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Do.
You.
Want.
To.
Come.
I’d give one of my vital organs to come right now. But I can’t. Last night, I stood my ground, and I have to stay strong in my conviction. Shouldn’t be a problem. I show her around today, we have good clean fun, then tomorrow or the day after she can schedule a flight and go back to Texas.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Though my body wants more. A whole lot more.
“C’mon,” she says, nudging my elbow, and I find myself slipping on my snorkel mask and following her under the water.
For the next minutes, it’s like I’m in one of those National Geographic documentaries inside a blue world, filled with exotic schools of fish, vibrant corals, and—she taps me on the shoulder gently, and points at a sea turtle.
We both look at the incredible turtle then we share a moment, glance at each other and a warm sensation travel through me. This feels… right. Peaceful.
Soon, we rise to the surface to catch some air, the sun shamelessly dappling the water. “Wow. So nice. Thanks so much again, Rhett.” She comes close and deposits a chaste kiss on my cheek, and quickly swims away. The warm sensation from seconds ago turns into a hot current making waves inside me. This is only a kiss of gratitude.
Nothing less, nothing more, I remind myself.
Even though I still want a whole lot more.
8
Rhett
“Canyou please apply some sunscreen on me?” Riley asks me.
This is day two of our truce. Yesterday, after snorkeling we visited the island, took some pictures, shared a seafood dinner and went home.
Today, we’re sunbathing at a paradisiac beach. She told me she’s looking into flights back for the next day. I understand. After all, she probably charmed Human Resources at Stanton Inc., secured last-minute personal leave and left work in the hands of her assistant for the last few days. She wants to go back. The idea still fills me with nostalgia.
Having her with me for the last couple of day has been better than any sugar baby I spent time with in the past. Maybe because the sugar babies usually want to please me, whether it feels genuine or not. It’s an easy, challenge-free, transactional relationship.
Riley is authentic. Smart. And she doesn’t blow smoke up my ass.
“Sure,” I say, though dreading doing it. The sun is brutal though, and I don’t want her hot body to get sunburned.
“Here.” I let my hand glide from her shoulders to her back, making sure I don’t miss a spot.
I stop at the small of her back, my fingers hovering over that dangerous area. I don’t want her fine ass to get red, but also don’t want to blur the lines. I glance around us, and see the only other couple in this remote beach gathering their belongings to go.
Fernando de Noronha is definitely more on the remote side.
I stare at her perfect ass, the two plump mounds of flesh. Then, I shake my head and go back to my towel. “Done.”
Then, I close my eyes. There, I did the right thing. My body is in an uncomfortable stir, but I can lay next to her, on my towel, and just relax.
See. Much better. I am a 44-year-old man, I repeat to myself. Soon to be 45. Very soon.
I control my own actions and all that crap from a self-help book. I can resist temptation. I can resist Riley Breslin.
I feel a pair of warm hands on my back, then all my efforts go down the drain. I jerk like I’ve been poked by a strange creature. “What?”
