Bad Apple

by Elle Kennedy

  Maggie grins. “Sounds like a plan.”

  A minute later, we’re in the back of the Lincoln and speeding into Nassau toward the marina, where a boat will be waiting for us. The sun begins to set just as we reach the marina, dipping toward the horizon and filling the sky with shades of pink and orange. I hide a smile as an awestruck Maggie stares at the gorgeous sunset. When was the last time she watched the sunset? Knowing her schedule, probably never.

  “That’s our boat,” I say as we get out of the car. I nod to the sleek speedboat docked at the end of the pier.

  Maggie visibly gulps. “How familiar are you with current shipwreck statistics?”

  I snort. “For fuck’s sake, you’ve never been on a boat either?”

  “No,” she sighs.

  Grinning, I take her hand and lead her down the sturdy wooden planks beneath our feet toward the boat. She seems uneasy as she climbs in, but her expression brightens the moment the driver gives it some gas. The speedboat slices through the calm water, which goes from transparent turquoise to navy-blue under the darkening sky.

  I sling an arm over Maggie’s shoulders and enjoy the salty breeze hitting my face. The last time I was in the Bahamas was a year ago. I came here with Sonja Reyes, a Brazilian model I’d dated briefly, and I’d been itching to come back ever since.

  While the islands boast plenty of celebrity-friendly resorts, I prefer Paradise Bay, which isn’t as blatantly lavish as some of the other hotels, but that’s why I like it. Private bungalows, deserted beaches, and best of all, the hotel is located near a wildlife reserve, making it hard for trespassers, aka the paparazzi, to loiter around.

  “Here we are,” the driver calls over his shoulder as he slows the boat and steers toward a long dock nearly hidden by thick foliage.

  “Pass me your bag,” I tell Maggie.

  She does, and I hop onto the wooden pier and extend a hand to help her out. A tall man in a burgundy blazer materializes out of nowhere and strides toward us, greeting me with a firm handshake. “Mr. Barrett, it’s good to see you again.” He drops a polite kiss on Maggie’s knuckles. “Ms. Reilly. I’m Marcus Holtridge, manager of Paradise Bay. Please, follow me.”

  He leads us to a golf cart, sandwiches himself between us, and signals the driver to go.

  The little car maneuvers the lush grounds of the resort, and I feel a rush of satisfaction at the wonder dancing in Maggie’s green eyes. I understand her reaction. This place really is gorgeous, with its perfectly manicured lawns, the little cobblestone paths weaving through the luxurious setting, bright exotic flowers everywhere you look. When Sonja first brought me here, I thought I’d died and gone to Eden.

  We motor past a man-made waterfall that flows into a small pond. Maggie nudges my arm and gestures to the school of fat koi swimming in the water. “Isn’t that pretty?” she says happily.

  I sweep my gaze over her rosy cheeks. “Sure is.”

  Marcus points out various points of interest. The tennis courts, the spa, the small but elegant casino where I lost five grand the last time I’d come. This is the perfect place to relax without worrying about your face being splashed on every newspaper in the country. And considering I promised my agent I’d lay low, I couldn’t have picked a better atmosphere to do that in.

  We finally reach our destination—a pale yellow bungalow nestled between majestic fronds, picturesque and private. The little house stands on a stretch of clean white sand, steps away from the ocean. Last time I was here, I left all the windows open at night, and the sound of the waves lapping against the shore lulled me to sleep.

  “This is beautiful,” Maggie confesses as we step into the large spacious room. Holtridge and the golf cart have discreetly left us to our own devices.

  A billowing white canopy hangs from the ceiling and drapes over the frame of the big mahogany bed. On the blue bedspread sits a wicker basket filled with fragrant soaps, papaya shampoos, face towels and other welcome items.

  I drop Maggie’s overnight bag on the polished floor. “You should see the hot tub.”

  “Hot tub?”

  “Follow me.”

