Chapter 4
ASHTON
“ H ere you go, Madam.”
I set down a fine China plate artfully arranged with chicken nuggets, tater tots, apple slices, and a frozen passionfruit tartlet warmed in the microwave. Sliding a set of fine cutlery from my pocket, I set it on the table beside her. Next to that, I place a pouch of Capri Sun. “Bon Appetit.”
“Thank you.” Camille dives into her dinner, eating with the same ravenous hunger she brought to our sexual encounter.
I really should stop thinking about that.
Or noticing how nicely she fills out the simple gray sundress we grabbed in the on-site boutique on our way here. She pointed it out in the window, making her selection with the same forethought she gave our sexual encounter.
“That one’s fine,” she said as I attempted a dignified undressing of the mannequin. “Thank you again.”
“Surely you’d like to assess other sizes, colors, styles?—”
“I’m really not picky. Size doesn’t matter.”
“Really?” I handed her the garment, along with a new pair of lacy white panties like the ones I’d just ripped off her body. “You suggested otherwise in the boiler room.”
Camille blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re really something, Ash Hole.”
I wasn’t entirely sure how she meant it.
Like a gentleman, I waited outside the spa’s locker room while she donned her new outfit.
I grabbed two more dresses, one in a shade of dark green I imagined would set off her eyes.
She emerged five minutes later looking lovely and combed in the breezy gray sundress that fits like a glove.
“Thank you,” she said, adjusting a strap on her shoulder. “Please take me to food now.”
Which I’ve done, because guest satisfaction matters. Also, because I’m inclined to do whatever she asks when she looks at me with those bright hazel eyes brimming with ravenous energy.
In this case, though, it’s purely for food.
She’s licking her fingers as she swallows a fat chicken nugget, and I definitely don’t think about how that tongue felt wrapped around my cock. She starts on the tater tots next, wolfing them down with a zeal that’s, frankly, impressive.
“You okay?” she says, looking up from her meal.
“Certainly. Why?”
“You’re watching me eat like you’re hungry for something.” She picks up one of her last three tots. “Want one?”
“No, thank you.”
She pops it in her mouth with a grin. “Good, because I’m starving.”
Watching her eat is like watching her have sex. One’s certainly more satisfying, but both feel like witnessing true passion in action. I’m a little bit envious, and not just of chicken nuggets.
Glancing away, I scan the beachfront restaurant for repair projects scheduled to occur during our closure.
The thatched roof over the bar took a beating in the last tropical storm, so I’ve hired a handful of local workers to attend to it.
They’re already half done, calling to each other in the local dialect as one man points out a pod of gray whales arching through bright turquoise waters.
A gentle sea breeze stirs the fan overhead, and I’m pleased to see someone’s already cleaned the blades.
I run a tight ship, but I take good care of my people. Of that, I’m confident.
“Thanks again.” Camille licks ketchup off her fingers. “This is delicious and I’m grateful.”
“But?”
“Why do you think there’s a but?”
Because I’m a gentleman, I don’t comment on her butt. Or the fact that I noticed several anal enchantments on her intake form. “Your voice tipped up at the end of that sentence,” I say instead. “Like there was more you meant to say, but you held back.”
“Interesting. You’re very observant.”
“I try.”
“Okay, well—like I said, I’m grateful. I was ready to chew off my own arm, so I appreciate the food.”
“Clearly.”
“But I have to admit, it’s not what I expected when my brother raved about the five-star culinary scene at this place.”
I blink in surprise. “Your brother’s been here?” We don’t allow male guests, so I can’t fathom that’s possible.
“Kit Plier—er, Dr. Christopher Plier, PsyD.” She stuffs another chicken nugget in her mouth. “He’s a research psychologist you hired a few months back.” Chewing an apple slice, she pauses for a sip from her juice pouch. “The profession runs in the family.”
“Ah, I see.” I hired Dr. Plier to study the overall job satisfaction and mental health of sex workers at this resort. To my utter shock, he insisted on being one to thoroughly enmesh himself in the study.
I doubt his sister knows that.
“You remember my brother, right?”
“Certainly.”
Camille grabs another apple slice. “He came here expecting to fuck a lot of people as a consort but wound up falling in love with my bestie instead. Eve Goodrich?”
“Oh. Interesting.” Apparently they do share intimate details in their family.
