And then the call is over and I’m left lying on the bed looking out at that damn beach and wondering why the hell Ryan walked way.
Yes, I am just that pathetic.
I sit up, annoyed with myself. It’s over. It’s done. Ryan’s long gone—I’d stood on the beach and watched as he walked back to the house. I hadn’t wanted to follow. Call it embarrassment or pride, but I hung out for at least an hour before I finally dragged my ass back to the house, every step requiring a major effort.
Funny, despite working so hard yesterday to pull the party together—and then dancing and partying and drinking through the night—I hadn’t felt tired before. Certainly not when Ryan had showed up and walked me down the beach, or when he’d leaned in close, or when he’d set my body to tingle.
On the contrary, just being near him was like sucking down an energy drink, leaving me breathless and recharged and just a little edgy.
Or it had felt that way until he’d gone. Now I want to crash. I’m bone tired and lost and, although I was so glad to have heard from Nikki, I’m now feeling more than a little melancholy. And very much alone.
When I’d first returned to the house, I’d thought I would see him. But the house was empty and silent, and though I checked the front drive, there was no sign of a car, and I’d gone back inside and stomped my way to my guest suite feeling both relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because I apparently made a fool of myself earlier. Annoyed because as far as the wedding went, Ryan and I had the joint responsibility of dealing with the reception and the house guests. We’d been working closely for almost forty-eight hours now, and at the very least he should have checked with me before leaving to make sure there wasn’t anything still to do.
There isn’t. But he should have checked.
I tell myself I don’t care, and I’m just feeling touchy because I’m exhausted. I need a nap. Some R&R. I’ll lay out by the pool, then take a swim. Maybe this afternoon I’ll go into town and prowl the little shops. I should take something fun back to my parents—maybe a painting for the entryway or something cute for the kitchen.
Then I’ll grab some takeout and crash for the night. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, get in the car, and get my ass back to Texas. Away from California, temptation, and Ryan Fucking Hunter.
It’s a good plan, and I go to change into my bathing suit and find something to read. I recently started to reread Rebecca, but right now I’m not in the mood. Instead I grab a copy of Cosmopolitan. I smile wryly. Maybe this month’s article on how to make a man feel awesome in bed will come in handy if I ever see Ryan again.
As with everything in this house that Damien built, the backyard pool area is a little slice of heaven. The pool itself is huge, falling off to an infinity edge that gives the illusion that it extends into the Pacific. There’s a hot tub, of course, as well as a waterfall and a swim-up bar.
The water is warm—and it feels nice to walk in until it hits my shoulders. Then I close my eyes and sink under, losing myself to the eerie quiet of this empty pool.
I’m not in the mood to swim, though, and so I emerge, then lightly towel off. I like the sensation of being damp, of lying back and feeling the breeze brushing over my moist skin.
The lounge chair is padded, with a nice cup holder built right in. And since I’m planning on napping anyway, I detour to the small refrigerator and take out a wine cooler. I pick a chair under the pergola so that I’m at least a little bit out of the sun. And then, finally, I settle down to read and relax.
I make it only a few pages into the magazine before my eyes start to droop. I drop the magazine to the tiled decking, then close my eyes. Just a short nap, I think, as sleep beckons and I’m pulled down, down, down into my dreams.
He is there.
Ryan.
I am standing in a wide green field, and though I cannot see him clearly, I know that he is the man in the distance. Hunter, I think. And I am his prey.
He stalks toward me, jeans slung low on his hips. He wears no shirt, and the sun beats down on broad shoulders and a lean, sculptured chest. I move toward him, drawn to him by some unassailable compulsion.
And then he is there, and we are no longer in a field but on a beach. I am in his arms and there is an orchestra, and Nikki is there with Damien, applauding as Ryan spins me around and around and around until I am so dizzy I need to lie down.
Then I am on the ground, and the waves crash over me. The tent is gone, the orchestra vanished. There is only the sound of the ocean crashing upon the beach. There is only the feel of the water sluicing over me.
It is not cold—instead it is warm, so warm. And I stretch, feeling soft and languid and needful—I want his hands, his touch. And then, in the way of dreams, he is there, his hard body over me, his mouth trailing up my calf, my thigh.
