“Ah, look what we have here,” he said as she followed him into the living room a moment later. Through the front door, which sported a long glass panel, she followed his eyes to a shopping bag on the front stoop bearing the Hotel Erotique logo.
“What is it?” she asked as he opened the door, admitting a salty sea breeze.
“I sent a text message to the front desk last night after we got here,” he replied, pulling the bag inside. She’d remembered him playing with his phone, but had assumed he was checking messages. “I asked the clerk on duty to open the gift shop and send a few things over.”
When Brent handed her the bag, she looked inside to find a cami, some cotton shorts, a Hotel Erotique thong with hot pink trim, and a pair of flip-flops.
“Just enough for you to get back to the room without feeling obvious this morning. No bra—but I figured you’re a big girl now and won’t freak out if anyone sees you without one between here and there,” he added with a wink.
She couldn’t help saying the obvious. “That was really thoughtful.” Then what was equally obvious. “But is, um, that sort of request normal? To have clothes sent to your place?”
“No,” he said simply.
“So, um, won’t that mean whoever handled the request will figure out you brought a guest here after a fantasy?”
“Probably.”
“Will you be in trouble for that?”
He gave a shrug, but she wasn’t sure if he was as relaxed about the question as he tried to act. “Other employees might be pissed since it is against the rules—but I guess that’s one perk of being an owner. They can be pissed without it really affecting me.”
As Brent found cereal bowls and toasted the bagels, Jenna took the opportunity to explore a little more. She wasn’t sure why—but this seemed like the best chance she’d get to see what made Brent tick, besides insatiable lust.
She perused the built-in shelves in the living room—which opened onto the kitchen—and other than some sexual psychology books, again found all typical stuff. Among the CDs, which ranged from the eighties to current music, she spotted some Stone Temple Pilots and a lot of Pearl Jam. Besides the sex books, she spied a few sports books, a world atlas, and several volumes on car repair—one specifically about classic Mustangs. “Do a lot of car repair here on the island, do you?” she joked.
Turning from the fridge with a small tub of margarine in his hand, he grinned. “I used to be into cars—before I came here.” So he’d given up cars for sex. She supposed when push came to shove, most guys would.
Then her eyes fell on an old photo album, the kind with sticky pages. Checking to make sure he wasn’t watching, she smoothly pulled it out and let it fall open.
Inside, she discovered snapshots of a younger Brent. She guessed him to be around twenty in most of them, and whereas he was a rugged, handsome man now, then he’d been a fresh-faced, just-as-good-looking boy. Quick glances told her he’d had a lot of friends—there were group pictures at parties, picnics, events she couldn’t identify. In one, he had his arm around a pretty yet plain sort of girl and she noted how comfortable they appeared together. Jenna might have thought it was a sister, except they looked nothing alike. She was struck by the girl’s simplicity—hardly the bombshell cheerleader type she would have expected Brent to hook up with at that age, or any age.
When she heard the toaster pop and Brent said, “Breakfast is served,” starting to butter the bagels with his back to her, she quickly returned the album to the shelf and made her way to the kitchen—she didn’t want to be caught snooping quite that much.
And as they ate and Brent started chatting about the other resort owners who were his neighbors, she was almost sorry she’d gotten this peek into his life, into how normal it all seemed.
Because being with him had been . . . well, easier when she’d thought he was so different from her. She was already in major lust with the guy, and she already felt way too much when she had sex with him. Or—hell—even when he watched her fool around with someone else. So she surely couldn’t start feeling attached in nonsexual ways, too.
She would be here for only another week, after all. And at heart . . . they were different. Very different. You have to remember that. He’s had sex with hundreds of women, maybe thousands. He’s happy living here on an island doing nothing but creating sexual fantasies for people and having still more sex. He’s no one to fall for. No matter how hot he is, no matter what crazily intimate things you’ve done with him—and for him.
You have to see him as . . . a sexual conduit, nothing more. Do not get any more attached here.
