair back, regretting more than ever her lack of functioning hair straightener as she knew her hair was one of her better features, and picked up her drink again.

  “That’s a caipirinha,” he said. “Cachaça, lime and sugar.”

  Jemma gave him a rueful smile. “That explains so much.”

  “They’re strong,” he said, like she hadn’t almost died on her first sip.

  “Really?”

  “I take it back,” Gabe said, his broad shoulders relaxing even more, his eyes twinkling at her, “Nick was wrong; you’re absolutely a pain in the ass.”

  She took another sip and felt lighter than she had in years. If she thought about Colin, she felt that same sad pang of guilt, but instead of holding it close like she had for the last three years, she pushed it resolutely away. She’d done her penance; if she had a little fun for the next few weeks, nobody on earth could blame her.

  “To the next three weeks.” Jemma raised a little salute with her glass.

  It was hard to tell, as his skin was naturally darker and the light was dim in the restaurant, but she swore he blushed a little. Even if she’d imagined it, Jemma decided to take it as a good sign that maybe he wasn’t completely averse to spending time with her.

  “I know what Nick wanted to see,” Gabe said as their glasses clinked together. “But what’s your plan? Same as his? Different?”

  Jemma set the glass down and sighed. “I can tell you for sure that my plan isn’t Nick’s plan—though if I was smart it should be, as I’ve got nothing of my own.”

  “Rhythmic gymnastics it is, then,” he said with a very sexy curl of his full lips. Jemma felt a bit lightheaded, and she wasn’t even sure it was the caipirinha.

  She ignored his comment and the swoop of her stomach. “Definitely swimming. That much I know. Will definitely want to check out some of the track events, as well. There’s a decathlete from my university that won four years ago. He’s rather a local celebrity, and we’ve met before, so I might be able to finesse an interview.”

  “Like your own local celebrity?”

  Jemma couldn’t tell if Gabe had guessed about the true nature of her relationship with Colin or if he was merely prying to figure out the truth. Either way, she wasn’t amused.

  “You seem awfully hung up on Colin. Jealous?”

  He shrugged with a roll of his broad shoulders, straining the fabric of the dark gray t-shirt he wore. “Just curious. You don’t seem like his type.”

  If Gabe only knew. Jemma internally shuddered. “Colin doesn’t have a type; he dates around a lot,” she said, refusing to give Gabe even a shred of ammunition. Even if he’d figured it out, she wasn’t going to confirm his suspicions.

  “He must love Miami then,” he said.

  “Absolutely.” Another lie. Colin hated Miami. “What are you interested in watching?” she asked, desperately trying to change the subject. She had no intention of talking about Colin any more than absolutely required.

  “Football, of course.” He paused, then leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile on his face. “And not American football.”

  She made a face. “Of course.”

  “Not a fan?”

  Jemma noticed as he finished draining his glass and raised a finger to order another round. She profoundly hoped the food would be coming soon or else she’d be a little more than tipsy.

  “Soccer is like watching paint dry,” she said. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

  “What?” he exclaimed, looking genuinely astonished for the first time today. Jemma would be lying if she claimed not to greatly enjoy watching this tightly contained man’s reserve melt.

  “Literally the players run back and forth and try to kick a ball in a net. It’s incredibly dull.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, you enjoy baseball.”

  “A real sport,” she confirmed. She didn’t like baseball much either, but she was enjoying watching the little flashes of heat she saw in his eyes. He tried to hide it so much behind the wall of reserve he cultivated, but he was passionate about so many things. She didn’t know why he’d hide it all away; emotion made him so much more relatable.

  She could see him just about to launch into some sort of baseball-related tirade, but the waiter stopped him before he could start, setting down a new round of drinks as well as a number of small plates and bowls. Everything smelled good, but nothing was truly recognizable and she hesitated.

  “I hope you like olives,” Gabe said as Jemma continued to glance dubiously at the various dishes in front of her.

  “Not particularly,” she admitted.

  “Time to learn,” he told her with a smirk, leaning over the table to deposit a heaping scoopful onto her plate. His arm brushed her hand for a split second and she tried to ignore the wave of lightning sparks that burst under her skin at the contact. She glanced up at him, hoping to see the mark of their contact in his face, but he was completely absorbed in the food, piling sausages onto his plate and several salads composed of fish and other brightly colored vegetables.

  “I’d ask you to describe this all to me,” Jemma finally concluded, “but probably better not to know.”

  He flashed her a quick smile, white teeth so bright against his skin. “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” he predicted. And it turned out, he wasn’t wrong.

