What She Needs

by Lacey Alexander

  “Yeah. Why, sunshine? What’s wrong?”

  Jenna’s heart rose to her throat. “I just came from my massage,” she informed him.

  “Ah,” he said, suddenly sounding playful, amused. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Her chest tightened until she could barely speak. “I . . . thought I did.”

  “Uh . . . what does that mean?” He suddenly sounded as confused as she felt.

  “It means I assumed . . . you were there. Somewhere. Or watching through a hidden camera or something. Are you telling me you weren’t?”

  He stayed silent for a moment and Jenna’s chest hurt so much she feared it would burst. “No, honey, I wasn’t.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not customary for your guide to be at or observing all your fantasies.”

  “You always have before. Even at the Grotto,” she reminded him.

  “I was at the Grotto to see how things went, to gauge your progress. I never actually meant for you to know I was there—I just fucked up and didn’t stay out of sight well enough.”

  “Hmm,” she said. Because it was all she could say. Other words completely eluded her, trapped in her throat by the anger beginning to spread all through her. He’d done this on purpose. He’d just reminded her last night, after all, that she’d only agreed to all of this on the condition that he would be part of her fantasies—it was very clear to them both that she wanted, needed, him there. He’d done this to remind her she was only a job to him, a project.

  “Jenna, are you okay?”

  She suddenly found her voice. “Other than the fact that I feel completely betrayed and abandoned? Sure—I’m just fine.”

  She heard him blow out his breath on the other end of the line. “Jenna, please don’t feel that way. This was the same as any other fantasy—meant to bring you pleasure and expand your horizons in a new direction. Nothing more, nothing less. If it brought you the intended pleasure, then mission accomplished and you should be happy about that.”

  “Don’t tell me how to feel,” she snapped. Then, as the full measure of his betrayal hit her, she simply pushed the disconnect button.

  She couldn’t bear to talk to him any longer if he was going to argue with her about it, tell her she was wrong to have the emotions she did. She’d done something sexual with Courtney that she wouldn’t have—plain and simple—if she’d known Brent really wasn’t involved in any way. It made the experience feel . . . empty. No, worse. She almost even found it a little repulsive.

  Because she just wasn’t like the other people here. Try as she might, she hadn’t come here for the sole purpose of getting off. After all of this, sex, to her, still meant more. At the very least, it meant sharing something intimate with someone she trusted. And she’d trusted Brent so, so much. She’d trusted him with . . . everything, with all of her—her emotions, her thoughts, her past, her body, her pleasure. She’d trusted him and he’d just . . . abandoned her.

  I hate him.

  No, that was a lie—she wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t, because she loved him.

  Yet she hated what he’d done to her, and she was going to make damn sure it didn’t happen again. She was done with this, done with him! And she was getting the hell out of the Hotel Erotique, once and for all.

  Chapter 14

  Jenna marched up the sunny beach. Because the moment she’d decided to end her experience here at the resort, she knew she needed to see Brent one more time. To finish this.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs as she trudged through the hot sand toward his house. When she reached the bungalow, she didn’t bother knocking; instead, she yanked open the door and barged right in.

  She found him standing in his living room, cell phone pressed to his ear. He looked fairly frantic. “I’ve been trying to call you back—why did you hang up on me?”

  She didn’t answer, though. Instead, she said, “Susan B. Anthony! Marie Antoinette! Cleopatra!”

  “What?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.

  “Oprah Winfrey!” she continued. “Amelia Earhart!”

  Then he stood up a bit straighter, his expression telling her he suddenly understood.

  “That’s right,” she confirmed. “I want out of this—now!”

  He simply met her gaze for a moment, and she kind of wanted to cry—because seeing him again made her chest contract, because she was so crazy about him and only wished he hadn’t misled her. “Tell me why,” he finally said, his voice gentle.

  “You know why. I just engaged in a sexual act under false pretenses.”

  “How false could it have been if you came?” he protested.

  “I only came because I thought you were watching me. If I’d known you weren’t, I would have declined everything beyond the regular massage. I was only into it because . . . I thought I was sharing it with you.”

  Brent pulled in his breath, let it back out. She couldn’t read his face. “It’s my responsibility, at this point, Jenna, to . . . prepare you for sex without me. Surely you can see the logic in that.”

  Jenna blinked, sighed, feeling sad. Sure, she could see the logic. But what she mainly saw was that nothing had really changed for her here, after all—she still couldn’t have casual sex. Somehow Brent had made everything feel intimate, like a connection, something deep and emotional as well as physical.

  When she didn’t reply, he went on. “You’ve had sex with lots of people here. Why is what happened today so different?”

  But Jenna simply shook her head in response. “No, I haven’t,” she explained. “I haven’t really had sex with anyone but you.”

  “What?” He didn’t get it.

  And she was determined to make him understand. “I’ve had sex you’ve ordained. I’ve had sex you’ve orchestrated and demanded and urged and encouraged. I’ve had sex with you physically, and sex with you mentally when you were there watching. It all felt like having sex with you. All of it. But today was the first time I really had sex here without you.”

