by Anne Marsh
Since she’d just wrapped things up, she’d texted back, Is that an offer?
Her phone vibrated seconds later.
Thought I’d give you a chance to apologize.
Uh-huh. Fingers flying, she mounted her defense.
For what? I’ve been a good girl.
He responded with a photo of his forearm. Whoops. She’d forgotten about her arts-and-crafts hoax. He might have a point about the need to atone.
Not that she’d tell him that—or that she’d been dying to see him again. After she’d accidentally on purpose woken him up at the lookout point, he’d walked her back to her bungalow, but he hadn’t come in. Hadn’t so much as given her a kiss goodbye. Which, okay, had kind of sucked. She’d known he had to work—after all, she did, too—but she’d been disappointed about the brush-off and had been secretly hoping he could carve out some time for them. However, she’d exercised amazing self-control and had resisted chasing him down. His text had been her reward.
When he knocked on her front door, Maddie opened it. Her heart fluttered as she slowly drank him in. The man had the best taste in shirts. Today he wore a faded navy blue T-shirt that hugged his taut chest and exposed his muscular forearms, along with blue jeans that were white around the seams and a pair of rugged black boots. God. She loved boots on a man. She doubted he’d picked out his clothes with her fantasies in mind, but just the sight of him, rumpled and strong and a little battered around the edges? Yeah. That sight got her going.
“Listen, uh, about the tattoo. If you want it removed—”
Not that she actually had any idea how to fix the letters she’d finger painted onto his arm, but the offer had to count for something, right?
Mason cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. We have better things to do.” He held up a wicker basket as though it was Exhibit A.
“Picnic?” She eyed the sky doubtfully. “It’s dark. Don’t picnics require daylight?”
He shrugged. “Since when do you follow all the rules?”
She knew she had a reputation for winging it, but she wasn’t sure the weather had gotten that particular memo, because the sky was overcast. She didn’t mind getting wet in a swimsuit, but eating in the rain seemed damper than necessary.
“It’s going to storm,” she pointed out, just in case he hadn’t noticed the clouds forming overhead.
He produced an umbrella. “Voilà.”
“Wow. He brings food and he speaks French.”
He rattled off a few phrases. The words sure sounded good, but he could have been reading her the French tax code for all she knew. “What did you say?”
His eyes warmed, getting that gleam she liked so much. The look that made her heat up, her girl parts jump up and down and go “Pick me!”
“Dirty French words I learned from a sailor. In alphabetical order.”
“God. That’s fabulous. Tell me more.”
She stepped outside, shoving her feet into her sandals. Since “you busy?” hadn’t spelled out the date-night possibilities, she’d opted for wearing a yellow-and-white-checkered sundress. The straps were tiny scraps of lace, more like a really nice picture frame for her boobs. She liked the way the full skirt felt swishing around her thighs, like a Southern belle.
“You look gorgeous,” he said, his voice husky. Mission accomplished. He clearly liked her dress, too. Maybe, if she was lucky, he’d like her out of the dress even better. Smiling, she followed him.
He’d picked out the perfect spot for a picnic on the beach. Palm trees surrounding them, the surf beating gently on the shore and the moon shining over the water.
“You give good dates,” she said softy.
He settled her on the sand on a blanket and popped the top on the basket. He’d brought champagne, which scored him immediate bonus points on her dating scorecard. He also had cold chicken, rolls, a chilled crème brûlée and strawberries. There were advantages to dating a chef.
She spooned up the last bit of her dessert. It was every bit as good as it had looked, and she must have made a noise.
Mason nudged her shoulder with his own. “Happy noise?”
“You bet.” She eyed the remnants of their picnic ruefully. “You have to know you’re an amazing cook.”
“Practice,” he said humbly.
“Where have you cooked?”
“Lots of places.” He stared out at the ocean, and she’d bet he wasn’t seeing the waves. “Do you cook?”
The last time she’d baked something from scratch had been...never. “I’m more of a cake-mix gal, although I do make a mean cake-tini.”
In fact, a cake-tini was her all-time favorite drink. Who didn’t like pineapple vodka and whipped cream?
He shuddered. “Cake mix doesn’t count.”
“Hey. If I want cake, I make cake. Duncan Hines and I are best friends.”
“Tell me what you want,” he said, watching her now and not the ocean. “And I’ll get it for you.”
“Cake?”
“That, too,” he answered.
* * *
MASON WASN’T ROMANTIC. In fact, he was a resounding hell no in that particular department. He’d fought battles in all four corners of the world. He knew a dozen ways to kill a man with his bare hands. He’d spent two weeks in a foxhole, drinking his own piss when the water ran out because that was what it took to get the job done and bring his team home. Dating Maddie to someone else’s script sucked.
Worse, it seemed to be working. Her eyes glowed as she grinned at him from the other side of their picnic blanket. She appeared to be enjoying herself, which made him want to smile himself. Instead, he filled her plastic champagne flute.
“It is Fantasy Island.” Her mouth curved up in the prettiest smile. “You going to tell me a fantasy?”
Good thing he wasn’t a drinking man, because that request made him choke.