So she resolved not to ask him about anything else in the house—not where he got the peaceful beach painting over the sofa, or where he’d traveled, or who the people in the album were, or anything. She had to do what Brent was so good at—keep this all about sex.
So when they both stood up a little while later to carry empty bowls and plates to the sink, she set hers back down, stepped close enough to him to feel his warmth, and said, “Fuck me again.”
He lowered his chin, looking somewhere between amused and aroused. “Who’s the master here, sunshine?”
“Maybe I am. Or would I be the mistress?” Then she slapped his ass through his underwear and tried to sound more dominating than playful. “Now do it.”
It didn’t work—she just wasn’t the bossy type—but that didn’t keep Brent from easing his strong arms around her, planting them on her bare ass, and lifting her onto the kitchen table. He stepped between her legs, kissing her—kisses she could easily get lost in—but she still managed to reach inside his underwear. He was only half hard, but still big in her hand, and stiffening rapidly.
He let out a hot sigh when she squeezed and began to massage the length in her fist. “Mmm, sunshine, that’s nice. You’re getting better at this all the time.”
She didn’t answer, simply took pride in the fact that his cock had just become a stone pillar in her hand. “God, you’re so big,” she murmured, always amazed by it.
“And you like it,” he teased with sexy, half-shut eyes.
Why bother lying? “I love it. It scared me at first, but now I crave it.”
“You’ve done very, very well, Little Mary Sunshine,” he growled, “so here’s a reward.” And with that, he plunged the object of her lust into her waiting pussy.
As usual, she cried out. Mmm, God—she wasn’t lying about his size or how incredible it felt inside her. She parted her legs as wide as possible to welcome his thrusts.
Soon, though, he wrapped his arms around her waist and she curled her legs around his hips, and he carried her to the couch while still inside her. He eased back onto the creamy brown leather, which left her straddling him. “Oh, Brent,” she purred as hot lust rushed through her veins, “you feel even bigger like this.”
He cast a cocky grin. “I know. That’s why I brought you over here.”
In fact, it was almost a challenge to ride him in this position, with all her weight on him. She grew used to it as she found her rhythm—but she couldn’t help moaning deeply with every undulation, feeling truly impaled on his magnificent shaft.
“Oh God,” she groaned as he filled her, as she moved on him. “Oh God, oh God.”
“Work that sweet pussy, honey,” he said low, his dirty talk intoxicating to her now.
Oh God, this was so good, so hot. Without kinky settings or special costumes or disciplinary roles. It was steamy and perfect just to fuck him, in a T-shirt, on his couch. Like normal people. Normal lovers. With that thought in mind, she shut her eyes, let her body guide her swaying movements, and came.
Moments later, he came, too, after which she sank against him—truly, utterly exhausted from so much sex in less than twelve hours. She still managed to smile into his eyes, though, to say, “This is the first time I’ve been on top with you.”
His warm hands gripped the curves of her waist, under her shirt. “You look good up there, baby. Confident. Lik
e a woman who knows what she wants.”
“I do,” she teased him. “Your big, perfect cock.”
“Damn, I love to hear you talk sexy now. What a difference a few days make. You say ‘cock’ now like it’s nothing.”
“Oh, it’s far from nothing,” she assured him. “It’s my favorite part of you.”
He grinned, kissed her, and she wanted to melt in his arms. They rested together like that, until finally Brent said, “I’m afraid if we don’t get up, I’m gonna fall back asleep, and I have work to do today.”
Coming out of a sleepy comfort of her own, Jenna smiled into his eyes. “More fantasies to plan for me?”
He tilted his head. “You’re not my only guest, you know.”
Actually, she’d sort of forgotten that. He’d made her feel so special. “But the others are guys, right?”
“Right.”
“And you don’t take part in their fantasies, right?”
“Right again.” Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”
She tried to slough if off. “You don’t know by now that I’m nosy and inquisitive?”
“Crazy me—I forgot. And by the way, just so you know, no fantasy for you tonight.”
Still snuggling with him on the couch, she tried to hide her disappointment. “No?”
