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I wasn’t much of a cook, but the kitchen was amazing, having every gadget known to mankind—and late night infomercial watchers—tucked away in cabinets. The bar was fully stocked. The television was massive. The couches were like a warm hug.
I’d gotten so used to my cozy—but cramped—living space, I had all but forgotten what it was like to not be able to walk from one end of a home to the other in about ten paces.
As such, I stretched out.
I hogged the best couch.
I slept starfish-wide on the massive bed.
I showered in the rainfall shower and soaked in the deep tub.
I figured that if I was going to do the job, I was going to get something out of it.
Speaking of the job, things had gotten a bit off track somewhere after arrival. We’d fallen into a companionable buddy sort of relationship. All the sexual tension was absent in our interactions, though not absent in my overwrought, desperate system that just didn’t want to take no for an answer about sleeping with Fenway.
Being here with him was suddenly very much like having a fun, charming roommate who liked to hang out and watch movies, play card games where they graciously lost their shirt, and talk about little nonsense, superficial conversation.
I was getting nowhere.
And while a part of me was enjoying myself enough not to care, the other knew that I had a lot of money hanging on this. Life-changing money. I couldn’t afford to screw it up. Literally.
So when the sun finally decided to chase away the rain clouds on the fourth day after arrival, I made sure I shaved and lotioned every inch of me, slipped into the wickedly cruel bathing suit, and made my way out to the pool a few moments before I knew Fenway would finally come bleary-eyed down to get his morning coffee.
Right from the position where he would stand to pour it, he would get a view of my nearly bare ass as I stood out by the side of the pool.
If I was going to have to get back on track, I had to break out the big guns.
Tits and ass worked when all else failed.
I wasn’t above using that to my advantage.
It wasn’t long before I heard the sound of the coffee pot beeping.
Two minutes.
Three.
And bingo.
The door was pulling open, and I could simply feel the sizzle of chemistry as Fenway moved out onto the back patio, moving over toward one of the wooden chaise loungers.
“Don’t mind me, darling. I am just enjoying this beautiful view this morning,” he said, voice deep, sleep-sexy, and just plain sexy-sexy too.
It was working.
“What view is that, Fenway?” I asked, half turning, head cocking down toward my shoulder. “The pool, the ocean, or me?”
“Seen just about every beach in the world. Pools are a dime a dozen. That ass, though? That ass is one of a kind,” he told me, lips curving up slowly as he raised his mug, taking a slow sip. Then, without breaking eye contact, pulling half of his bottom lip inside his mouth to clean away the bit of coffee there.
It was like a punch to my aching core.
Everything in me wanted to march over to him, climb on his lap, and have my way with him.
Fuck the job and all.
That was the level of neediness I was experiencing.
For the record, I never said “fuck the job.” The job was more than just a paycheck, it was a way of life, it was a mission of sorts. Making men who deserved it pay for their past indiscretions.
“I think you’ve seen enough,” I declared, turning forward, jumping into the pool.
I needed to keep engaging him.
But I needed just as badly to take a cold bath to calm the need coursing through my system.
I surfaced, swimming over to one end of the pool, then taking a few laps. First, because I’d been too sedentary for days. Second, I had eaten my body weight in chocolate since arriving; even after begging Diann to stop buying the boxes, they kept showing up on my bed every evening. And, third, I thought if I exhausted my body enough, it wouldn’t have the energy to be so desperate for sex.
I was so focused on my form—made a little anal about it because of a brief stint on the swim team in school, and my natural born competitive nature—I had somehow missed the legs suddenly dangling in the water.
All I knew was I needed a good, deep breath, so I surfaced at the deep end.
Right between Fenway’s spread legs.
Eyes level with his crotch.
His lightweight pajama pants were doing absolutely nothing to conceal that he was just as irrationally turned on as I was this morning.
Seeing the problem before it became a whole issue, I tried to dip back down in the water, only to have Fenway fold forward, reaching into the water, hands grabbing me at the top of my rib cage at each side, fingers pressing into my barely-concealed breasts.
