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“Uh, yeah. Sorry. One second.” My voice is too high, and as I look at Lorenzo in disbelief, I can’t help but giggle. He looks so . . . tense.
My giggles turn into laughs. “Oh, my God,” I mutter. “I can’t believe—”
I shut up at the dark look in Lorenzo’s eyes. “Ready for dinner, Abigail?”
With that, he opens the door, leading me from a dream to a nightmare.Heat is the fancy dinner lounge that Emily and Doug lead us to. I have to say, they’re not lying about the name. Unless they just flat-out called it Sex with a Side of Dinner.
It’s like every romantic movie got distilled, remixed, and given a sex club twist. Along one wall is a beautiful mirrored bar complete with a shiny bar top and black leather stools that scream late-night sexual hookups, while the center of the room has been left open as a dance floor that’s certain to lead to other types of seduction.
Even the table booths are private and intimate. A couple could easily go quite a long way toward full-on sex without anyone noticing, and a more adventurous couple could probably get the whole damn thing done.
Surrounding it all is a view of the beach and sea through the wall of open doors that let the sea breeze dance through the space. Right now, we can’t see the moon, but the light’s still glimmering off the water, taking my breath away as our waitress leads the four of us over to one of the larger booths.
“This is . . . nice,” Doug says lamely, trying to find words and pretty much revealing that he’s never going to be a contestant on Jeopardy!
He’s trying, though he’s the consummate American on a tropical vacation. He’s wearing a tropical shirt, his hair spiked up, and khakis that walk the line of ‘yacht club’ and ‘business attire’.
Honestly, I do have to give him credit for the shirt. It’s a no-bullshit tropical shirt, right down to the orchids and toucans. And the orchids are a beautiful print. I wish I could pluck them right off his shirt and create something with them.
Hmm, I wonder if he got that here? With a little creative stitching, it might be possible to turn the fabric into ribbon strips for some of the more casual affairs I’ll be doing flowers for, I think.
“I like your shirt, Doug,” I tell him. “Where’d you get it?”
He looks down as though he has no idea what he’s wearing. “Oh, this? I think my mom got it for me. A honeymoon gift for the tropics.”
“Oh.” His mom bought his clothes. Seriously? I mean, I go shopping with my mother too, and she’s even bought me gifts for special occasions, but something about the way he said it makes it seem juvenile.
Emily clears her throat, shooting daggers at me. “Lovely dress,” I tell her as she expects. But I can’t make the smile reach my eyes because I don’t mean it in the slightest. Emily’s dress is poured on, so tight I’m questioning how the Lycra even stretched that much without ripping. I’m honestly concerned for her because if it gives way when she sits or eats or moves, we’re going to get a full Monty because it’s readily apparent that Emily is wearing the dress and nothing else, the outline of her nips clear and the shadow of the crease between her legs visible.
Maybe Honeymoon Emily is a little freakier than High School Emily?
Whatever. After what just happened in my suite, maybe I’m a little freakier too because I’m still walking on shaky legs like a newborn baby giraffe. The way Lorenzo pulled me to him, not quite slamming me against the door but definitely holding me there as he took control . . . and the way he felt, his hard body pressed against me, his muscles taut and rock hard . . . the thick, pulsing ridge of his cock through his pants rubbing against my pussy and clit. And the whole time? I wanted it. Wanted it to be real. And some of it was . . . like my orgasm.
“Mia rosa?” Lorenzo asks, and I blink, giving him a little smile as I snuggle in tighter next to him in the booth. The table’s big enough for us to spread out, but the fact is I’m on an actual date, with Lorenzo, who’s pretty much the sexiest man I’ve ever met, in one of the most romantic, seductive settings I could think of. He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear with a smirk, and I can tell he’s thinking that he’s the one who messed up my hair.
Sexy. So sexy.
About the only negative about this is that it’s fake.
“You know, Abi, I was surprised when I came by your room,” Emily says quietly, as though we’re girlfriends whispering silly secrets. “I didn’t think you were so . . . loud. I always thought you were the Goody Two-Shoes sort. Like a good little schoolgirl?”