  I lead her to the glass doors across the room and point.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says as her gaze follows my outstretched finger. The four-person hot tub, skillfully built under a cluster of palm trees and surrounded by boulders, gives it the appearance of a natural rock pool.

  “What do you say we get into our suits and hop in?”

  “I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

  “Don’t worry, when I asked the manager to leave a change of clothes for me, I made sure to request a few bikinis too. Go take your pick.”

  “How’d you pull all this together so quickly?”

  I shrug. “I’m Ben Barrett, remember?”

  As Maggie drifts over to the tall oak armoire, I walk toward the nightstand and reach for the telephone. “I’m going to make a quick call while you get changed.”

  I dial my agent’s number and wait. From the corner of my eye I see Maggie grab one of the bathing suits off a hanger and—is she actually going into the bathroom to change? Christ. Like I haven’t already seen her naked a dozen times.

  “Fuck, Ben, where are you now?” Stu demands without saying hello.

  “The Bahamas,” I reply.

  “Wonderful. Absolutely frickin’ wonderful for you. It warms my heart that you’re sunbathing on a beach while I’m working my ass off here.”

  “I thought you convinced the media I wasn’t abducted.”

  “I did, but they still think you’re up to something fishy. The prostitute angle is old news. So is the elopement with the mysterious hotel chick. Now the consensus is that you’re shacked up with another married broad.”

  “I was never shacked up with a married broad before.”

  “Of course not.”

  My jaw tightens. Stu has been my agent for nine years and counting, and the man seriously doesn’t have faith in me?

  “There have been a few positive developments, though,” Stu says, his tone all business now.

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “Two high-budget screenplays landed on my desk, and the studio contacted me about a sequel for McLeod’s Revenge.”

  “Are you joking? McLeod’s Revenge Two? The guy already got his damn revenge, what more is he after?”

  “Who cares? It’s money in our pockets.”

  Is it possible to loathe one little phrase this badly? I’m so sick of talking about money. What happened to artistic expression? Thought-provoking, quality scripts? Challenging roles?

  “Oh, and Alan Goodrich wants to meet with you.”

  I almost drop the phone. “What?”

  “He called to set up an appointment.”

  “Business or personal?”

  “He didn’t say. But, seeing as you were screwing his wife, I doubt he wants to meet up so he can offer you a part in his new World War Two epic.”

  “Goodbye, Stu.”

  I hang up the phone before I say something I’ll regret. My insides churn with the slow boil of injustice I’ve swallowed back for months now. If I wanted to, I could phone up all the major media outlets and set the record straight about Gretchen, the inheritance and the reasons behind the whole goddamn mess.

  But I don’t want to.

  Let the world think what they want of me. Let them say whatever they feel like saying about me. My private matters aren’t anybody’s business but my own.

  “You okay?”

  Maggie’s soft voice brings me back to the present. She stands at the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around her waist and tucked under her breasts.

  “I’m fine. Just checking in with my agent.”

  “Did I hear you talking about a movie sequel? That sounds cool.”

  I stride toward the armoire and rummage around until I find a pair of swim trunks. The staff has also supplied me with a stack of clean clothing. Jeans, T-shirts, boxers, even a crisp black tuxedo draped on one o
f the hangers. The tux gives me an idea, which I store in the back of my brain as I quickly peel off my shirt.

  “I guess it would be cool,” I respond, “if I wasn’t turning down the part.”

  “Why would you turn down—” Her voice halts the second I drop my pants.

  “Everything okay?” Chuckling at the tantalizing blush on her cheeks, I slowly slip into my swim trunks, tugging at the material when it snags over my growing erection.

  “You have no shame,” she grumbles, openly staring at my cock.

  “Nope.” I tighten the drawstring and step toward her. “Now can we please get in that hot tub and finish what we started on the jet?”

