There’s a sparkle in his eye.
I have to confess, I’m getting off on it too.
“I’d break a thousand laws for you. But we better stop. You know what that moan does to me. I wanna fill you with more than just my…”
“Hold that thought,” he says. “Towels, phones. Upstairs, now.”
???
Damp shorts lay abandoned on the entryway floor.
They’ve been there for hours.
I toss them into the bath tub, then straighten my collar in the mirror.
“Does this shirt say restaurant or beach?” I ask.
“Restaurant near the beach.”
He nods his approval.
On the verge of sunset, we step onto the balcony.
Beach goers scatter like marbles on the street below.
Our dinner reservation is for seven.
We’ve still got an hour or so.
Marco surprises me by whipping up mocktails.
He's never been too keen on alcohol, despite being surrounded by it at work.
And I’m not much of a drinker either, aside from the occasional client schmoozing.
“Found this can of pears in your pantry back home,” he says. “And the elderflower syrup. I smuggled them into the suitcase before you zipped it.”
“First you steal my boxer shorts. Then my food.” I nudge him with my knee. “Not to mention, my virtue.”
“You were complicit in at least two of those crimes,” he insists. “But on account of the fruit, you can cuff me.”
“Don't think I won't.”
“Fine. I'm paying for dinner, then,” he shrugs. “And this view.”
“Careful, I might start telling people that I have a sugar daddy,” I laugh.
“You pay for dinner all the time, baby. You spoil me.”
He’s so sexy when he tries to be in charge.
“As I should,” I reply, hovering in front of that handsome face.
Our kiss tastes of mini bar lemonade and stolen pears.
The perfect combination.
???
