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Ownership.
I’ve always been an independent, un-ownable woman. But I can’t seem to gather an iota of effort to mind Archer’s need for control.
His palm warms my skin, and his fingers almost circle my nipple.
He’s a man who finds comfort in touch.
In me.
But sweat beads along my skin, and when I shift my legs, I find they move too easily, too smoothly, because of the perspiration that slicks between us.
It must be eighty-five degrees in this room, and the Factor sluicing through my veins after last night’s infusion has me running warmer still. But more importantly, my stomach rumbles, hunger pangs making me too uncomfortable to wait for some fancy sit down, dining room experience.
Carefully, I push his hand away and slide out from beneath his leg. I take extra care to set his limbs on the mattress, instead of letting them flop down and startle him awake, then I push the sheets aside and expose myself to the rising sun outside our glass door wall.
Sunlight prickles against my skin, and cooling mist touches the outside of the glass. Which acts as a kind of beacon, drawing me from this room and toward the fresh air.
I gently push off the bed, my feet touching the carpeted floor and my toes curling into the thick fibers. Then I step into a fresh pair of underwear and denim cut-off shorts.
I select a plain, white tank top that clings to my skin and accentuates the few curves I possess.
Then I snag a hair scrunchie and toss my locks up into an askew bun that droops to one side.
But I don’t mind.
I’m on vacation. I’m on my freakin’ honeymoon. Which means no office hours, no office attire, and if I don’t want to brush my hair, then I won’t. Because normal societal expectations don’t exist on the open ocean.
Slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops and sneakily grabbing my phone on the way past the small coffee table set in front of the couch, I also grab the manilla folder I brought with us on vacation. An odd addition, I know, but it contains information I wanted to peruse while I finally had the time.
Finally, I head toward the suite door. All in complete silence. The luxurious carpet muffles the sounds of my feet, and the expensiveness of the boat, means the door doesn’t creak as I break the seal and open it wide.
I cast one last look back at my husband and grin because he starfishes our king-sized bed. The thin, white sheet covering hisbusinessand providing him the only shred of modesty available. If mermaids are real, then they’re his only threat now as we bob and sail along the smooth waters somewhere near… I don’t know. The Bahamas, maybe.
Could be Puerto Rico.
Probably.
Stepping into the hall and carefully closing the door, I exhale a breath of relief when I make my escape unnoticed. Archer gets to continue sleeping, and I get a moment to explore on my own.
Tucking the manilla file under one arm and my phone into my back pocket, I start away from the door, my steps slow as I peek along hallways, my mind filling with all the unfamiliar sights I’ve never before experienced.
Like the sconces along the walls. Who knew boats needed sconces?
And the heavy, carved doors that lead into mysterious rooms. Who knew boats needed those designs in the doors? Not me.
I peek through doors as I pass and catalog how each one differs. Unlike the suite Archer and I share, the one I stop by now is all rich mahogany, dark walls, dark carpet, dark bed linen, and heavy drapes covering the glass doors on the opposite side.
The next room comes with a desk instead and framed images covering the walls. Copeland Condors memorabilia. A signed basketball in a glass box. Trading cards, framed and signed. This room is for a man who either adores the Condors or one who has business dealings with the team.
Perhaps both.
I don’t linger, since these rooms are clearly not for me, and closing the door, I move on to the next, only to stumble into a gym complete with state-of-the-art facilities. Treadmills. Ellipticals. Bikes. Rowers. Stairs and more. Unlike the rest of my discoveries, this room isn’t carpeted. Instead, the floor is made of a squishy, rubber-like material. Not like those horrifying bounce-house types, but certainly forgiving under a person’s feet.
“Doctor Mayet?”
“Argh!” I spin in a frenzy, my hands coming up in defense and my file dropping to the floor now that my arm no longer wedges it close, then I stop on a man’s sky-blue eyes. His smile,smirky and arrogant as he takes a step back. He shows me his hands, non-threatening and empty. But when I press a palm to my heart, his smile only seems to grow larger.
“I’m sorry, Doctor.” And yet, he chuckles. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
