Chapter Six
Cole
Last night was her fault. It’s four-thirty in the morning, and here’s what I know:
Ivy Ellison, with her cozy sleepwear and her fruit-scented shampoo, is pure fucking temptation.
I woke up in the dead of night with one sheet. One goddamn thin sheet. The rest? Hostage to the force of nature—lush curves, no regard for personal space—sprawled across three-quarters of the bed. This woman has a chokehold on the blankets, like she’s daring me to comment.
I can’t even see her beneath the layers.
Just Pillow Everest.
At least she’s on her side.
Progress is progress.
Fifty-eight minutes until my alarm. Fifty-eight minutes to achieve the impossible: sleep.
Totally doable.
If my brain would cut the crap.
It started in the shower.
Well, technically, it started at the gala foam-pocalypse with that damn blue dress.
Because I’m a gentleman, I let her shower first. I stepped in next (rookie error) and breathed in the delicious steam of her apple shampoo. It took less than a minute for my cock to demand immediate attention.
I handled it like a mature adult.
Quickly.
Quietly.
Under water hot enough to boil pasta.
“Get a fucking grip,” I’d hissed.
My brain said whatever and flashed images of Ivy’s tits in that dress. Her soft, full lips that I imagined were stretched around me and sucking with each wet, slippery thrust. Five goddamn seconds later, I exploded.
Fastest finish in the history of this hotel.
Her scent. The steam. My sinful vision of her pleasuring me had me coming so hard I swore I heard something snap. I melted against the tile wall, breath shattered, skin on fire.
A heartbeat later, my dick perked up again at the thought of Ivy’s curves in my hands.
Fucking hell.
My tongue throbbed, aching for one lick, one taste, one second of her skin against mine. I lectured my cock to simmer down, yanked on my t-shirt and boxers (as if cotton could save me), and face-planted into our bed. Ivy was asleep, blissfully unaware of her world-class penis torture.
Distance. That’s all I needed. A little space. My brain knew she was the enemy, but my dick only saw her as a tempting fantasy.
Eleven minutes.
That’s how long her pillow wall lasted.
First, her knee jabbed my back.
Then her thigh slid across my hip.
And BAM! She was pressed against me (body pillow position filled, benefits not included).
Not on purpose. I know that. Her body just relocated and found me. Like I was a destination. Unconscious or not, she showed no respect for the pillow wall.
I scooted her back.
Out came this little purr, sleepy as hell, content as a cat in the sun. I lay there, stuck and miserable, theorizing how good her ass would feel in my palms. Scientifically speaking, the consensus was: good. Really fucking good.
So good, I had to start counting sea lions.
One.
Two.
Three.
She cuddled right back at four.
I moved her again.
Four more sea lions. Back she came.
All night, she boomeranged. Knee. Arm. Warm breath on my neck.
Then her foot found me.
And by found, I don’t mean “hey, neighbor.”
I mean her foot, dead asleep, somehow GPS’d the one spot it shouldn’t. It parked itself right there, as if it had a one a.m. reservation.
Over and over her foot ran straight across my rock-hard erection like she was a fucking barcode scanner at Trader Joe’s. BEEP.
I’d move her foot. Five minutes later?
BEEP. BEEP.
Same route.
Same checkout lane.
So logically, I stopped counting sea lions… and started naming them.
Stanley. Harold. Cleopatra.
BEEP.
When that didn’t work, I gave them backstories. Larry the sea lion is a failed stand-up comic who tells the same three jokes about seagulls. Nobody ever laughs.
BEEP. BEEP.
Larry’s mom and dad want to support him, but they’re really going through it right now. Between Dad’s back surgery and the second mortgage on their house—
BEEP.
My brain finally said ‘fuck it’ because nothing could compete with my sleep partner mumbling about donor stats while she conducted a full TSA pat-down on my dick.
Did I want to roll over?
Hell yes.
Did I want to press her body against mine and skip straight to the good part?
Very fucking much. I wanted to slide my hand between her legs and see what kind of yummy sounds she makes.
But did I?
Fuck no. Because I’m a “gentleman.” And now I’m paying the price, having a frozen popsicle for a dick.
“Un-fucking-acceptable,” I inform the duvet mountain.
Hold up, Einstein. She’s the reason you’re one toe away from hypothermia. I’m reclaiming the blankets. She can freeze her tits off for the last fifty-eight minutes.
I yank the fabric’s edge, hard.
The entire stack of pillows avalanches onto me as I roll off the side.
“Son of—”
THUD.
I lie there, buried in overpriced fabric, staring at the ceiling and wondering how it happened.
I fling the duvet off my face.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
Wait. Why am I apologizing? She should be saying sorry. I had to peel her off me like a fruity scratch-n-sniff sticker all night.