  Brent sat down on the leather sofa, ran his hands back through his hair. It was small comfort that his reply came out sounding guilty. “Jenna, I thought you needed today’s fantasy. I’m sorry, but it’s what seemed best to me.”

  “I’m so tired of hearing what you think I need,” she told him, not so much angry now as exasperated, weary. “The fact is, you needed this fantasy—not me. You needed to . . . start erecting walls between us. So you wouldn’t care so much about me. So you won’t miss me when I’m gone.”

  “I just did what I thought made sense,” he replied calmly.

  The non-response sliced through Jenna’s chest like a knife. “Well, screw you,” she said, full-blown anger returning. “I don’t want any more of your stupid fantasies! I’m done with this place—I’m going home!”

  She turned to go, only to hear him say, “Wait.”

  Looking back, she saw that he’d pushed to his feet and moved toward her.

  “You have the power now,” he said gently.

  “What?”

  “No more submission for you—now you’re the powerful woman in control.”

  “Damn right I am—and I choose to go home.”

  “No, Jenna,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t you want more mind-opening experiences here? What happened just now was only one fantasy—I wasn’t planning on backing out of your fantasies for good. Don’t you want to know what else I’ve got planned for you?”

  Oh God, did he think it was that easy? That he could lure her back under his spell with offers of more sex? “No,” she answered simply.

  “I wanted to make you into a powerful Tudor noblewoman,” he went on, “who chooses which of her peasants must pleasure her. I wanted to take you to the Wild West and make you a powerful, in-demand saloon girl who can choose any man she wants. I wanted to take you back to the dungeon, Jenna, but this time you’d be the dominatrix, calling the shots.” He offered up a weak, pleading smile. “You can punish me this time, and I�
�m guessing right about now that sounds good to you.”

  “No,” she said again, adding some bite to the word.

  “Then what about a beach fantasy?” he asked, speaking more softly. “Something sexy, simple, like you put on your questionnaire. I’d love to give that to you, Jenna.”

  Oh, hell. But . . . “No,” she said once more, even if that one held an enormous amount of appeal.

  And yet he still didn’t give up. “Jenna,” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand, “why don’t you tell me about the massage fantasy—tell me everything that happened. Then it’ll be like I was there with you. I would love for you to tell me.”

  Wow, part of Jenna was tempted. She knew it would excite him to hear about her encounter with Courtney. And they would start kissing, and touching—and she’d get to have him inside her again, the most glorious feeling she could imagine.

  Maybe he’d finally admit he had feelings for her.

  Maybe she’d find a way to feel good about letting this continue.

  Maybe he’d promise to be with her every step of the way from now on, and she’d believe him.

  But conservative Jenna tended to protect herself. She’d always been a once-bitten-twice-shy kind of girl—once someone hurt her, let her down, she never gave them a chance to do it again. She just wasn’t capable of feeling the same level of trust once it was breached.

  So no matter how nice it sounded to let Brent fuck her on the beach or how hot it sounded to turn him on by telling him about the massage, Jenna knew it would never feel the same to her, never feel right to her, again.

  Taking a deep breath, she drew her hand away from his. “No, Brent, I can’t. It’s time for me to go.”

  Then she turned around to walk out of his house, and out of his life, heading up the beach feeling stalwart and strong. She even managed to get halfway back to the resort before she started to cry.

  Within an hour, Jenna had booked a flight home from Miami and called the front desk to arrange for her transport there—Gabe would pick her up from the open-air lobby at noon tomorrow.

  Every time she thought of Brent, her stomach hurt. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her here. Was she truly stronger, freer, more in charge of her sexuality? Or was having fallen in love with her guide going to leave her weaker than ever?

  As she sat on her balcony trying to read—clearly, she’d have to immerse herself in the Civil War memoir somewhere else, since it just wasn’t working for her at the Hotel Erotique—she felt almost . . . conquered somehow. And she didn’t like it one bit. In fact, she had no intention of leaving here feeling worse off than when she’d arrived.

  So she needed to perk herself up. And she decided a pretty sundress and a late dinner at the Paradise Grill—one of the few normal things she’d done here—would be a good start.

  As she tied a yellow and orange multiprint halter dress behind her neck, she hoped like hell Brent wouldn’t show up there as he had the last time, but if so, she could always leave. And it was far past most people’s normal dinnertime, so maybe he’d already be in for the evening.

  Since she hadn’t heard from him in the hours since she’d left his house, maybe that meant he’d accepted her decision to go. Or—hell, for all she knew, he was deeply immersed in some other guest’s sex fantasy right now, fucking someone else the same way he’d fucked her, and she was the last thing on his mind.

  Upon being shown to a table not far from the stage, she looked up to see her calypso singer just about to break into song—but he gave her a smile, punctuated with a sexy wink, before he began.

  As usual, she enjoyed the island music, the warm night air, and the tiki torches burning in the darkness. Heartbreak kept her appetite light—she ordered only a salad and fruit cup—but the meal and everything around her provided a nice distraction from what had happened today. This was much better than moping in her room.

  When the band took a break, her debonair Jamaican singer made his way to her table. “I was pleased to see the pretty lady had returned.”

  “I . . . needed a pleasant evening with some good music,” she informed him with a slightly strained smile.

