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“Oh, Jane. Please. . . I’m sorry. Listen to me.”
But I couldn’t listen. Too much terror was crashing through my thoughts.
Henry reached for my wrists and gently wrapped his fingers around them. “Jane. Listen to me.”
He cupped my chin, guiding my gaze to his pleading eyes. “I know you enjoyed what we did, and please believe me when I say that I had the most wonderful and probably the most erotic experience of my life, too. You are incredible, sexy, and very, very beautiful, and I have no idea why you chose me, but I’ll never forget you. Or what we did.”
I softened beneath his comforting monologue.
He cupped my cheek and smiled that gorgeous smile. “Thank you.”
I tried to smile back, but it was probably more like a grimace. I cocked my head. “How did you learn how to do that . . . that thing with both of your hands?”
He blinked at me and lowered his eyes for the briefest of moments, then met mine again. “My wife taught me. Good sex is about good communication. If you and your partner tell each other what you like, then both of you will enjoy incredible sex.”
I just needed a partner to tell. I wriggled from his grasp. “Please promise you’ll never tell anyone.”
He drew a cross on his chest. “I promise. One other thing, though, Jane.”
“Yes.”
“What I did to you upstairs is not something you can do on your own.”
I frowned at him. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying, that like Iced VoVo’s, some things are meant to be shared.”
Before I poured my broken heart out to him, I walked across his penthouse toward the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Addison.”
“Goodbye, Memphis.”
After I showered and crawled into bed, I reached for my diary and turned to the 20th of January. At the top, I wrote Mr. Henry Addison, room 51 - My Suave Silver Fox. Then I lined the page with detailed descriptions of what Henry had done with his hands to make my body sing over and over.
I put the diary aside and rolled onto my stomach.
The sound of the crashing waves below matched the thoughts crashing through my mind that catapulted from the handsome older man in designer jeans with talented hands who took my body to limits it had never reached before, to getting busted and losing my job and ruining my whole life.
I’m fucking fucked.
Today was Australia Day, exactly three years after I first met Lolita’s family, and once again, we hit the beach for the public holiday festivities. It was a perfect day, not too hot or humid, and the subtle breezes drifting off the ocean and over the beach toward us were warm yet refreshing.
However, the perfect weather had drawn crowds to Surfers Paradise in the thousands. The beach was packed—families, tourists, teenagers, elderly couples . . . it seemed like all of Australia had decided to come to the Gold Coast today.
The first time I’d ever dipped my toes in beach sand was the day I’d arrived on the Gold Coast to take up my position as night manager at the Hot Horizon Hotel. The beach had mesmerized me then. It still mesmerizes me now.
There was something timeless about the wild purity of the ocean, the endless grains of sand and the golden sun. I loved it. If I had my way, I’d live near the beach for the rest of my life, much to my mother’s horror. She hoped I’d one day return to my hometown of Mildura. But that would never happen, not while my stinking bastard ex-fiancé and his future wife, my ex-best friend, were still living there.
Calvin, Lolita’s husband, was waist-deep in the ocean, clutching his son’s boogie board as he prepared Maddox for the next wave. Even from this distance, the love between father and son was evident. Calvin was the perfect husband and the perfect father. And to top that off, he was handsome. No, he was more than that; Calvin was fucking gorgeous, and no matter where he went, he turned heads. Yet there was a naïve innocence about him that made him more attractive.
Any other woman would have their hands full with a husband like Calvin, but not Lolita. She was a goddess in her own right. Her body was known to have both men and women drooling. All of it was her own, too. Lolita’s figure didn’t need enhancing.
“So, tell me, babe. Have you had any more secret rendezvous?” Lolly pushed her painted toes into the sand and flicked the grains away.
I tipped my head at Savannah, who was building sandcastles a few feet away. “Not here.”
Lolly tutted. “Don’t worry about her. She won’t notice us until she wants food again.”
Six-year-old Savannah had her copper hair in a messy ponytail pulled high on her head. She wore a hot pink sun-shirt that had ‘Girls just want to have sun’ scrawled across the front. Her purple polka dotted sunglasses kept falling down her zinced nose, yet she persistently pushed them back up and then carried on digging in the sand. Savannah was adorable and audacious all at the same time. She was her mother’s daughter.
