Chapter 12
Harper
“Looks like we’re still fucked,” Asher says. We are sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, with an array of fruits, tamales, and pastries in front of us.
But I’m too distracted to eat.
“Fucked?” I repeat the word, though it comes out in a squeak.
Ash looks up at me from his phone. “The road. It’s still blocked according to the traffic updates.”
“Oh. Dang,” I say without emotion.
I should be more upset or excited. But my mind is on last night and the orgasm I had on the couch while he was fast asleep in bed. I laid there forever, trying in vain to fall asleep, but thanks to his words, to his…advice…sleep never came.
It started out as curiosity. I was a bit annoyed that he could know that much about the female anatomy? But he did, and he knew a lot! Enough that he managed to get me off just through instruction. I did everything he said, everything he so eloquently explained, and it was spot on.
“I guess we are stuck here a little longer,” he says, taking a bite of a tamale with salsa.
“I guess so,” I answer, taking a sip of the mimosa I made when I woke up.
I didn’t even have coffee. I went straight for champagne and orange juice.
That’s the kind of night it was. Not that I didn’t sleep.
That orgasm was a back-arching, scream-muffling orgasm.
I woke up disheveled, my mind a fuzzy haze trying to remember what happened last night.
I still don’t seem to have my bearings.
“Are you feeling alright?” Ash asks with concern in his whiskey-colored eyes. I thought they were hazel, but every time he looks at me, it’s like they deepen to a warm bourbon color that catches the light and sends heat through my veins, straight to my–
“No,” I blurt out the word I mean to say inwardly in an attempt to scold myself. I cannot get worked up at the breakfast table. “I mean, no, nothing is wrong. I’m fine. Great really. I feel good.”
Ash arches an eyebrow, and a smirk plays at the corners of his lips.
Jesus, Harper. Keep it cool. Keep it under control.
“You just seem…”
“What?” I ask, reaching for my champagne flute. I really should eat. Carbs would help. Right?
“Unhinged or something.”
“No. Not at all. I am perfectly hinged,” I smile.
“Right,” he nods, going back to his phone. My eyes trail from his furrowed brow to his sharp, bristled jawline, down his chiseled shoulders, over his biceps and down his forearms. I take in every inch of him that is above the table. As usual, he’s wearing nothing but shorts.
No shoes. No shirt.
And no service. You cannot have this man, Harper. And as long as it’s daylight, you can’t touch yourself while thinking about him either.
“I’m going to go sit by the pool,” I blurt out, shoving myself up from the table abruptly.
“You hardly ate anything,” he points out.
“I’m not hungry,” I smile.
…for food.
I walk into the bedroom to change into a bikini.
My eyes skim over the lingerie I had on the other night.
Why does that already feel like so long ago?
Maybe because I have spent the last several days locked in with a man who has slowly crawled beneath my skin, and everything else seems far away.
I sift through the bathing suits I brought along.
I thought I was going to be on my honeymoon, so I bought five or six for the occasion.
The first time I wore a green one. I’m told that color makes my red hair pop.
The second was black, a color that looks good on anyone at any time.
Today I choose purple, my personal favorite.
It’s a triangle bikini with a cheeky bottom, almost a thong, but not quite.
I wanted to be that girl, the one who wears a thong to the beach and doesn’t care, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Baby steps.
Afterwards, I look at myself in the mirror.
I look good, and I don’t say that lightly.
I may or may not have been working on my body a lot in the last couple of months.
Daniel is a very husky man, ripped in all the right ways.
It shows under the intentionally tight clothing he wears.
The last thing I wanted was to strip down in front of him with a flabby butt or a pooch.
My stomach is toned, my tits are on showcase thanks to the bikini top and my ass, thanks to the one hundred squats a day challenge, looks fabulous.
A smile tugs at my lips as a thought crosses my mind, and I have a Grinch-like moment.
I may or may not have an idea; a great and sort of terrible idea.
Ash has made no point of covering up since we got here.
The man said it himself: if it weren’t for some sense of decency, he’d be parading around in nothing but his underwear.
The workout shorts he’s been sporting around the villa don’t cover much more than that.
I skip the bathing suit cover, tie the suit tight in all the right places, slip on some sunnies, and sashay out the door. I don’t even have to look at Ash to know he is staring with his jaw on the floor.
I can feel it.
As I set my things on one of the lounge chair side tables, Ash follows and stands next to the pool.
Then he starts stretching.
Of course he does.
Two can play this game, and while neither of us has said a word, we have engaged. From my periphery, I can see his muscles flexing as he squats, lunges, and bends. Of course I pretend not to notice. Instead, I smile as I reach for the bottle of coconut oil.
“Ash?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Yeah?” he answers as he comes out of a squat.
“Do you think you could help me with this oil? There are some spots I am having trouble reaching and I want it all over.”
Asher stops mid squat and stands up slowly. I can almost hear him swallow. “Sure.”
He pads over and sits on the chair beside me. I listen in anticipation as he takes the bottle, pours some into his hands, and rubs them together.
