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“I don’t know,” I admit. “He seemed pretty eager for me to leave, after. I think it might have just been the one time.”
“Well, fuck him.” Claire waves a hand dismissively. “I mean—fuck someone else. He was just the first one, and if he doesn’t want to come back for seconds, that’s on him.” She gets up, crossing to the minibar to get us drinks, and I have a momentary flash of David earlier, naked and gorgeous, going to get himself a drink on the other side of the room. I wonder what he’s doing right now—if he went back out, or if he’s asleep, if he regrets just taking me back with him instead of the bed full of gorgeous women he could have had.
And then I remind myself that Claire is right, and it doesn’t really matter.
“We’re going day-drinking at one of the pools tomorrow,” Claire says, handing me a fruity-looking drink in a glass tumbler. “There’ll betonsof hot men there. If you don’t like Brad, ignore him. Just havefun, Amalie. We’re on vacation. The best vacation of your life, probably, and now you don’t have that whole virginity thing to worry about. You’refree. That part’s over. So tomorrow—we party.” She grins, holding her glass out to mine. “To Ibiza!”
Her enthusiasm is infectious. And I know, deep down, she’s right. David doesn’t matter, and how he feels about the night one way or another doesn’t, either. What matters is howIfeel about it—and I don’t regret it. I don’t want to let it control the rest of my time here, either.
I clink my glass against hers, returning her grin. “To Ibiza,” I say firmly, and toss back the drink.
I have a whole week, and I plan to make the most of it.
4
DAVID
The first thing I notice when I come back to bed is that there’s blood on the white sheets.
Not a lot—a few drops, really. But a cold feeling lurches down my spine for one instant, as I wonder if there was something Amalie wasn’t telling me.
Don’t be ridiculous,I tell myself, crossing the room to call down to housekeeping to change the linens before I go to bed. There’s no way a virgin would have been so quick to come back to my hotel, so eager in the back of the car with the driver only a thin partition away, so willing once I got her into bed. I hadn’t seen any reticence or fear or even pain—a little surprise, maybe, when she saw my size, but nothing that I’d expect from someone’s first time. She hadn’t been shy or nervous. I’d gotten the impression she wasn’t allthatexperienced, but she definitely didn’t seem virginal.
Not that I’d know, exactly—I’ve never been someone’s first. But I feel like I have a decent idea of what a girl would probably be like if itwasher first time in bed.
“Fuck,” I mutter out loud, glancing at the sheets again. “I hope I didn’t hurt her.” I wrack my brain, trying to remember if she’dseemedhurt when I first slipped into her, but I’d been caught up in the moment. So caught up in it, in fact, that I hadn’t thought to put on a condom until it was almost too late, something I’m still kicking myself about. But she’d seemed to enjoy herself—she came twice, and I definitely don’t think she was faking it.
I go to take a shower while I wait for housekeeping to change the bedding, still turning the encounter over in my thoughts. I’m oddly in no rush to wash her sweet scent off of me—that berries and vanilla perfume that I might have found cloying on someone else. It seemed to suit her. But I get in the shower anyway, more to have some privacy to think than anything else. I still feel a bit guilty for sending her back to her hotel, when I know I gave her a different impression of how the night would go before we fucked. But after—
As good as it was—andgod, it was fucking good—I felt unsettled after. I still do. I’ve never had a woman affect me the way she did. I don’t usuallywantlike that. I’ve gotten to the point where pleasure is more of a power trip than anything else, a way to make myself feel good by knowing I can get two or three or more of any women I want into my bed. Wanting someone like that—in a way that made me feel as if I’d regret it if I didn’t take her home—makes me feel unbalanced, like she has an upper hand that I didn’t want to give her. It’s why I hinted that she should leave, because it felt very much as if letting her spend the night might make me feel things that I have absolutely no desire to feel.
I came to Ibiza to get laid, get drunk, and spend time forgetting everything that weighs me down back home. I don’t want to get entangled with someone who will complicate my life even more—especially not a fuckingcollege student. She mentioned she was here on spring break, and that was as good a sign as any that I need to put distance between us. There’s no room in my life for someone like that.