I shiver, realizing that I am naked, but there is no shyness. I spread my legs for him and arch back as his mouth closes over my cunt. He kisses me there, so deeply intimate that shocks of pleasure ricochet through me. His tongue plays me, laving me, then teasing my clit, bringing me so very, very close before he torments me even more by trailing those kisses up my abdomen.
His hands massage my breasts roughly, his fingers pinching my nipples, sending live wires of electricity all the way down to my sex. My cunt clenches, desperate with the need to have him inside me, and I moan in an incoherent demand for more.
Then his mouth closes over mine, silencing me, and I taste him—taste me. I feel his erection hard beneath my legs, the steel length of him rubbing provocatively against my sex.
I moan against his mouth, and he gently pulls away. The shock of the break tugs me toward wakefulness. “Do you want me inside you?” he whispers, his voice still filling my dreams. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I murmur, even as sleep abandons me. “Oh, yes.”
I am awake now but somehow still trapped in the dream. My cunt is slick with need, and the way the sun beats down on me makes me feel loose and sensual.
Slowly, as if in a dream, I skim one hand down my body. I am wearing a tiny bikini, and as I brush my fingers over my breast, I gasp from the contact with my too-sensitive nipples. Then I continue south, my palm flat on my stomach, my muscles quivering, as I move so painfully slowly down my belly.
He is still in my head. Hunter, I think. I like it. It seems wild. Hot. Hunter wouldn’t have walked away. Hunter would have thrown me back on the beach and fucked me right there, and not cared in the slightest if anyone walked by.
The thought makes me a little crazy, and I squeeze my legs together even as I wiggle my hips. The motion takes some of the edge off, but not enough. I need more. I need Ryan, the fantasy.
I raise one hand to my chest and slide my fingers under the bikini top and over the swell of my breast until I brush against my nipple. The sensation is delicious, and I arch a bit under my own touch. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples straining against the thin triangles of material that form the top.
I stroke my nipple, teasing it even as my first hand sinks lower and lower, until those fingers sneak in beneath the elastic band at the top of the bikini bottoms. Then I slide them further still, until I find my own slick heat. I gasp, arching up at the sweet jolt that shoots through me when I lightly stroke my clit.
I’m desperately wet, frantically wanting. But it’s not just release that I want, it’s the man.
Yes, I am just that pathetic.
I sit up, annoyed with myself. It’s over. It’s done. Ryan’s long gone—I’d stood on the beach and watched as he walked back to the house. I hadn’t wanted to follow. Call it embarrassment or pride, but I hung out for at least an hour before I finally dragged my ass back to the house, every step requiring a major effort.
Funny, despite working so hard yesterday to pull the party together—and then dancing and partying and drinking through the night—I hadn’t felt tired before. Certainly not when Ryan had showed up and walked me down the beach, or when he’d leaned in close, or when he’d set my body to tingle.
On the contrary, just being near him was like sucking down an energy drink, leaving me breathless and recharged and just a little edgy.
Or it had felt that way until he’d gone. Now I want to crash. I’m bone tired and lost and, although I was so glad to have heard from Nikki, I’m now feeling more than a little melancholy. And very much alone.
When I’d first returned to the house, I’d thought I would see him. But the house was empty and silent, and though I checked the front drive, there was no sign of a car, and I’d gone back inside and stomped my way to my guest suite feeling both relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because I apparently made a fool of myself earlier. Annoyed because as far as the wedding went, Ryan and I had the joint responsibility of dealing with the reception and the house guests. We’d been working closely for almost forty-eight hours now, and at the very least he should have checked with me before leaving to make sure there wasn’t anything still to do.
There isn’t. But he should have checked.
I tell myself I don’t care, and I’m just feeling touchy because I’m exhausted. I need a nap. Some R&R. I’ll lay out by the pool, then take a swim. Maybe this afternoon I’ll go into town and prowl the little shops. I should take something fun back to my parents—maybe a painting for the entryway or something cute for the kitchen.
Then I’ll grab some takeout and crash for the night. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, get in the car, and get my ass back to Texas. Away from California, temptation, and Ryan Fucking Hunter.
It’s a good plan, and I go to change into my bathing suit and find something to read. I recently started to reread Rebecca, but right now I’m not in the mood. Instead I grab a copy of Cosmopolitan. I smile wryly. Maybe this month’s article on how to make a man feel awesome in bed will come in handy if I ever see Ryan again.
