Chapter 5
In the morning, I order room service. The food here is damn good and way better than usual hotel fare, so I don’t have to share a terrible review.
I’ve done a few, as I’m always honest, but those sting.
The Benedict with smoked salmon is killer, and the frozen coffee is beyond.
Yeah, it’s not my usual cheap-eats stuff, but it’s admittedly really good.
I raise my phone to capture obligatory shots and video that will please the hotel, but it’s fun doing this when I’m actually happy.
After I’m full and push a cart into the hall, I grab my bag of yarn, silently giggling that I’m now a gal with a specialty knitting bag
Yes, my initial foray into knitting didn’t go well, but I joined some local classes with great instructors, who proved to be better educators than YouTube And I’ve actually become pretty skilled.
It seems I have talent I couldn’t have predicted, so now I’m engulfed in sweaters and shawls.
Hats and mittens have become my routine because those are always good to have on hand for people who might need them.
After heading outside and taking plenty of pics and videos of the food and the ocean, and a few selfies of me in a blue bikini lounging against rocks with my knitting needles at the ready.
It’s funny to me that these kinds of pics are ever fan favorites because I’ve never had some glam team fuss over me for a fancy photo shoot.
It’s always just me looking like me. But people seem to appreciate my honest images, which are relatable.
Like, yeah, I’m not some filtered freak, nor some AI lady.
As I set up for the day in a lounge chair with a view of the ocean, I debate having Megan Madonna even post those last shots, but I give her the go-ahead.
Might as well show off that cute blue swimsuit.
A final last hurrah of sorts. I’ll make sure her filters are normal and flattering, but not too much.
Dave shows up while I’m on a call with my agent, and it’s thirty minutes of me stressing about contracts, book deals, talking about some weird show on Netflix, and me rolling my eyes.
“You do not look happy,” he says after I hang up.
“You think?” I ask, not hiding my snark. “No, I am not.”
“Sounds like a lot of good offers, deals, whatever.”
“I suppose so.”
“But you don’t want any of them?”
“I just don’t want to be paid to lie. Like, it feels like I have to praise everything even if I don’t want to. Not every place is great. Not every meal is great.”
“So, fuck the deals. Just tell your agent the truth. Do you need the contracts? The money?” He’s asking me what I haven’t asked myself.
“No, not really,” I admit.
“It’s possible to just say no to everything, isn’t it?”
New Friend Dave is right.
“Yeah, it’s possible.”
I may not even need an agent, I realize. The deals I do for my social posts, I do on my own, with the occasional help from a lawyer. Barbara is now only involved because of the larger interests. These new moments, where I feel wonky about my career, are firsts.
I sip my drink and so desperately want to talk about something else. “Want to play a game?”
He laughs. “Maybe.”
“We love SVU, yes? Let’s name all the guest actors, cameos.”
Dave takes a moment. “Like, people who were famous already and made cameos? But how about people who did episodes and later became famous?”
“I like it. All of ’em.”
“Oh, you’re going down,” Dave says with a wink.
“But before we begin, can we be sort of sad that after a certain point in the later seasons—”
He cuts me off, “There were no more cameos, cool guests.”
“Yes.”
I don’t believe in love at first sight, but this boy is winning me over.
So, we start.
“Rita Wilson,” I say.
“Treat Williams,” he counters.
“That was a heartbreaking episode. Former football player with dementia. Next. How about Martha Stewart, for about two seconds?” I volunteer. “She was awesome.”
“She was,” he agrees.
We play this silly game, and then I randomly reach out my hand and grab his. “I’mma call you Davey.” The drinks have absolutely kicked in.
“Nope,” he says confidently.
“Then Daviday. Like you’re Italian.”
“Also, nope.”
“Rock-Star-Hair Guy.”
He smiles, but shakes his head. “Again, not happening.”
“I got it! The Big D,” I suggest as I wave a hand around. “Oh, wait! I didn’t mean it like that!” Even in my boozy state, I can feel my blush, so I lean in and whisper, “Like, I don’t know what’s going on in that area. It could be terrible.”