Which is exactly what I have to remind myself of when I see her out by the pool the next day.
I have that feeling again—like a fucking moth to the flame—when I see her. She’s stretched out on one of the cushioned lounge chairs, wearing a bright red bikini that barely seems to cover any skin at all. I touched all of that slim, lithe body last night, and yet I still can’t keep myself from looking at her as if she’s someone I’ve never seen before. The moment I catch sight of her, my cock twitches, my pulse speeds up as I remember the sound of her coming apart underneath me last night.
There’s a girl next to her in a brightly patterned bikini with short blonde hair, leaning over and talking animatedly as she hands Amalie a cocktail. On the other side of her, I see a surfer-blond man with the kind of body that suggests he spends more time in the gym than literally anything else, and I feel my gut tighten with an entirely unfamiliar jealousy. I can see even from across the pool that he’s looking at her with the kind of familiarity that suggests there’s something between them—a flirtation at the very least, and from the way he touches her leg as she holds out her cocktail, laughing, for him to take a sip…I can’t help but wonder if they might be more than just a flirtation.
I have no right to feel this way, of course. Amalie was far from the first woman in my bed since I came to Ibiza—there’s been atleastone there every night since I got here—and I have every intention of there being another tonight, and tomorrow night, and so on until I’m finally forced to go back home. And the way she’s making me feel right now, I know that if I’m smart, Amalie won’t be one of those women.
I need to keep my distance from her.
So I do. I force myself to stop looking at her and the pretty blonde and the surfer next to her, and walk over to the bar at the far end of the pool to get a drink. I look for a spot where I might be able to stretch out—somewhere with a good view—and end up on a lounge chair not too far off from the bar, next to a tall, tanned brunette in a skimpy white bathing suit that’s clinging damply to her skin and her three friends, all of whom are varying types of gorgeous.
It doesn’t take me long to introduce myself. The brunette’s name is Holly, and before I know it, she’s ordering a round of shots and including me in it, handing me one of the layered concoctions before winking at me and showing me just how quickly she can swallow the shot.
“Maybe we’ll do jello shots next,” she says with a grin as she sets the glass aside with a shiver—the shots wereseverelyalcoholic, even as fruity as they were, and I return the grin.
“That would give me ample opportunity to show you what I can do with my tongue.” I wait for her reaction, and I can see the glimmer of interest in her eyes, the way she shifts a little on her lounge chair as she leans closer.
“If you’re good with your tongue and I’m good at swallowing…we make quite a pair.” Her tongue flicks out over her full lower lip, as if she’s imagining something else rubbing against it. “You should come dancing with me and my friends tonight. We’re going to that new club—oh fuck, I can’t even remember the name. I’m a little tipsy.” She giggles, reaching for a bottle of water. “Just come hang out with us. Unless you have other plans.”
Other plans.I don’t. I came here alone, without the entourage of friends in tow that everyone else seems to have. I wanted the freedom of making my own plans and letting the days play out how they would, without anyone else’s opinions or desires getting in the way. I’ve enjoyed the solitude of my luxurious penthouse in the mornings and the revelry that seems to constantly be on tap in Ibiza for the rest of the time. It’s for exactly this reason—so that when a lovely brunette in a very small bikini with a penchant for doing shots asks me to spend more of the day with her, there’s no chance of anything else getting in the way.
Which doesn’t explain why my gaze flicks over to the side of the pool that I saw Amalie on earlier, looking for that flash of red bikini. Nor does it explain the feeling I have when I see her, and the jealousy that I can see wreathing across her face from here, just for a moment.
I’ve always despised jealousy in women. Nothing makes me end a fling faster than a woman who wants to know where I’m going or where I’ve been, who sniffs for hints of someone else’s perfume on my clothes, who gets upset because she found something she shouldn’t have been looking for in the first place. I’ve never promised anyone exclusivity, but that hasn’t stopped some of them from wanting it and trying to angle for it. And while the women who end up in my bed are usually good about leaving nothing behind, no one’s perfect. The reaction I’ve gotten from someone finding a lipstick left behind or a forgotten piece of clothing has often been enough to make me delete that number from my contacts and move on.