I sit up, ready to give her a piece of my mind.
She’s gone.
No blanket thief. No apple scent.
When the hell did she get out of bed?
My eyes dart around the room. Bathroom empty. Suitcase still there. But her iPad and shoes? Poof.
Well, shit.
She’s already moving, getting a head start, while I’m half asleep.
I’m up in a flash, dragging on yesterday’s pants, camera in hand. Nobody out-produces Cole Hartwell before coffee. Nobody.
***
I check the production office: lights off, door unlocked, her handwriting screaming from the whiteboard. Structure = Safety. Underlined. Twice.
No Ivy in sight.
No luck in the ballroom. Huh, it still has a mango foam scent. The giant Seal The Deal banner stares at me accusingly, as if I’m the reason this place is a circus. Newsflash: I’m the guy who saved the livestream while everyone else had their thumbs up their asses.
It’s five a.m. when I step into the lobby. All I hear is my own pulse.
Where the hell is she?
I hit the beach. The ocean is a black monster, roaring and restless, the sky split by one stingy seam of gold bleeding into purple at the edges. The sand is cold and empty in both directions.
Nothing.
No Ivy.
It hits me: chlorine.
Under the apple scent from the hallway yesterday, I was filing it away. Apparently, my brain’s been running a full surveillance op on this woman.
Pool.
I’m moving before I can talk myself out of it.
The outdoor pool glows pale blue along the deck’s edge, steam rising off the water in lazy curls. Beyond the railing, the ocean disappears into the dark.
And there she is.
Goggles on. Hair twisted up. Swimming laps as if she’s got a point to prove. Wearing a red one-piece that clings to her, outlining everything that kept me up all night. My skin heats.
Ivy doesn’t hear me open the gate.
The pool lights catch her underwater and—
Jesus.
Her body slices through the water like it’s in her way. Each movement is fluid and controlled, her hips swinging with a rhythm that wrecks me. And her thighs (damn, those thighs) power her forward with every kick. I swallow a groan. And keep watching.
My brain assaults me with the memory of her legs around mine, the way they fit as if they’d been tailor-made by God herself. How they tormented me while I stared at the ceiling, counting sea lions (good effort, Larry).
My cock throbs.
She flips at the wall, her strong legs pushing off.
Full. System. Meltdown.
I need to get my hands on her. Everywhere. I imagine slipping into the water. Getting in her way long enough to slow her down. Raking my fingers up the backs of those thighs. Taking my time, so I can feel her tremble under my palms.
To hook my fingers under the edge of her suit. Slip inside and feel that button of swollen flesh. Until Ivy says my name like it’s the only word she knows.
She flips again. And my body gives in.
To hell with restraint. Fuck consequences. I want to see if the woman who controls every room she walks into knows how to lose control too.
Shirt—gone.
Pants—kicked somewhere behind me.
Boxers barely hanging on (like me).
I cannonball into the deep end, feeling the warm water surround me. I surface, slicking my hair back and immediately realize my mistake.
I’m half-naked in a pool with Ivy Ellison. The woman who hates me. My fucking co-worker.
Way to go, tiny dictator in my pants. You’re officially demoted. No perks, no raises, and a lifetime of blue balls.
She pops up. Water beads down her face. Goggles in her hair. Her chest rises once as she drags in a breath. Her eyes land on me like I just keyed her car.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Good morning to you too, Stopwatch.”
“This is my pool. Mine. Get out.”
I relax in the water and spread my arms. “Did you buy the Bellwether last night?”
Her eyes take a full inventory—boxers, bare chest, my hard cock bobbing with the water—then jerk sharply away, as if she’s been caught shoplifting.
“You ruined my lap count.”
“You’ll recover.”
“Why are you here, Hartwell?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
“Huh,” I say as the water laps softly around us. “Wonder what’s keeping us up?”
Her gaze sharpens. “Do you mind? This is my thinking time. Go disrupt someone else’s peace.”
“Multitask.” I grin, drifting closer.
“Or,” she says sweetly, “you could leave.”
She yanks her goggles down and launches off the wall.
I swim after her, water rushing past my ears. I catch her at the far end, surfacing half a second behind her.
“Don’t even start, Cole. There’s no way you can keep up.”
“Pssh. You’re not that fast. I’ll match any stroke you like. Any speed. Any position.”
My eyes lock on her lip, caught between her teeth.
Is she turned on?
Ivy lifts her chin defiantly. “I swam the two-hundred butterfly. All-State in high school. State record my junior year, which still stands, by the way.”
“That’s cute. Did your cat clap for you?”
“Oh, right. I must be a sad cat lady because I’m not mesmerized by your ego. Not every woman drops her panties for a great body and a personality defect.”