  21

  Maggie

  I have never been so excited to be naked before. Well, not fully naked. I’m wearing this indecent string bikini as I lower my body into the bubbling water, and Ben has his trunks on as he joins me. But we don’t need to be naked for me to know we’re about to have wild, sweaty, hot tub sex. I honestly can’t wait. Since I met Ben, I’ve had sex in more new places than I can count: the shower, the kitchen counter, the living room floor, a private jet. Might as well add hot tub to the growing list.

  “I want to tear that bikini off with my teeth.”

  “What?” I shiver despite the near-boiling water lapping against my body.

  Ben shoots me an endearing smile. “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can’t fault a guy for being honest.”

  I shift so that one of the jets presses directly against my tailbone, and my muscles turn to jelly as the pressure slowly massages my skin. Overhead, a spatter of bright stars lights up the clear night sky. I tilt my head to take in the gorgeous view, breathing in the scent of salt and earth.

  This is nice. I hadn’t wanted it to be nice, but it is. I haven’t taken a vacation in…well, I’ve never taken a vacation. The strange rush of relaxation coursing through me feels completely foreign.

  “You’re too far away,” Ben complains.

  With a roll of my eyes, I scoot over so we’re side by side. Arm touching arm. Thigh against thigh.

  He instantly drapes one wet arm around my bare shoulders and slides his hand to give one of my boobs a firm squeeze. “Much better.” He slants his head and shoots me a mischievous look. “Wanna make out?”

  I laugh. “Sure. Maybe afterwards we could go to the malt shop and share a milkshake with two straws.”

  He doesn’t seem to mind my teasing. If anything, his grin only widens and, as usual, he wastes no time covering my mouth with his.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this man’s kisses. They’re long and intoxicating. Hurried. Rough. Taking it slow? I doubt he knows what that means. Oh no. His lips and tongue simply take what they want without permission.

  Not that I mind. His hungry claim of my mouth steals the breath from my lungs and makes my chest constrict with burning need. Each hot, toe-curling kiss ends with a gasp from me and a groan from him, until I’m squirming in the warm water eddying around me.

  Pulling back, Ben nips playfully at my earlobe. “Why do you still have that bikini on?”

  “I’m waiting for you to tear it off with your teeth, remember?”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “More like a dare.”

  “I like the way you think, Red.”

  Water splashes over the edge of the hot tub as Ben moves in front of me. He rests on his knees, his chiseled torso disappearing into the water with a splash of clear bubbles. “I’ll begin with your bottoms,” he says, his voice professional and matter-of-fact.

  The last thing I see before he ducks under the water is the dirty grin on his face. I jump when his mouth latches onto my hip and tugs at the strings holding my bottoms together. His teeth graze my skin. He tugs again and then one half of the triangle comes loose.

  Ben surfaces, wiping droplets off his handsome face. His expression is weirdly grim. “I’m sorry to inform you that I couldn’t save the knot to the right of your hip, Ms. Reilly. I have high hopes for the left one, however.”

  I choke back a laugh as he submerges again, and then shiver when he unties the other side. The bikini bottoms float to the surface at the same time as my mischievous movie star.

  “Couldn’t save the left one either. It’s gone,” he says, pointing to the shiny green material as a current of water carries it away to the other side of the rock pool.

  “You’re a sad excuse for a doctor,” I say with mock anger.

  “That’s what the producers at General Hospital said before they fired me,” he answers with a rueful smile. “I couldn’t pronounce chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy.”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “To this day I still don’t know. But I sure as fuck know how to say it now.” He winks and then lowers his gaze to my boobs, which are still covered. “I should take care of that.”

  He skims his fingers over my wet shoulders and maneuvers me so that my back is to him. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, waiting for the sting of his teeth against my skin. A shaky breath slips free when my top comes loose and my breasts are bared.

  My nipples instantly jut out, hardening even more when I shift and one of the jets blasts a gushing rush of heat right against my chest.

  “So…your bikini is dunzo,” Ben whispers into my neck. “What should I bite next?”

  I twist around to look at him. “Are you going to do that all night?”

  “Do what?”

  “Narrate.”

  “Why, does it turn you on?”