“Last night was a lot. You need some downtime. You have that spa appointment today at two, but the rest of your time is your own until you get new instructions tomorrow. Enjoy,” he said with a wink.
But she would have enjoyed it much more if her plans had included him.
They took turns in the shower, and while he was in the bathroom, she couldn’t help herself—she went back to that photo album. Able to look a bit more slowly now, she found pictures of young Brent at some sort of formal dance, with the same plain girl as before, although she looked prettier here in a blue gown with her hair piled on her head. She saw what appeared to be family pictures at Christmastime: Brent and a teenage sister—who did look like him—with his parents, opening presents; Brent wearing a Santa hat, making a silly face for the camera. She also stumbled upon college graduation pictures: Brent in a cap and gown. But he looked sullen in them compared to his friends.
As she climbed back on the golf cart with Brent a little while later, heading back into the wild world of the Hotel Erotique, she kept up the playful small talk, even grilling him for some hint about her next fantasy, but he didn’t budge. Yet when he let her off at her building with a kiss, as she walked away from him beneath the tropical sun, she began to feel . . . very worried.
Because yes, she’d come an amazingly long way. But . . . what if he was the only guy on the planet she could be this hot and wild with? What if she was healed . . . only with him?
And worse yet . . . despite her admonitions to herself this morning, she was beginning to think she’d made those resolutions far too late. Because parting with him just now had hurt, leaving her to feel ridiculously lonely. She still felt his kiss on her lips when she reached her room. And knowing she wouldn’t see him again until probably tomorrow night . . . well, it sounded like forever. And to think that after another week, she’d never see him again? Her heart physically ached.
The horrifying truth was—she’d fallen for Brent Powers. She’d fallen for him hard, and she had no idea how to save herself.
Chapter 9
Jenna had allowed herself the luxury of catching up on sleep that morning, and even after waking to look out on another glorious tropical day, she hadn’t felt inclined to venture out—so she’d ordered lunch in, then gone to the spa.
In addition to the massage, which had been fabulously relaxing and had indeed soothed her sore muscles, she’d gotten a facial and taken a mud bath. But after that, she’d felt a bit . . . bored, and remained out of sorts, all because of her newly acknowledged emotions for Brent. She suffered the insane urges of an in-love teenager—wanting to track him down, persuade him to spend time with her; time was so short, after all. And she’d resisted, of course, but she knew she needed to get her head straight about everything happening to her here.
Irritated with herself, she soon decided it would be wise to spend the evening much as she had her last evening alone. Rather than moping in her suite over her too-deep feelings for her guide, she pulled herself together and chose to continue soaking up the experience of being here as much as possible—even if in a more chaste way than usual. She put on a beaded tank and flowy skirt and went to dinner at the Paradise Grill.
She was slightly surprised to find the same calypso band playing, and she suffered mixed emotions. She’d loved their music, and she’d enjoyed the dance with her Blair Underwood look-alike, but she also felt a little embarrassed to see him again. Because she was unsure if any sexual vibes had passed between them—truthfully, she wasn’t used to recognizing such things if they weren’t as obvious as they’d been with Brent—and if something sexual had been there, would he think she’d come back because of him? And that brought up a familiar question: What did he think about the women who came here for sex? She was technically one of them now, no denying that. So did her handsome calypso singer think that made her a sex maniac, a slut, or maybe even worse—some lonely woman who couldn’t get it anywhere else?
Yet when his eyes met hers across the deck as he sang, she quit asking herself those questions. He simply gave off an air of utter . . . respect. And just now, in these strange surroundings, in the body of this strange version of Jenna Banks, she appreciated that—deeply. So when he smiled her way and offered a wink, she demurely smiled back and decided to enjoy this man’s simple, reverent attention. Maybe it was exactly what she needed to distract her from being so wrapped up in Brent.
