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We step inside the small but luxurious bungalow and immediately start unpacking. I don’t even question the lack of relaxation time because I know Yasmin won’t rest until everything is put away. It’s one of her quirks—along with a tendency to clean when she’s stressed—that actually comes in handy sometimes. Like now, on a long trip, when we won’t want to be living out of suitcases for an entire week.
I frown as I get to the bottom of my suitcase and rummage through my toiletries. “Do you have my electric razor with your stuff?”
“No, why would I?”
“Because you used it on your legs yesterday?” I can hear the sharp edge creeping into my own voice, but it’s too late to stop it now. “Which is fine, but I thought you were also going to pack it up since you had it last.”
“I don’t think I was the last one to use it, but whatever.” She gives me a half-shrug before turning back to her own suitcase. “I don’t have it, though. Sorry.”
I open my mouth to say something super unhelpful and then shut it again with an audible snap.
Nope.
Not going there.
Not going to ruin things on day one of this trip when I’m hoping like heck that this trip will be romantic; that it will help us get back to the way we used to be.
When we first started dating, things used to be so easy with us. We were best friends before we were lovers, and now, six years later, I know for sure she’s the only woman I’ll ever love. And yet, even though we both avoid talking about it, I know we’re both feeling it. Something has been off lately.
“Fine,” I say for now, shoving a hand back through my hair and taking a deep breath to cool down. Whatever it is that’s wrong, it’s not about my electric razor. “No big deal. I’m sure they’ll have something at the duty-free store.”
That’ll cost a literal arm and a leg, but whatever.
Yasmin looks up and meets my gaze again. I can tell from the fire in her eyes that it won’t take much to tip this into an argument. I don’t want that, though. And not just because I hate conflict—which I do; I’ll do almost anything to avoid it. I don’t even like loud voices—but because I love her. Whatever it is that’s wrong with us lately, that’s one thing that will always be true.
I just want Yaz to be happy. And maybe if she was, I would be happy again, too.
As if she can read all that on my face, her expression softens, and she surprises me by setting her suitcase aside.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, sounding like she actually means it this time. “I thought I put the razor back with your stuff, but maybe not.” She walks around the bed and circles her arms loosely around my waist, giving me an impish look. “Do you want to spank me for screwing up? That might teach me a lesson.”
I know she’s doing that thing where she’s sort of joking but sort of isn’t at the same time. She makes these little jokes about being spanked or punished or tied up or whatever a couple of times a month, and honestly?
It sounds hot as hell. Like, instantly makes me hard. Every. Single. Time.
But it also sounds a little—okay, a lot—outside my wheelhouse. I’m not That Guy. That dominant, bossy, Daddy kind of guy who growls and grunts and says hot, dirty things in a gravelly voice while he spanks his girl.
I wish I was That Guy. I know that Yasmin wishes I was, too. And we both wish we could be spanked by That Guy every once in a while.
We just don’t talk about it. Or if we do, it’s in that joking-but-not-joking way that makes my palms sweat while it’s also making my dick hard.
I lean in and kiss her on the forehead to buy myself a few seconds, then offer a grin. “I’m the one who should be apologizing, baby. It was my razor. My responsibility.” Then I throw in a joke of my own. “Hey, maybe you should be the one to spank me.”
Her sexy, playful look falters, but my cock throbs so hard at the idea that I have to do something about it. Spanking or not, if she’s in the mood for sex, I’m not going to turn it down. I’d much rather fuck than fight, any day of the week.
I pull her in closer, grinding my already-hard cock against her stomach and kissing her again, deeper this time. I plant a trail of kisses down to her neck, and she starts melting against me.
This, at least, is always right between us.
“We can’t take too long,” she murmurs, even as she’s tugging at the hem of my shirt. “I have to get ready for…” I capture her mouth again, then take a step back to shrug out of my shirt. “For drinks with my cousin in a little while.”
“She doesn’t know we’re here yet.” I shrug, slipping the straps of her short, flowery dress off her shoulders and licking my lips as the flimsy fabric gives way, exposing more and more of her full, beautiful breasts. “I won’t tell her if you don’t.”
Yasmin isn’t wearing a bra and I’m already half-naked, so it only takes a few more seconds to finish stripping before I ease her down onto the mattress and spread her legs wide.
“Damn, I never get tired of seeing you like this,” I say, shaking my head as I drop down to my knees next to the bed. “Such a pretty pussy.”
There are things I will always appreciate about a man’s body and what he can do in bed, but even if some of my earliest—and hottest—sexual experiences were with men, I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in the world that compares to my Yasmin. Every part of her is perfect. And knowing that all it takes to make her wet for me is a long kiss, a light touch, and a few whispered words?