  I mull it over. “I’m actually pretty indifferent to it.”

  “Indifferent? No woman of mine is ever allowed to feel indifference in my presence, babe.”

  No woman of mine?

  Before I can figure that one out, Ben brushes a light kiss over my lips. “Trust me, babe, by the time I’m finished with you, you’re going to love my narration.” Then he reaches down and cups my breasts. “Now hush. Your tits require my attention.”

  A jolt of desire streaks across my belly and settles into an impatient throb between my legs.

  With a roguish smile, he dips lower into the water and sucks one of my nipples between his lips. A breath blows out of my mouth and dissolves into the steam rising from the hot tub. Ben’s tongue begins a torturous assault on my nipples, licking and swirling, sucking and nipping. Each time the scrape of his teeth brings a delicious sting of pain, he licks and kisses it away, driving me crazy with need, until I give a primitive cry and sink under the water like a lump of clay.

  With a chuckle, he grabs my hips and raises me up. “I think it’s time for my fingers to get involved,” he says with a decisive nod.

  The bubbles from the jets restrict me from seeing his hand, but I sure as hell feel it. Feel his fingers running down my slit, feel his thumb rubbing circles over my clit.

  The throbbing grows worse. “No fingers,” I choke out. “I need more.”

  “Sorry, we haven’t reached that part of the narrative yet.” He offers an apologetic shrug and continues his exploration of my pussy.

  I groan and fumble for the waistband of his trunks. “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.” He skillfully pushes my roaming hand away. “And stop interfering.”

  I almost bristle at his commanding tone, but the hunger swarming his gaze stops me. It’s obvious he wants me, and for a girl who’s never been wanted all her life, I experience a sense of pride from his lust-filled expression.

  I grip his broad shoulders and rock my hips to meet the wicked thrusts of his fingers. I’m all but riding his hand, and the orgasm hits me hard and fast, a wave of pleasure rippling through my body as I clamp my lips together to stop from crying out. I gasp for air, inhaling a cloud of steam that warms my cheeks. Heat consumes my body, heat from the fire of pleasure between my legs, from the water surrounding my body, and the island breeze kissing my face.

  “So, I think—” Ben starts.

/>   “No more talking,” I order, rising from the tub on unsteady feet.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Inside. Where I’m going to lie naked on the bed. And you’re going to follow me, and take those damn trunks off, and then we’re going to fuck each other’s brains out.” I roll my eyes. “How’s that for a narrative?”

  Ben grins. Without another word, he pinches my bare ass and chases me into the bungalow. As I promised, I stretch out on the bed, naked and wet, watching as he reaches for the waistband of his swim trunks. A second later, he’s gloriously naked, all tanned skin and hard muscle and tattoos. And his dick is so hard, my inner muscles give an involuntary clench.

  The teasing light leaves his blue eyes, replaced with another dose of pure, unrestrained hunger. I shiver under his hot stare, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood about to be consumed whole by the big bad wolf.

  He sheathes himself with a condom that seems to materialize out of nowhere. Then he lowers himself on top of me and rubs the tip of his cock over my swollen pussy.

  “Maggie,” he rasps.

  I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he tangles one hand in my damp hair, places the other on my hip, and kisses me at the same time he drives deep inside me.

  My body stretches to accommodate him, and I instantly squeeze my muscles around his shaft and arch my hips to bring him deeper. He groans and digs his fingers into my waist, then slides all the way out only to pump right back in with a greedy thrust. My gaze strays to his biceps, where his tats seem to vibrate each time he flexes.

  His eyes narrow into slits. “Fuck,” he croaks. And then he stops moving.

  I grin up at him. “You’re close?”

  He responds with a mumbled expletive.

  I slide my hands down his sinewy back. He’s got muscles in places I didn’t even know had muscles. “What are you waiting for then?”

  “You.”

  “Me what?”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me just how much you want it.” He rotates his hips and then withdraws again, his pace excruciatingly slow.