  She tried a bit of everything and while she didn’t like all of it—the olives, for example—she enjoyed a good portion of it.

  “We’ll make a good Brazilian out of you yet,” Gabe predicted, throwing a few paper bills onto the table before they stood up to leave. “In any case, you can hold your own with the cachaça, which means you’re practically halfway there.”

  Jemma definitely felt a bit warme
r than she expected, and a good bit fuzzier as they walked out of the café. “I don’t know about that,” she said.

  “Nah, you’re doing great.” He reached out and steadied her arm with the briefest of touches as she stepped down into the street. “That was an even stronger bootleg cachaça he put into our caipirinhas.”

  She was too relaxed to even care that he’d practically gone out of his way to get her drunk. It was too fascinating watching the way his lips moved and his tongue rolled in his mouth as he said caipirinha.

  It took her another moment before she realized she was staring at his mouth. And then another moment before she realized he was moving it.

  “You want to go back to the hotel? Or stay out?” he asked.

  A caipirinha less and she might have deferred and done the polite thing. But Jemma glanced down the boardwalk, at the swirls of colorfully-dressed partiers, laughter and music spilling out of the bars lining the beach, and it wasn’t even a choice.

  They ended up at an open-air bar about half a mile down the boardwalk. Latin music pulsed and thumped with her own heartbeat as they walked in and headed toward the bar. He ordered again, his forearms leaning against the dark wood, the muscles clearly defined even in the dim light of the room, as he spoke to the bartender.

  Gabe exchanged a few paper bills for the two tall glasses and they retreated to a tiny table by the edge of the dance floor. It was warmer in there from the constant press of people even as the temperature outside dropped. He gestured upwards as she sipped her drink. Jemma glanced up and felt her breath catch at the sparkling cape of stars that was blanketing the town.

  It was far too loud with the music to even dream of talking, so Jemma felt perfectly safe to let her gaze wander to the dance floor and then back to Gabe when she was sure he wasn’t looking.

  At least she had been sure he wasn’t watching. After about ten minutes of her surreptitiously staring and enjoying the way the lights danced over his handsome face, he caught her red-handed with a lopsided smirk. But instead of saying anything, he reached out and grasped her hand with his, his palm damp with cool condensation from his mostly-empty glass. He quirked an eyebrow in the direction of the dance floor, and Jemma’s heart beat irregularly in her chest. She couldn’t dance—well, not like that anyway. But he only held on tenaciously and gave her a knowing shake of the head in answer to her silent protest.

  She finally gave in and followed him to the dance floor. He stopped when he found a tight but unoccupied corner. Looking down at her with an expectant smile, Jemma felt the nerves in her stomach sizzle. It was so loud, she couldn’t possibly tell him she didn’t know what to do, but at the same time, how could she not?

  Gathering all her courage, she rested her palms gently up his arms, raised on her tiptoes, craning her head up, and whispered right into his ear. “I can’t,” was all she said. At first she wasn’t sure he’d heard, but she felt the tremor that moved through his body at her contact. She was bolstered and buoyed with a tiny bit of confidence; he wasn’t as immune to her as he might pretend.

  “Like this,” he mouthed and his hands slid down her waist to her hips, positioning closer to him. So close, in fact, that Jemma could only gaze up at his dark amused eyes in shock as he pulled her right into the cradle of his legs.

  And then gently but insistently, he began to manipulate her body with the beat. She was stiff and awkward at first, but slowly she bent to his relentless rhythm, absorbing it into herself until it didn’t feel like there were two of them. Against everything rational, they’d become one being.

  Jemma didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the closeness of Gabe’s body, but her pulse seemed to ricochet with the bass of the music, beating hard and wild and out of control.

  She felt nothing like the hamstrung girl, afraid of hurting others and herself, of only two days ago. She was alive and free and sexy.

  For years now desire had been a double-edged sword. It teased her with possibilities she couldn’t indulge in. And long denied, hunger now raked along her nerves, lit by the alcohol and the nearness of a man she wasn’t sure she could resist.

  One song segued into the next, and the crowd grew wilder, but Jemma didn’t care if they were practically humping next to her because she’d let go of every worry she’d ever had about the way things looked. She just enjoyed—and not only enjoyed, but touched too. She slid her hands up his back, reveling in the strain of his muscles against the smooth cotton of his t-shirt, reached the soft downy hair at the base of his neck and stroked it before she even knew what she was doing. And it didn’t matter, because he closed his eyes and his arms flexed as his hands formed fists. It was the most abandoned seduction she could have ever imagined and they hadn’t said one word to each other.

