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“Morning!” I said, my chipper attitude coming easily.
I just had an orgasm. Of course I was in a great mood.
“You’re running a little behind,” Cindy said as she followed me into my office. “Everything okay?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, everything is fine. Fucking Calvin stopped me on my way in to yell at me for not having gotten him the report on the canned cocktails yet.”
“Oh, I gave that to Jeff last week,” Cindy said with a frown.
“It’s fine, Cin,” I said. “I’ll email it right now.”
“Okay,” she said quietly, turning her back on me to exit my office. “I can’t imagine why Jeff wouldn’t pass it along…”
A moment later, the door closed behind her, leaving me in blessed silence.
A dangerous place to be, given how I’d started my morning.
Fuck buddies? WithCalvin Ryder? What the fuck was I thinking?
You’re not, my conscience reminded me unhelpfully.
But she wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t thinking—unless you count allowing my pussy to make decisions. I just…now that I’d had him, I wanted him again and again. My clit still tingled slightly, the ghost of his fingers stretching me still haunted me. I couldn’t help but hope that we found some alone timeverysoon.
In the meantime, I had a company to run.
Normally, I looked forwardto bank holidays like Memorial Day. It meant an extra day out of the office and away from the temptation of Amara.
But now that I’d given in and bitten that forbidden fruit? I would spend twenty-four hours a day at the office, if only to get five seconds to kiss her behind a closed door, or twenty minutes to make her come on my fingers.
I hadn’t had the chance to truly fuck her again yet, though, and I had probably the worst case of blue balls known to man.
But discussing our weekend plans wasn’t part of the deal, and I was certain she was hitting the road with her family somewhere to celebrate the holiday.
Meanwhile, it was late Friday, and Skye and I were heading up to Torch Lake to spend the weekend at Owen’s lake cottage. The weather was forecasted to be absolutely perfect straight through until Wednesday, which meant I’d be spending the next three days drunk in the sun, cruising around on Owen’s pontoon or hanging out around the fire.
I’d come up here last year for the first time, and “cottage” was a woefully inadequate term to describe Owen’s house. Perched atop a small hill on the northern side of the lake, the place was two stories, the side facing the water comprised entirely of windows. There were seven bedrooms, as many bathrooms, a fully stocked wet bar in the basement, a deck that spanned the entire length of the house off the upper level and a concrete patio with at least thirty handcrafted Adirondack style chairs gathered around a gorgeous stone fire pit. Stairs were cut into the hillside that led down to Owen’s private beach and dock where he had his pontoon, speedboat, and jet skis tied up. There was also a small storage shed that held an impressive array of paddle boards, kayaks, and canoes.
If you could do it on the water, Owen had thought of it and provided the equipment necessary.
Perks of being a stupidly wealthy professional athlete turned successful multi-business owner.
The lake is a gorgeous place, with crystal clear waters that rivaled the Caribbean, and a sandbar on the south end that attracted a ton of tourist attention, particularly around the Fourth. This weekend wouldn’t be as busy, but I knew when we headed out on the pontoon tomorrow, there’d be enough people down there to make it a party.
I wasn’t wrong.
We set off around noon, Skye happily perched on the bench seat near the bow, her golden ears flopping in the wind. Looping around closer to the shore, Owen pointed out the vacation homes that belonged to a ton of prominent celebrities, including Oprah, that tool Kid Rock, Eminem, and even Taylor Swift apparently.
When we reached the sandbar, we found an impressive crowd gathered in the shallow water skimming it. Girls in barely-there bikinis were shouting, dancing, and singing along to the music. Guys in board shorts and Speedos took beer bongs and roughhoused with each other. There were couples making outeverywhere, which surprised me but didn’t.
Something about hot summer days, alcohol, and being on the water simply turned inhibitions off. I’d experienced the phenomenon myself on more than one occasion. It was like here, in this little Torch Lake bubble, rules simply didn’t apply.
I opened the back gate of the pontoon, and Skye took a running leap straight into the water, happily splashing around and attracting all kinds of attention. If I were inclined to be interested in anyone but Amara, my dog was the ultimate chick magnet, and soon a crowd of women gathered around our boat. When I wasn’t buying what they were selling, they happily turned their attention to Owen. Though the bulk of them surprisingly had no idea who he was, it didn’t stop them from being drawn to his all-American good looks and charm.
As I stood and surveyed the scene, Owen appeared at my side and pressed a cold beer into my hand.
“What happened to your fan club?” I asked.
He snorted. “Found something else to fawn over,” he said, nodding to the group gathered in the water, squealing and gushing over a woman who apparently had just gotten engaged.