Dave jolts and then laughs. “Thanks for the concern, but it’s certainly not terrible. I’ve never had any complaints.”
“Of course you haven’t. No girl finds herself in an unsatisfying dick situation and complains in the moment. She saves that conversation for later with her girlfriends.”
He frowns. “So, I could have an ‘unsatisfying dick situation’ and not know it?”
I take a sip of my drink. “You could.”
“Well, that’s fucking unsettling.”
“Only if you have a reason to be unsettled.”
“I do not.”
Maybe it’s the booze or the job stress, or maybe it’s just me being single and on vacation, but I smile and leave my lounge chair. “Prove it.” My voice is giddy and taunting as I walk away.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone who has turned me on the way he does. If ever.
He’s serious and sexy in his reply. “Happy to.”
We stumble back to my room, and I immediately pull off my shirt because I am nearly shaking, kind of desperate. I want this boy.
“I totally wanted to do that,” he says with a smile.
“Sorry,” I say breathlessly. “I couldn’t wait.”
“I’ll rip your clothes off next time,” he promises. “It’ll take less than a heartbeat.”
When we kiss, I try to wave away any sense of connection, but Dave makes it tough. He’s so gentle, and intimate, and tender. The way he holds me with care. The way he reeks of desire. There’s a layer of emotion that isn’t screaming that he just wants to screw me.
He backs me up against a wall, takes my wrists in his hands, and slowly raises my arms higher. It feels like ages, but he provocatively keeps our hold until he finally lands his lips against my ear. “But you’re going to let me take my time when I get you on that bed?”
“Yes,” I say in a near whimper.
I’ve only had a few one-night stands, and they’ve always been stupid and unsatisfying and left me full of nothing but regret and shame. But this immediately feels different. Not as impersonal, not something driven solely by lust.
And, I tell myself as I fall into this, he’s pretty awesome.
Dave knows all about SVU. He knows about and loves weird and wild food stuff. He knows to tell me to shut down the parts of my shitty life that I hate, showering me with the best raw advice anyone has given me in ages.
His hands scoop my ass. “Diana …” He breathes out my name when we fall against the bed.
He’s going to make love to me. Which I have no doubt he’ll do beautifully.
For a second, I think my brain might explode over that weird thought.
Make love? What year is it? What an outdated and weird term. I don’t know what is wrong with me that I’d even think of that.
I mentally shake my head and fold into the bed and into Dave.
Maybe I’m hoping this night won’t have any meaning, but he throws that out the window from the get-go.
To start, his kiss is tentatively sweet.
His hand roaming my body, then settling around my neck, a gentle grip lifting my mouth closer to his.
I love how we’re both still mostly dressed as he sinks his mouth and body against me more, like we’re teenagers making out.
His moves, however, are way better than an inexperienced teenager.
Kissing is so underrated, but Dave seems to crave and appreciate the intensity.
He wants the connection. It’s honestly been ages since I’ve kissed someone like this, so I’m feeling insecure and shaky, but the more he kisses me, the more I can feel him need to take breaks.
To actually breathe. Because he’s also impeccably breathless.
As am I.
When I push him away, only out of desperation for more air, he rolls onto his side next to me.
Within seconds, his hand has slipped under my back and unhooked my bra, and he leans over me, teasing his mouth over my stomach, my chest. For a moment, I flinch as he flings my bra to the side.
Then I realize he’s already seen me in a bathing suit, so he knows I’m not exactly wildly filling out my bikini top. And he doesn’t seem to mind.
Dave makes me wait for all the things. It’s only when my own hands are knotting my hair in desperation, and I’m making begging whimpers does he smile against me.
Only then does he glide his fingers between my legs slowly, and smoothly, and perfectly.
His response to my every move is so natural as he pivots his touch and moves his hand depending on my sounds.
And he doesn’t stop until I’ve gripped my nails into his back and breathlessly choked out his name twice.
