My stomach twists at the fear of getting used to this.
“If we want people to know we’re dating, you can’t cut out everything,” he says. “You gotta give the people what they want.”
The video we took this morning on the top deck of the liveaboard vessel—mere feet from where he fired me—plays in a loop. My hand moves up like it’s about to cup his jaw, but the video stops and begins again. I thought it was playful and teasing.
He drags the clip to the left by half a second and alters the brightness and contrast, and it transforms into something seductive. Instead of pausing before I make contact, it cuts off right after, leaving the viewer with the unknown of how he responds.
The footage is discreet, shrouding my identity and face. It’s hidden by my big, messy hair Jett convinced me to keep because he thought it was “stunning.” I found it hard to argue with him.
“What do the people want?” I ask.
This was my plan. And he’s hijacking it. I know what the people want, not him. I tell the people what they want.
“To think they know what’s happening. And when they think they’ve figured it out, we’ll post something new to keep them on their toes.” He adds a song with a slow beat, a bossa nova tune, then hands me back the phone. “Now,that’ssomething.”
The video plays out, and my stomach flutters when I lean over my deck chair and invade his space while extending my arm. It loops, and I watch it again. And again. The six-second clip runs half a dozen times because my brain is focused on what happened after that clip ends, when Jett leaned in and kissed me in a way that left me breathless and far too giddy for a “get it out of our systems” thing.
“It will do,” I grumble.
He squeezes my thigh, and I yelp. “Stingy with the praise, huh?”
“You get it when you earn it.”
It’s not until the words are halfway out of my mouth that the innuendo lands.
Jett’s smile turns feral, and it zaps heat straight to my core. “Oh yeah?”
His hand slides up my thigh, and I squeeze my legs together to pause his movement. Fingertips press into my skin, the pressuretortuously close to where I want him. The bus jerks to a stop, and the lust clears.
“Your guide will grab you here,” the driver calls out.
Doug and Molly collect their things in front of us, and I slump in my seat, ripping air into my lungs. I’m yanked back by the strap of my bag when I try to slip past Jett.
In a low rumble, with his palm pinning my waist against him, he whispers, “Tell me how to earn it.”
My knees wobble, and I stumble down the bus steps on shaky legs, his demand ringing in my ears. We’re dropped off in a nondescript gravel parking lot, and I glance around, searching for the tour guide company’s SUV.
“I’m going to toss up the drone and see what I can find,” Doug says, wandering down the road with Molly at his side.
They inspect something in the distance, while I dig through my bag for sunscreen. Lessons have been learned, and the sun is already warm on my skin. I’m contorting my upper body to try to reach between my shoulder blades when a hand snakes in front of me, steals the lotion bottle, and pushes the hand between my shoulder blades away.
“It’s sad to watch this,” Jett mutters, humor lacing the words. “Let me help.”
A demand. A request.
I acquiesce, my shoulders slumping. “Make it quick.”
“You know that’s not my style,” he mutters back, and my heart leaps.
“Oh? That’s not what I remember,” I tease, my laughter morphing into a yelp when he squeezes my ass.
“I recovered. That’s what matters,” he says, and I huff. “I canfeelyou rolling your eyes.”
“Are you done yet? We’ve got places to be.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world.” His words strike right through my rib cage and to my heart. No we don’t. We have ten more days of this. I’m dreading the return to reality.
His fingers pause on my back, and he asks, hesitantly, “Can I ask you something?”