Despite that, when the band eased into some soft reggae—“Is This Love,” a Bob Marley song she knew only because Shannon had gone through a Rasta phase in college—she couldn’t have been more surprised when the singer strolled slowly between the tables until he was crooning directly to her, the lyrics informing her he wanted to love her and treat her right. Her whole body went warm—partially with embarrassment, but the heat reached between her legs, too. When he lifted her hand for a kiss, her skin prickled, and the sensation skittered all the way down her arm and into her breasts. Oh my.
It was a relief when he moved on—even though she knew she had nothing to be self-conscious about. Sometimes it was hard to remember that everyone here had come for sex and was doing it with strangers—so having a handsome black man sing a romantic song to her was hardly a big deal.
Except that . . . well, this just shored up her fears. That she could be free and wild with Brent, but inside she remained the same old Jenna who shied away from sexual situations until she was deeply involved in a relationship. And now, after a few days and nights with Brent, she knew something else, too—what she’d thought was good sex for her entire adult life had actually been . . . pretty average. Even if, looking back, she could remember particular moments of glory, none held a candle to the level of pleasure she’d experienced here, with Brent Powers.
The band went on break when her food arrived, which bummed her out a little—her distraction was gone. Yet she’d already resumed being a little depressed, so she decided she’d just eat her chicken sandwich, then mope back to her room. Maybe she’d just be old Jenna tonight. Not that her old self moped—she never had, actually, because before coming here she’d truly been convinced she was happy with her sex life. But the old Jenna was content to spend an evening with a good book, and maybe that was the thing to do here. Quit pushing herself to stay “up” for every second of this. It was okay not to be immersed in sensuality every minute. In fact, it was probably smart. Soon life would go back to normal—so perhaps it was prudent to keep some aspects of it normal even while she was here, so the transition wouldn’t feel so shocking.
She’d just lifted her wineglass for a final sip when she looked up to see her sexy Jamaican heading her way. Oh boy. Her heart beat too fast, but she met his gaz
e and tried not to be nervous. She wished she felt as brave with him as when they’d danced together, but it seemed her most recent emotions with Brent colored her reactions to this man, too.
“I’m happy to see you back this evening, pretty lady,” he told her, his expressive brown eyes saying more. Sensing his honest admiration helped her relax a little.
Still, she tried to play it cool—since, in fact, she hadn’t returned because of him. “I enjoy your music,” she said, then gazed out over the setting sun and the blaze of colors it sent streaking across the sky. “And you can’t beat the view.”
When she looked back up, his eyes remained firmly planted on her. “The view is pleasant for me, too.”
Oh boy. His smooth-as-silk voice made her chest spasm lightly.
Just then, he glanced over his shoulder to where the other band members were reconvening on the deck’s small corner stage. “Ah, I waited too late to say hello—I must go, but you have a lovely night.”
“Well . . . thank you. For coming over,” she said, stuck for how to reply.
“The next song is for you,” he told her in parting, and she thought, Wow—okay, yes, there are officially sexual vibes passing between us. Which felt a little weird. She’d never been attracted to a man anything like this one before. He was a musician. He was Jamaican. She suspected she understood even less about his world than she did about Brent’s.
When the steel drums began again, she recognized the song—the reggae version of Peter Frampton’s “Baby, I Love Your Way.” Her calypso singer’s voice delivered the sensual lyrics with a sexy lilt she felt in her panties, especially when their eyes met.
Jenna remained at her table for a while longer, enjoying the music and the night, and all in all, by the time she departed, she felt better—about everything. So she was madly in love with Brent—big deal.
Well, all right, yes, it was a big deal. Because whether it was love or just infatuation, it could still totally consume her. But she had to be practical here. She’d known Brent a week—which meant that when she went home, she’d get over him. That simple. And maybe her fears about being able to get wild only with him were wrong—maybe she’d find out she could be sexually open with other men, too. After all, she was suddenly attracted to a Jamaican singer; so maybe she’d soon discover she was attracted to all sorts of new guys, and maybe they’d be guys who would inspire true sexual freedom in her and who would appreciate and understand if she shared with them the things she’d done here. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It was all uncertain—but for now it was . . . hope. Hope that she’d leave here with more than wild memories and a broken heart.
What She Needs Page 18