Later, when his body is so heatedly entwined with mine, when he’s inside me, he moves and adjusts his position immediately to how I sound.
Like, when he responds to my gasp and lifts up further on his arms. Or how he reaches under my ass to lift me up before he kneels, staying inside of me. He knows what I want before I do.
And while I love this, I’m also so taken aback. So crazed. This kind of connection is foreign, and scary, and not at all what I’ve ever had. Or looked for. Or could have hoped for.
Yet here it is.
And I don’t fight it.
David collapsing against me is damn swoon worthy.
After, when I’m in his arms that night, when the sheets are soaked with our sweat, and after the second time he drove me out of my mind, he says, “Diana. That’s a powerful name.
Like Wonder Woman.” When I don’t say anything and probably tense a bit, he gently tightens his embrace. “Ah, I’m right? Diana Prince?”
How on earth he figured this out is beyond me. But he just knew.
But he’s right about the origin of my name.
“You’re right. I am named after Wonder Woman. She was my idol. And my mother’s idol,” I affirm. “But my name doesn’t suit me. I’d kill to have that kind of superhero confidence.” This confession makes me shy and embarrassed, as I’m not strong, or heroic, or beautiful.
“No.” Dave shakes his head as he cuddles into me and rolls me onto my side. “It suits you. You’re obviously named for a million good reasons.”
Before I know it, he’s inside me again and holding me tightly as he sculpts my body into his, over and over.
I about lose my breath. “Stay like this. With me. For as long as you can …”
And he does. He moves so gorgeously and rhythmically inside me until I can’t stand it much longer. Dave clearly has no problem with any kind of staying power, and I groan when he moves his hand down and rolls me over fully onto my stomach, then lifts me to my knees.
It takes just a slight arch of my back to curve my ass to reach him again, to make him mine again tonight.
It’s just that one arch until he’s clutching his hands into my skin and I’m digging mine into the mattress.
It’s almost unnerving how he’s not rough, not fast. Slow and gentle.
Sex from behind like this is usually dirty and raw.
Hard and fast. Well, from what I understand.
I’ve probably been with someone like this only a few times, and it wasn’t all that fun.
Tonight? The way Dave moves is deliberate and controlled, so slow and intentional.
I feel his hands ease over my thighs, rake down my back.
His gentle touch, his care and caution with me, makes me want more.
Eventually, I reach back. “Please go harder.”
And he does until both of us are heaving and desperately trying to find air.
After, even in my fog, I know, somehow, that one arch of mine changed things between us.
For me, not facing a partner in our most intimate moments requires a deeper level of trust, of security. Until now, I didn’t realize I had that with Dave.
We sleep for a bit, but I wake when he’s got me on my back again, his chest against mine. His mouth and tongue are so beautifully sweet and relentless against mine as his hand strokes blissfully between my legs.
“You didn’t finish last time,” he whispers.
“I don’t. I haven’t. Not during sex,” I manage as I squirm.
“That’s okay. My hand doesn’t tire easily.”
Which he proves as he teases me over and over with his touch, holding me, wrapping me in what feels like more than just a physical embrace. Finally, he makes waves of heat crash over me, his lips hovering over mine, relishing and breathing in my panting.
“And just so you’re aware, my mouth doesn’t tire easily either. For future reference, and all.”
I don’t doubt it.
As I’m shuddering, he adds, “Diana, just know, I wanted you in my arms. To feel you like that.”
We only stop out of pure exhaustion. Our need for actual, deep, re-fueling sleep is finally greater than our need for each other right now. I swear that if we could stay awake, we’d be screwing constantly for the next week.
I’m wasted tired as I drift off in his hold.
Shit. And dammit. And all the swears.
Meaningless vacation sex isn’t turning out to be meaningless vacation sex.
Dave did just fucking make love to me. Again and again.
So cheesy and gross to even think that. If I wasn’t so damn satiated, I’d puke at how corny I was feeling.
And worse? I liked it.
Too much.
Bastard.