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And Passion Island was about cultivating those feelings. It was about reigniting—or igniting, in some cases—that spark. It was about renewing sexual energy.
Every hosted couple’s retreat (and so far there’d been sixteen over the last three years) was all about teaching couples how to give and take, how to be more open, more receptive, more pleasing to one another, more passionat
e.
Yes. That was always the plan.
And yet the saying about the best-laid plans going awry held painfully true. Dr. Dangerfield had seen her share of unexpected breakups and divorces over the course of her career, but she’d also seen some of the most damaged couples heal and grow in forgiveness, in love, and in lust for one another.
Yes. There was hope.
Always.
“Tonight you rest, ladies and gentlemen. But tomorrow, the journey begins. I’ll see you all at breakfast.” With that, Dr. Dangerfield sashayed off the stage, a grin sliding over her lips. She loved her work on Passion Island. It afforded her a bird’s-eye view, a front-row screening, of a couple’s indulgences as well as their indifferences in regards to sex and sexuality. So far, it had been a rewarding, sexually exhilarating experience. To inspire and arouse and challenge couples, to push their sexual boundaries, to test their commitments, and to dare them to be more open, more daring, and more sexual.
And she was allowed a voyeuristic view inside their private sex lives. She loved working with the ones who had kinky, secret fetishes that they’d kept hidden from their partners. Delicious scandal, that’s what she called it. She’d been a sex therapist with a booming private practice in L.A., for nearly fifteen years, but had been working with couples on the remote island since the concept of helping couples in unhappy marriages find their way back to loving and lusting one another came about three years ago.
Her soror, confidante, and closest friend, who owned the island nestled eleven miles between Mo’orea and Tahiti, had approached her with the idea of turning this paradise into a tropical sex haven for couples whose relationships had become boring and mundane, where the lovemaking had somehow turned into a tedious task. Fucking had somehow become a chore. And couples allowed conflict and life’s problems to consume them, suffocate them, and snuff out the flames of passion needed to keep them sexually charged, hungry and eager to please one another.
But Passion Island (somewhat like a long-stay hedonism resort but with therapy and lots of fucking—or not) was the fuel needed to reignite their fires, to reclaim lost desires—in each other and within themselves. Or it was the last stop before calling it quits. The choice was up to each and every one of the couples that made the sixteen-hour trek across the globe in search of truth and light.
And, hopefully, find their way back to passionate love.
Only time would tell.
And Dr. Gretchen Dangerfield would be watching closely.
Eight
It was an hour before sunrise. And a full moon was still glowing midsky, slowly waning to give way to dawn. Yet, there was a thick blanket of fog still covering the island. Outside the villa, the melodic sound of birds chirping and the ocean’s waves crashing at the shore could be heard from the opened windows.
Kendall pressed a soft kiss on Krista’s pubis and then licked over her clit, and she writhed against the budding arousal, against the burning need to have her husband inside her. All this kissing on her pussy was ridiculous. All she wanted was his dick.
He’d wanted her last night. But Krista had been too tired and simply wanted to take a long, relaxing bath, then turn in for the night. And so she did, leaving Kendall up until God knew what time. And now here he was snacking between her legs, like she was some damn breakfast burrito.
Goddamn him.
Why did he have to make sex complicated?
She didn’t need all this extra shit, all this teasing and playing.
Kissing her passionately, brushing his lips along the column of her neck, caressing her body, and sucking her nipples, that was all that she really ever needed.
It made her wet. It made her ready.
Just his touch alone made her pussy churn.
But Kendall trying to pleasure her with his mouth only frustrated her.
And yet she grunted as his tongue flicked over the hood of her clit, and then he had it rolling around on his tongue like a Jolly Rancher, swiping it from top to bottom, side to side.
“Mm, baby,” Kendall rasped, gazing up at her, his mouth wet from her juices. “Your pussy tastes so . . . good; so sweet . . .” He licked his lips and stroked his fingers down her glistening folds, before sliding his fingers into her pink center.
Krista felt a scream bubbling up from the back of her throat. This unwelcomed invasion, this . . . this intrusion . . . of his fingers and tongue should have been met with more enthusiasm, more excitement. Instead, all it brought was a coiling frustration, a splintering need, to be stretched and filled.
Why couldn’t he just fuck her? Stroke her pussy deep with his dick, instead of all this goddamn licking? She couldn’t understand Kendall’s (any man’s, for that matter) obsession with eating pussy, just like she couldn’t wrap her brain around women who loved sucking dick.
But . . .