“What do you know about fantasies?” Gray had explained the resort’s kinky cocktail menu to the team, but Mason hadn’t been entirely sure if he believed the team leader. Was that how Gray and Laney had gotten together in the first place? Did hotel guests really use drink names as code for the sexual fantasies they wanted to act out? It seemed simpler just to ask outright, but people got uptight about what they liked, or thought other people would judge them. Frankly, he was too old to surprise. He’d also spent plenty of time propping up the wall in various bars around the world while he waited for his fellow SEALs to wrap up a night of drinking, and the drinks lists were fairly predictable. Blowjobs, cherries and virgins. He got why that appealed to a bar full of men, but why would Maddie be interested?
She sighed and knocked back half of her champagne.
“You need to loosen up,” she informed him. “When’s the last time you had fun?”
“I’m having fun right now,” he pointed out.
“Oh.” She blinked and held her glass out. “That’s all right, then.”
He knew how to have fun. True, he didn’t do it like Levi, but he’d had plenty of good times. He topped off her glass, although he suspected she needed to go a little easier on the champagne. She snuggled into his side and he wrapped his arm around her, tugging her closer.
“Would you order off the drinks menu?”
He thought about that for a minute. “I’m not much of a drinker,” he admitted. “Maybe I could play bartender in this fantasy of yours.”
She stabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Not the alcohol menu. The sex menu.”
He should check the alcohol content on that champagne. “You know about that?”
She shrugged. “Everyone knows about it. I’d heard rumors before I landed. You can’t keep a thing like that secret. Point and pick.”
“Is that what you’re planning to do?” he asked hoarsely.
S
he set her glass in the stand, where it promptly fell over. “It doesn’t seem like my kind of thing,” she admitted. “It seems awkward. And what if the person you’re ordering with likes something different? Or didn’t realize you’d be asking?”
He met her gaze. “Ask me for anything.”
Because in all honesty, he’d be happy to have sex with her under pretty much any circumstances. If she wanted to say “I’d like a Long Slow Screw Against the Wall” instead of “Take me to bed and fuck me, big boy”? Well, those were just words, and all he cared about was her intent. And giving her multiple orgasms.
“True.” She wet her lips with her tongue, an expression of something on her face. He wasn’t sure what that something was, but he could guess because he was feeling plenty of things himself. Things like need and lust and an intense desire to strip her clothes off her and lick the champagne from her mouth. From other places, too, if she was feeling adventurous. He might not be much of a drinker if his drink came in a glass, but a Maddie-shaped cup was one big hell yeah.
He planted his hands on the picnic blanket and leaned in. She didn’t retreat. “Can I make you a drink?”
She breathed out unsteadily, the small puff of air teasing his mouth. Any closer and they’d be kissing. Kissing was good, but he really, really needed to hear her answer. She searched his face, as if he had a menu printed there. He didn’t know what she was choosing, but damn if he didn’t hope it was him.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes drifting closed, her body swaying closer. “But...”
“Tell me what your objections are and I’ll fix them.”
Her mouth brushed his. “I want a list of my options, okay?”
“Anything,” he growled, and he meant it.
Her eyes popped open and she giggled. “You can’t promise me that. What if I wanted to do something really kinky and you weren’t okay with it?”
He couldn’t imagine anything she’d want to do that he wouldn’t. Maddie talked big, she lived to shock him and she definitely didn’t filter her words, but he also got the sense that her experience wasn’t as broad as she liked to pretend.
“Feel free to shock me,” he added drily.
Another giggle. “You should have a safe word.”
He shot her a glance and started packing up the picnic basket. “Is your drink called Tie You Up? Or My Sweet Submissive?”
She blew out a breath. “Now you’re teasing.”
Only partly, although his personal tastes didn’t include ropes and whips.
“I’m all ears,” he said instead and tugged her gently to her feet.
“I really want to say the right thing,” she admitted, a slight hitch in her voice.
“There’s no right or wrong answer, Maddie.” And then, because she still looked uncertain and he’d never seen her hesitate, he said, “Do you read those magazine quiz thingies?”
“Like Cosmo? Sure. But if you do, you may have to surrender your man card.”
He shrugged. “I have four sisters. You’d be amazed at how many magazine quizzes I’ve taken. They liked to use me as the male benchmark.”
She grinned. “You took advantage of that, didn’t you?”
“You bet. Otherwise I wouldn’t have stood a chance. So here’s a quiz for you,” he continued, steering her up the beach and toward the guest villas. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he gave in to temptation and stroked his fingers over her hip. “You tell me which answer you’d have picked. You kiss your girl for the first time. After you break your lip-lock, you, A, tell her you’ve been fantasizing about kissing her for days—and that the reality is even better than the fantasy.”
She leaned into him, her breast brushing against his arm. “Next option?”
“B, whisper that she’s the hottest kisser ever—and you’ve got a list of other places you’d like to kiss her.” If she couldn’t think of places, well, he had a list just waiting on the tip of his tongue for her.
“Go on,” she said breathlessly.
“Or C, praise her kissing skills and beg her to do it again just so you can be sure.”