“To answer your question, my culinary staff has the week off with the rest of the resort employees. The only thing I could find to prepare on short notice with limited ingredients was the menu attached to our DDLG package.”
Camille’s brow furrows. “DDLG?”
“Daddy/little girl kink. It’s quite popular among women.”
“I’m aware.” She looks down at her plate with renewed interest. “And while I’d certainly never kink shame, I’m not above culinary shaming. Daddy can’t serve his little girl some fettuccine alfredo or something?”
I try to hold back a chuckle. When I fail, I cover it with a cough. “If I hadn’t feared you might drop dead from hunger, I probably could have rounded up something more pleasing to your palate.” I’m trying to sound sarcastic and haughty, but it winds up sounding more sympathetic.
There’s a story behind this ridiculous meal. It’s one I prepared years ago for a child I will not discuss in this context. Or any context, ever.
As my dead, blackened heart twists itself into a ball, I try to reroute the discussion. “If it helps, the chicken is all-natural and organic. The apples are sourced locally, as is the passionfruit.”
“Fabulous.” Camille bites into another chicken nugget. “I’m just grateful you stuffed me with something besides your cock. Both were terrific, but only one saved me from hypoglycemia.”
The mouth on this woman. “Are you this gauche with your patients?”
“Not typically,” she says with surprisingly good cheer. “But I do find using coarse language—particularly in the context of human sexuality—can prompt others to open up in ways they might not if I used purely clinical terms.”
“That makes sense.” And it does. Once, in a past life, I attended marriage counseling. Shocking, I know, and it’s not something I’ve told anyone before.
Nor will I. “Any luck booking a new flight?” That was her task while I prepared food.
“Ugh, no.” Camille picks up her phone and frowns. “There’s one flight out in less than two hours. Even if that shuttle boat were still running, I probably wouldn’t make it tonight.”
“How unfortunate.”
Here’s where I’m sort of an asshole.
My personal yacht sits anchored in the resort’s marina.
With my Jaguar garaged on the next largest island, we could reach the airport in roughly ninety minutes.
There’s also the possibility of reaching it via private plane from the airstrip here on the island, but that’s not an option I’ll consider.
Even with the yacht, there’s a chance we could make it in time. I might have to pull a few strings to delay the departure of Camille’s scheduled flight, and tugging some more would get her escorted through security and straight to the front of the boarding line.
All of that’s possible for a man of my considerable means.
So why don’t I offer those options?
“You okay?” She peers up at my face. “You got sort of a funny look all of a sudden.”
“I’m quite all right.” I stand and pluck an upturned water glass from the adjacent table. “May I offer you some ice water? Wine, perhaps?”
“I’m good.” Camille picks up her drink pouch. “Enjoying my Capri Sun for now.” Wrapping those perfect, pink lips around the straw, she hollows her cheeks and sucks.
I know she’s not trying to be seductive. For God’s sake, what man in his right mind would be turned on by a woman fellating a juice box?
But my dick has a mind of its own. It likes the display very much.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Can I get you anything else?”
Camille releases the straw and sits back with a hand on her belly. “No, thank you, I’m stuffed. You seriously saved my life.”
“Don’t mention it.” There’s a squeeze in my chest that feels like my supply of oxygen has been cut off. “Well then. Shall we find you a place to rest for the night? We can sort out your departure in the morning.”
“Hey.” Her hand darts out to capture my wrist before I get up from the table. Hazel eyes search mine, and the pinch in my chest starts to loosen. “Seriously, thanks. I probably didn’t make the best first impression, but you’ve been incredibly kind.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“But I do.” Her delicate fingers graze the back of my hand. “As you probably gathered, the last thirty-six hours have been a challenge. I haven’t exactly been myself.”
“Who have you been?” The question slips out before I can think, and Camille laughs.
“Fair point,” she says. “If I were my own therapist, I’d probably observe that nothing I’ve done in the last day wasn’t already in my nature.
That an inciting incident may have triggered more extreme behaviors, but I’ve done nothing outside my moral code or innate personality, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. ”
“You sound like a very good therapist.”
Her eyes spark to life and she smiles. “I like to think so. I work very hard at it. Continuing education, advanced training, always striving to be the very best I can be for the sake of my patients.” Some of the light fades from her eyes.
“Then again, what sort of therapist can’t see that her own relationship sucks balls? ”
I shouldn’t ask. It’s none of my business. There’s no reason to invest in this woman’s personal trauma. “Was he unfaithful?”