Those hands are going to be on me…
The idea of it is so casual and innocent, but it’s also so very hot. My skin is prickling with anticipation as I wait, holding my breath.
“Your hair,” he says after a moment.
“What? Oh,” I nod, lifting my hair from my back and holding it on my head.
Once my hands are clasped overhead, his hands clasp my shoulders.
He runs them slowly and softly down my shoulder blades, along my spine, to the small of my back, and then back up.
Then he follows the same trail again. His thumbs press into my spine a little, massaging my back as he goes, making my muscles loosen with each glide.
Those muscles anyway. Other muscles are tight, clenched to keep from getting too excited.
As his hands run over the top of my shoulders and down my collarbones, it’s hard to contain the way his touch is making me feel.
The way it makes me react. My nipples are visibly hard under the thin, silky material of my bikini, and I know he sees it.
I know he’s staring. He swallows hard. I bet he’s thinking about what he would do if he could touch me there. If he could kiss me there.
His hands pull back around my shoulders again, and it’s a relief. I was getting a little worked up. But before I have even a moment to breathe, he does it again. This time his hands dip even lower than before, and his fingertips brush the swells of my breasts.
I exhale and close my eyes. He is so close to me that I can feel his hot breath on my shoulders. I wonder for a split second if he is going to kiss my neck. It would probably send me into cardiac arrest.
Then, without warning, he stands up.
A second later, I hear a splash behind me. My eyes flash open and I let the rest of my breath out. I’m wet. Again. How in the ever-lovin’ hell does that man do that? He barely touched me.
I lean back in the chair and reach for my book.
Meanwhile, Ash is in the pool in front of me, swimming laps as if he’s competing in the Olympics.
He’s swimming mostly underwater, and other than a couple of ripples on the surface, I see nothing until he reaches the side.
There, he comes up out of the water, muscles flexing, skin sleek and dripping, expression intense, and a moment later, he’s under again, bulleting to the other side.
I open my book to distract myself, but I can’t seem to concentrate.
This man is driving me wild. He is all I think about, day and night; his very existence consumes my thoughts.
I’ve read the same sentence four times now. Not only am I having a hard time processing the words, but these words seem to be personal. It’s like the universe and the author have joined forces to taunt me.
I set the book down and let out a frustrated breath.
My eyes ping-pong from one end of the pool to the other, watching Ash go back and forth.
Up and down. Over and over. Slowly heat pulses between my thighs.
It builds and swells until I’m wiggling on the lounger, clenching my muscles together in an attempt to stop it.
But I know better than to believe it’s just going to go away.
Even if I go inside or run down the beach, it won’t go away.
As Ash dips back into the water, my fingers slide inside my bikini top, finding one of my nipples and teasing it.
“Oh…” I let out. A moment later, he surfaces again, and I stop. Then, once he is underwater, I continue, twisting and tugging at my nipple, biting my lip as my hips grind against the chair.
Again, he surfaces. I stop. He dives. I tease.
For several minutes it goes on like this until finally I close my eyes, needing the touch, needing to edge myself closer to an orgasm. But then, it’s as if I can feel him staring. My eyes flash open and I gasp. Ash is staring right at me, dripping, watching.
“Don’t stop,” he tells me, his voice low and demanding.
I blink, unsure whether to be mad, embarrassed, or turned on.
“Put your fingers inside your bikini bottoms,” he says.
I take in a breath and stare up at him as he stares intensely down at me.
Then I do it.
Slowly, I slide my fingers under the fabric, in between the smooth layers of skin, and I wait.
“Run your fingers down the length of yourself,” he says, and I do it. “Touch the opening. Trace around it. Tempt it.”
I do it.
“Is it wet?” he asks.
I nod.
“Drag that wetness up,” he tells me. “Again. Slowly. Be patient.”
I do everything he tells me to. I almost can’t believe I am actually doing it, but I don’t question it. I don’t want to overthink it. I don’t want to stop.
“Tease your clit,” he says. “Just tease. Only a flutter,” he says, and I do.
My back arches and my hips jut upward, as if I’m not in control.
As if my body wants more and is leaning in for it.
But as I comply with everything Ash is telling me to do, I realize I’m not in control.
My hand obeys before my head can tell me differently.
“Fuck…” I say, waiting for his approval to do more.
“No,” he says. “Say my name.”
“Ash…” I whisper.
“Good girl. Now flick. I want you to come for me,” he says. My fingers listen to his command, picking up the pace. My back arches and I moan.
“Yes…” I say as the orgasm nears.
“Yes,” he echoes. “Faster. Come for me. Good girl…”
The wave that crashes over me is consuming. It ripples through my body over and over until eventually my body goes limp, and I take my hand from my bikini.
“Lick your fingers,” he tells me. “Taste yourself.”
Without thinking about it, I do it. I stick both of my fingers in my mouth and suck on them before slowly pulling them back out.
“What does it taste like?” he asks.
“Tangy. Sweet.” I tell him.
Ash swallows hard. “Good girl,” he says before walking back inside the villa.