She sighed. “You make this hard.”
“Give me more words.” Unfortunately, his mind—and his dick—had precisely one interpretation of the word hard at the moment, and it was a very literal interpretation.
Her bungalow emerged out of the darkness. He should have walked slower.
She tugged on his hand. “Which would you have picked?”
“That’s easy,” he said smoothly. “D, all of the above.”
“Wow. You’re good.” She fished in her bag for her key. Then she smiled up at him, biting her lower lip ever so slightly, and something in his chest turned over. “Come in?”
Taking her up on her offer made him feel guilty, but it didn’t stop him from accepting. He kept a hand on the small of her back, steadying her when she tripped and launched herself at the door. Taking the key from her, he inserted it and opened the door.
“The bedroom’s through that door. I’ll be right back,” she said and headed for the bathroom.
Six steps took him down the hallway to her bedroom, where a tornado must have touched down recently, because clothes were tossed everywhere. Maddie wasn’t a tidy person. Apparently, she attacked getting dressed as gleefully as she did life. She also had awesome choices in panties. He stepped over the duvet that she’d wadded up and kicked to the floor. He’d bet she was as uninhibited in bed as she was licking whipped cream off his mouth.
Still, he didn’t want to pressure her into anything. She had to make the call about tonight because, God, he was a bastard. He’d stolen her laptop and shadowed her every footstep for days—even if she didn’t know it—and now he wanted to have sex with her? Yeah. Sign him up for the Asshole of the Month Club.
Maddie stepped into the room and his self-control problem was back just like that. It wasn’t just that Maddie was pretty, or that he really liked her. Because she was damn gorgeous and he did. She was Maddie. Liking her was pretty much a given. But she didn’t know he had an ulterior motive for asking her out, or that all this dating stuff wasn’t him. He was just following a script written by a magazine writer, and the ability to carry out directions didn’t make him worthy of having her.
“I should go,” he said brusquely. Off-limits, he reminded himself.
“Stay.” That was his Maddie. Blunt. Sexy. An unstoppable force of nature—although the champagne seemed to have put a dent in her ability to stand straight. She swayed a little and then pressed her palm against the wall to steady herself. She was cute when she was tipsy. Barefoot, she curled her toes into the hardwood, rocking backward as she stared at him, coming to some sort of decision. She’d painted her toenails bright red with little white daisies. That kind of decoration was hard to do, as he knew firsthand because his sisters had roped him into nail-painting duty more than once.
“Are you sure?”
“Two hundred percent.” She blinked at him. “I could make it three hundred percent though, if you’re feeling insecure.”
“Tell me you’re not drunk.”
She blew him a kiss. “I shouldn’t operate heavy machinery at the moment, but I’m not that tipsy. I’ll even make up drink names if it makes you feel better.”
“Yes.” Damn it. He sounded hoarse and more than a little desperate.
“Oh, good.” She launched herself at him. “I thought you’d never give it up.”
9
Ladies, tonight’s the night! That’s all I’m going to say, other than: wish me luck! I’m a woman on a mission and Mr. Fantasy Fodder doesn’t stand a chance. I’m ordering rose petals for the bed and a bottle of champagne (oh, all-inclusive resort! How I love thee!), plus I have what has to be the world’s biggest box of condoms. I am wondering though, how you all handle the pressure of t
he Wedding Night. I want tonight to be absolutely perfect. I want to blow his mind and be the best lover he’s ever had. Am I overthinking this? Underthinking it? I’m worried the main course will seem boring after all the fun appetizers. Help!
—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle
“YOU SURE YOU want to play games with me?” Mason’s gruff voice in her ear almost put the brakes on Maddie’s pleasure. Almost, but not quite. Trying to get him into bed had been like racing an iceberg. She’d been getting nowhere fast, but now he wrapped his arms around her, one hand pulling her closer to his muscled chest and the other cupping her butt, and that was a mighty fine answer. He wanted her. He definitely didn’t want to let go. And that made her insides feel molten instead of icy, so maybe there was hope for that iceberg after all.
“You talk too much.”
He stared down at her for a moment, all big, stern man, and then his mouth quirked up. “You’re telling me that I talk too much?”
Picky beast. She slid her hand beneath his shirt. The man had muscles on his muscles, but the rest of him was smooth with just a sprinkling of hair. The pair of dog tags was a nice surprise, too. Winding the chain around her fingers, she tugged him into kissing distance.
Then she slid him a glance. “I’m officially saying, ‘I told you so.’”
He spread his fingers over her butt, his fingertips grazing the crack. She was pretty sure they both felt the shiver that coursed through her. “About?”
“You’re not just a chef. Or you’ve been a busy boy in a former life.” She tugged on the metal tags around his neck, sifting the skin-warmed metal through her fingers. “Dog tags.”
“Maybe they’re decorative,” he suggested, his nonanswer more than enough answer for her. “Or maybe I’ve served a tour or two.”
Imagining him as a soldier wasn’t difficult. He had a watchful stillness about him, an awareness of his surroundings and an easy confidence in his body that she liked. “That’s it? No details?” She ran her fingers over the dog tags.
