Page 27 of Forbid It

11

ROBBIE

It’s a Pavlovian response. If a woman as tempting as Cassie tells me to ‘come’, I’m going to come.

I follow her into her mansion, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

I whistle under my breath as I take in her airy entrance hall. Chic wood fixtures and a sweeping curved staircase leading to a mezzanine.

“This way.” Cassie’s voice echoes through the wide double doors opening to a spacious kitchen, complete with a wall of windows so vast it’s like the ocean is in the room with us.

I’ve been here before for the party, but it’s completely indistinguishable from what it was then. The party decorators did a good job and hid all the things about this place that clearly make it Cassie’s home. I follow her into a wide open kitchen, and my attention is immediately drawn to the towering wall of windows. From here, all you can see is the endless blue of the sea, and the sun just about to start its descent over the horizon. I pull my gaze away from the view and glance around for Cassie. “Where have you gone?”

“Garage,” she calls out. “Take your clothes off.”

What? I almost swallow my tongue even as my hands reach for the hem of my t-shirt. I don’t have a chance to take it any further before she appears out of the side door, rummaging through a stack of black material. “This should fit you. Here.” She shoves the material in my arms. “Put that on.”

I tug the material free and hold it in front of me. It’s a wetsuit. “Erm?”

“Just put it on,” she snickers as she marches across the room and opens one of the doors leading to the patio. This woman is on a mission and I’ll obey any order, including getting naked in her kitchen.

“Where’s yours?” I ask as I drop my sweatpants. “Aren’t you supposed to wear board shorts under these? Whose is this? I don’t know if I want to share ball space with an ex-boyfriend.”

“Grow up.” She doesn’t turn her head as she fiddles with the lock on the door, but she has a teasing lilt in her sultry voice. “It’s a spare.”

I drop my boxers slowly. I know she can tell what’s happening behind her. I don’t take my eyes off her reflection in the mirror. I spot the exact moment her gaze flickers to mine, and the millisecond before she jumps away is just long enough for any lingering tension to fizzle out and my smirk to grow. “Was this just an elaborate plan to see me naked in your kitchen?”

She lifts her head, that elegant nose tipped to the air. “You wish.”

She doesn’t look at me again as she disappears through the side door.

I’m glad she’s gone, as putting on a wetsuit is significantly less sexy than removing street clothes. By the time I’ve pulled it over my shoulders and ensured my balls are packed away tightly, she reappears.

I curse the thin material, which does nothing to hide the erection that tries to make itself known as soon as she reappears. Her own wetsuit is bunched around her hips, exposing her long tanned torso and the tiny green bikini covering her perfect tits.

Her arms are up and taming her wild curls into a loose braid behind her head. The action arches her back, lifting her breasts further in the air. I step behind the counter to hide how obviously she’s affecting me and clear my throat. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing yet?”

She finishes braiding her hair, resting her hands on her hips and sending me a blinding smile. “We’re having some fun.”

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, willing my blood to stop roaring in my veins. I assume it’s nowhere near that kind of fun, and I promptly try to remind my dick of the fact.

I could ask a follow up question. I probably should have asked a question before I peeled myself into a borrowed wetsuit and almost left the material dotted with precum.

But I don’t. Instead, I follow her as she flounces out the door onto the sand covered decking and leads me to an outhouse.

There’s an outdoor shower, covered with emerald and navy tiles gleaming in the reflection of the ocean. It’s easy to imagine Cassie running up off the shore and stripping to her tiny green bikini, washing the salt from her skin as her nipples pebble in the cool water.

Next to the outdoor shower is a stack of multicolor surfboards, some almost twice the size of Cassie and some small enough for a child. She grazes her hands over them, her brow scrunched as she concentrates. Eventually she lands on one and tugs it free.

“This is yours.”

I take the board in my hand, and I instantly feel like an idiot for not putting two and two together after the giant wetsuit clue that should have had alarm bells blaring. I categorically cannot get on this surfboard. I still remember the day I signed my first professional contract and my agent sat me down to tell me very firmly that I was not to partake in any extreme sports including: snowboarding, skiing, jet-skiing, ice skating, horse riding, race car driving and most especially not any watersports like—I don’t know—surfing?

Cassie is already halfway across the lawn, aiming for the gap in the shrubbery that I found the last time I was here. My mouth dries as memories of that night flood back, and I’m following her across the grass before I can remind myself about contract stipulations. I glance at the two sunbeds on the small patio, the soft white cushions pristine and neat, so unlike how we left them in the dark. In the daytime, I can see the steps that lead from the patio down to the beach, Cassie’s board already halfway down them.

I follow her down to the waterline, her red braid and giant yellow surfboard like a beacon. My surfboard is light under my arm, but I have to adjust my hold so the end doesn't drag across the sand. There's a lead that dangles off the end and it nearly tangles around my ankles. I try not to break my stride as I grab it, and my feet touch the water before I realize Cassie isn't in front of me any more.

The water swishes beneath my toes as I pivot, and the surfboard swooshes through the air at the motion.