  He led her off the dance floor and she hesitated, not wanting to lose the exhilaration of the moment, but it was only to the bar. They had another drink, her throat burning not just with alcohol but with all the things she wanted and was still too hesitant to ask for—even if he could hear her words over the pounding music.

  Jemma tried to say it with her eyes, and maybe she wasn’t far off, because he seemed to vacillate between amusement and something much hotter that she was a little terrified to name.

  They danced again, moving like they’d never stopped, his fingers intertwined with hers as they rocked together. She didn’t feel it at first, but at some point, the evidence he was as aroused as she was became plain even to her.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise because she was practically grinding against him and he was only human, but he must have seen the knowledge of it in her eyes because he took her hand and led her outside to the cool breeze and to what, she was certain he knew, was sanity.

  The problem was she didn’t want sanity any more. She wanted to rub against him and let their bodies overrule their minds.

  She stumbled onto the boardwalk, not drunk exactly, but euphoric, and completely determined to stop if him if he claimed they’d gotten carried away.

  She knew what he wanted, and was even more sure what she wanted.

  “That was fun,” she said, and all her bumbling indecision seemed to have melted away under a samba beat and too much cachaça.

  He stopped pulling her then and let her hand drop, turning to face her. Jemma could already tell by the indecision etched on his face that he was going to make an attempt to turn her away.

  “Maybe too much fun,” he said and for the first time that night, Jemma felt him grow more distant, not less. She didn’t like it all and so she took a step toward him and then another, until she was entrenched in his personal space. Not quite as close as they’d been dancing, but very nearly. Almost enough that if she glanced up at him, and leaned in just enough, their lips might touch.

  His eyes were so dark, just the color she wanted her coffee to be in the morning, and she couldn’t wait to drink him up. “I think,” she said softly, and was a bit rewarded to see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, “that you liked it.”

  He smiled, his lips suddenly curling into something naughty and decadent, and the thousand traffic lights holding her back flashed green one at a time like a chain of dominoes, urging her onwards. “I could say the same for you.”

  She threw him the most flirtatious look in her arsenal. “Why don’t you, then?”

  He nodded once, then again, clearly quite amused by her. “I shouldn’t. We should get you back to the hotel. You must be exhausted.”

  Jemma felt her window slipping away, felt him closing up as she pushed harder, and if she hadn’t been several caipirinhas down, she might have backed off.

  She didn’t. She tilted her head up just enough so that all it would take was a single movement in and they’d be kissing. “Not that exhausted,” she retorted. And then closed that last bit of distance and kissed him.

  If she’d been thinking clearly, she might have thought the most difficult part would be convincing him they both wanted to go past kissing. It might have been the
alcohol or the stars overheard or even Rio itself, but once they fell into each other, that was it.

  He kissed long and slow but insistent, like he was dying of thirst too, and couldn’t seem to get enough of her touch. Sober, she might have worried about the way she touched and where she touched and the fingerprint-sized bruises she was probably leaving all over him. But the cachaça in her blood was a blessing because there was no worry, only the freedom to enjoy giving and taking pleasure as he angled his head to kiss her deeper.

  At some point he must have moved them, because she felt the cool press of stone against her back. A wall or a building of some sort, and then his hands were moving across her stomach, her legs, burying in her hair and tilting her head so his lips could find her neck.

  For someone so tied up during the day, Jemma was quickly discovering that his still waters ran deep and hot. He had so much passion and it was all hidden away, buried, and she wondered briefly, for the split second she could truly think, why he had let her find it.

  His hand curled around the curve of her ass and she shuddered a little. “We shouldn’t,” he murmured against her skin, all while his kisses and his touch all seemed to contradict his words. Her only response was to let the rest of her inhibitions fly and slide her palm down his chest to where he rested hard against the zipper of his jeans. He shuddered as she cupped him.

  And then there was no more talking.

  Somehow—she wasn’t quite sure of the details, but she was fairly certain they involved some sort of pedestrian taxi—they made it back to the hotel. Under the dim, sophisticated light of the lobby, she glanced over at him, his lips berry red and the bottom lip swollen from her teeth, and she wondered if he was changing his mind, his expression distant and remote.

  But from the moment he slid the key into the lock, and the door closed behind them, she was on the bed and he was on top of her, sliding his hands underneath her clothes and loosening buttons and zippers and stripping his own shirt and pants off impatiently.