As with everything in this house that Damien built, the backyard pool area is a little slice of heaven. The pool itself is huge, falling off to an infinity edge that gives the illusion that it extends into the Pacific. There’s a hot tub, of course, as well as a waterfall and a swim-up bar.
The water is warm—and it feels nice to walk in until it hits my shoulders. Then I close my eyes and sink under, losing myself to the eerie quiet of this empty pool.
I’m not in the mood to swim, though, and so I emerge, then lightly towel off. I like the sensation of being damp, of lying back and feeling the breeze brushing over my moist skin.
The lounge chair is padded, with a nice cup holder built right in. And since I’m planning on napping anyway, I detour to the small refrigerator and take out a wine cooler. I pick a chair under the pergola so that I’m at least a little bit out of the sun. And then, finally, I settle down to read and relax.
I make it only a few pages into the magazine before my eyes start to droop. I drop the magazine to the tiled decking, then close my eyes. Just a short nap, I think, as sleep beckons and I’m pulled down, down, down into my dreams.
He is there.
Ryan.
I am standing in a wide green field, and though I cannot see him clearly, I know that he is the man in the distance. Hunter, I think. And I am his prey.
He stalks toward me, jeans slung low on his hips. He wears no shirt, and the sun beats down on broad shoulders and a lean, sculptured chest. I move toward him, drawn to him by some unassailable compulsion.
And then he is there, and we are no longer in a field but on a beach. I am in his arms and there is an orchestra, and Nikki is there with Damien, applauding as Ryan spins me around and around and around until I am so dizzy I need to lie down.
Then I am on the ground, and the waves crash over me. The tent is gone, the orchestra vanished. There is only the sound of the ocean crashing upon the beach. There is only the feel of the water sluicing over me.
It is not cold—instead it is warm, so warm. And I stretch, feeling soft and languid and needful—I want his hands, his touch. And then, in the way of dreams, he is there, his hard body over me, his mouth trailing up my calf, my thigh.
I shiver, realizing that I am naked, but there is no shyness. I spread my legs for him and arch back as his mouth closes over my cunt. He kisses me there, so deeply intimate that shocks of pleasure ricochet through me. His tongue plays me, laving me, then teasing my clit, bringing me so very, very close before he torments me even more by trailing those kisses up my abdomen.
His hands massage my breasts roughly, his fingers pinching my nipples, sending live wires of electricity all the way down to my sex. My cunt clenches, desperate with the need to have him inside me, and I moan in an incoherent demand for more.
Then his mouth closes over mine, silencing me, and I taste him—taste me. I feel his erection hard beneath my legs, the steel length of him rubbing provocatively against my sex.
I moan against his mouth, and he gently pulls away. The shock of the break tugs me toward wakefulness. “Do you want me inside you?” he whispers, his voice still filling my dreams. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I murmur, even as sleep abandons me. “Oh, yes.”
I am awake now but somehow still trapped in the dream. My cunt is slick with need, and the way the sun beats down on me makes me feel loose and sensual.
Slowly, as if in a dream, I skim one hand down my body. I am wearing a tiny bikini, and as I brush my fingers over my breast, I gasp from the contact with my too-sensitive nipples. Then I continue south, my palm flat on my stomach, my muscles quivering, as I move so painfully slowly down my belly.
He is still in my head. Hunter, I think. I like it. It seems wild. Hot. Hunter wouldn’t have walked away. Hunter would have thrown me back on the beach and fucked me right there, and not cared in the slightest if anyone walked by.
The thought makes me a little crazy, and I squeeze my legs together even as I wiggle my hips. The motion takes some of the edge off, but not enough. I need more. I need Ryan, the fantasy.
I raise one hand to my chest and slide my fingers under the bikini top and over the swell of my breast until I brush against my nipple. The sensation is delicious, and I arch a bit under my own touch. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples straining against the thin triangles of material that form the top.
I stroke my nipple, teasing it even as my first hand sinks lower and lower, until those fingers sneak in beneath the elastic band at the top of the bikini bottoms. Then I slide them further still, until I find my own slick heat. I gasp, arching up at the sweet jolt that shoots through me when I lightly stroke my clit.
I’m desperately wet, frantically wanting. But it’s not just release that I want, it’s the man.