  “I hope you’re getting what you came for, then,” he said, the sentiment somehow holding an air of sensuality.

  “Very much so,” she assured him.

  He gazed down at her, looking speculative, maybe hopeful—until finally he spoke. “I’m soon done for the night, so . . . I wonder if the pretty lady would consent to a walk on the beach with me.”

  The request caught Jenna off guard. It was one thing for a singer to flirt with someone in the audience, another to suggest more. Her first impulse was to decline—but . . . why? He’d been so respectful of her each time they’d met, and he’d made her feel attractive, and special. Why not let him do it some more? And . . . well, if she couldn’t even take a walk with a handsome man when invited, she definitely hadn’t gained any freedom here. She needed to find out she was wrong about that—she needed to prove to herself she could be more carefree than when she’d arrived.

  “That sounds lovely,” she finally replied, and he smiled.

  “What’s your name?” he asked as they stepped down into the soft sand. Both carried their shoes, and he had rolled up the cuffs of his tan pants.

  “Jenna,” she said.

  “Ah, I should have known—a pretty name for the pretty lady.” He cast a gentle smile in her direction. “I’m Andre.”

  As they reached the shoreline, the tide washing up over their toes as they walked, she returned the smile, then asked politely, “So, do you do this often, Andre? Invite women here for walks on the beach?”

  “No. This is, in fact, the first time.”

  She found herself casting him a look of doubt, teasing—yet wanting to protect herself again.

  “I tell no lie, pretty lady,” he said. “My band has played here only a few weeks. We work in Miami, mostly. But this place pays well, so I find myself back on an island for a month—then we’ll see what happens.”

  Hmm—so maybe he really was just as respectful as she’d thought. She couldn’t help wanting to know more about someone so different from her. “Tell me about your life, Andre. Are you . . . married or anything?”

  He gave his head a quick shake. “No, I’m not the sort of man to cheat. I once had a wife, but . . . she didn’t feel the same way.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jenna told him, sincerely.

  Yet he only shrugged. “I married too young. It was after leaving her that I left Jamaica, too.”

  “And have you been happy since then?”

  Another shrug. “The world is a big place and it’s good to see much of it. Broadens the mind. But I miss home sometimes. I visit, but it’s not the same as living there.”

  “Will you ever go home?”

  He gazed at the moon shining down on the water. “Could be. I think of myself like a palm frond in the wind—I go where the sea breeze blows me. Right now it’s blown me here, to this beach, with a pretty woman named Jenna. So right now, I’m happy to be exactly where I am.” And with that, he gently slipped his hand into hers.

  And she let him.

  “What about you, Jenna? Married? Single? Someplace in between?”

  “Very single,” she assured him.

  “And adventurous.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and at first she wondered why he assumed that—but then she realized, and the warmth of a blush blossomed in her cheeks. “Oh, you mean because I’m here, at the Hotel Erotique.”

  She could see he was instantly sorry to have made her uncomfortable. “It’s not my business—don’t be embarrassed. I’m a great fan of freedom, and I admire the freedom I see in people here.”

  “But . . . I’m not like other people here, and despite what I might wish, not all that free.” It felt important to make him understand she wasn’t the average Hotel Erotique guest, although she kept the explanation simple. “I won the trip—without really understanding what
it was about.”

  Andre turned toward her as they strolled, his eyes going wide. “A big mistake.”

  “You can say that again,” she muttered, adding, “but I came anyway.”

  “And are you glad?”

  “I’m . . . undecided about that right now,” she admitted in complete honesty.

  “Oh?”

  And maybe she was a little freer than she thought, since right here, in this place and time, with this handsome Jamaican man on an island somewhere in the Caribbean, she saw no reason not to keep being honest. “I discovered that . . . it’s easy to get caught up in the mood of this place, easy to become someone you’re not. I’m not sure . . . who I’ll be now, when I go back home.”

  “The way I see it,” he said, “is that wherever you go, you’re still you. Some places allow a person to . . . find new parts of themselves. Yet . . . new is not the right way to say it—no—because I believe all the parts were already there. So I should say that some places allow a person to . . . release parts of themselves.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, that’s better.”

  Jenna was unsure if she agreed. “So you’re saying a place can’t change you?”

  “Like I said, seeing new places expands the mind. It can only open you up, help you see some of yourself you maybe didn’t see before—but I don’t believe it can change you. Whatever you are, you are. People are complex, pretty lady—no? I think you’re complex, too.”

  Hmm. “Maybe . . . more than I thought,” she confessed. “But I’m still not sure I’m happy about it.”

  He smiled at her. “Ah, that is not wise. Celebrate what you are.” He gave her a solid once-over. “I see a lovely lady who turns sad, and I’m sorry if I made you that way.”

  Jenna shook her head, quick to absolve him. “Oh, no, it’s not you. It’s something else. And I’m more than happy to walk on the beach and try to think of other things.”

  “And I am happy to give you something else to think of.” He still held her hand, so when he stopped walking, she did, too. Then he took her other hand in his, his eyes sensual and suggestive in the moonlight—after which he leaned in to gently kiss her.