Barbie
Ziplining is off the table for obvious reasons.
We pawned our tickets on Frank, who we ran into while visiting the art museum.
He’s here with his wife, and like Ed, he’s also rocking a major sunburn.
I’m truly convinced the higher-ups we report to are using the conference as a secret vacation, but Ethan does not believe me.
Luckily, we’re too busy partaking in other activities offered on our honeymoon package to care what our manager and his boss are up to.
We did the kayaking tour near the cliffs, where I almost dropped a paddle when he offered to reapply sunscreen on my back.
Joined the one-hour wine and cheese cruise at a nearby beach, where we both agreed aged gouda is delicious.
Took sailing lessons at the cove, where Ethan ended up doing everything while I took a bunch of photos.
By the time the sun’s setting, we are pedaling our rental bikes along the river, far from the weekend crowd who’ve kept to the boardwalk and its beach.
I’m exhausted. My sunblock has worn off.
My legs are sore. My stomach is starting to cramp.
I haven’t been this active in so long, and it shows.
The urge to leap off the bike and fling myself into the river and let it carry me off to the sea is strong, especially when I see the wooded hiking trail looming in the near distance.
“Hiking is your thing, not mine,” I groan. “I’m big on swimming. Yoga. Pilates. Yogalates. I’ll even give underwater basket weaving a shot. Any activity in environments free of bugs flying into your face.”
“It’s only three miles long,” he hollers over his shoulder. “We’ll bike through the whole thing.”
Does he not realize we’ll have to turn around at some point? Three miles is going to become six? That it’s six miles of biking into bugs?
“I’m full of cheese, Ethan,” I grumble.
Truthfully, the strategic thing to do would have been to end the day with the wine and cheese date. But I know Ethan suggested doing it earlier, before the dinner rush, so we could avoid being on a small cruise full of people.
The view might not have been as splendid as it would have been later on in the day, but the company wasn’t so bad.
“And,” I forge on, “I’m a magnet for mosquitoes.”
“We’ll get pistachio ice cream after,” he adds. As if I can be easily swayed by the delicious, earthy, and nutty frozen dessert. Which I am.
But then again, if free food is involved, I’m fucking there with bells on.
“With sprinkles?” I know I’m pushing my luck.
“And all the fixings of a sundae. How does that sound?”
I sniff, then pedal a little faster so that I’m biking alongside him. There’s a smug half-smile forming on the corner of his lips. I narrow my eyes at him. His grin widens.
“When my legs are on life support tonight,” I grumble, “you better be the one giving me a show in the hot tub.”
My legs aren’t on life support, thanks to what I can only assume is divine intervention. Although the series of proper stretches we both did after returning the bikes probably helped.
The teenager behind the display counter looks extremely bored while Ethan scans the wide variety of flavors to choose from. We’ve been here for ten minutes. He’s having trouble figuring out which flavor is which when they’re all labeled with questionable names.
After ordering a scoop of chocolate chip for himself and a pistachio sundae for me—or the chunky and hunky and the delightful nut, as the employee so aptly corrected us—and bribing the cashier not to ring the cowbell for purchasing the latter, we’re both making our way back to the hotel.
It’s super windy. I’d like to be able to enjoy my ice cream without my hair running interference and flying into my mouth every few seconds. My sundae is partially melting onto my hand as we exit the elevator to our floor.
“How’s the pistachio?” Ethan asks while keying us into our room. He finished his scoop in two bites.
The muffled word coming out of my mouth sounds a lot like delicious. He snorts, and I scrunch my nose at him while I savor another delightful spoonful.
“You got a little something here,” he says while I skirt past him, tapping the edge of his lips.
“Yeah. Delicious flavor,” I manage as my thumb swipes at the spot on my face. His deep, hearty chuckle sends a cascade of goosebumps down my back.
Right now, ice cream is the last thing on my mind.
I’m more focused on the proximity of his body to mine while we’re both still standing in the doorway.
The stray lock of hair hours after his hair gel has worn off.
The way his gaze becomes low-lidded when I look up into his eyes.
The length of his eyelashes and how they curl.
“What’s on your mind, Barbie?” It’s that rough voice of his again.
“I...” My heart pounds. My breath catches. My thumb touches something wet and cold. I startle, realizing a second too late I’m squeezing the sundae in my hand. “Whoops. I should finish this.”
Which I do. Slipping into the room, I rapidly polish off the rest of my dessert. It’s a bad call on my end, one I tremendously regret when I’m hit with a throbbing headache before I can take another breath of air.
“You okay?”
I feel like I’m dying, Ethan. “I’m fine,” I squeak, tossing the paper cup into the trash can. I flash him an easy, breezy, I’m totally not dying here, Ethan smile.
He heaves out a sigh and shakes his head. “Put your tongue to the roof of your mouth.”
“How about I put my tongue to the roof of your mouth instead?” I counter, tossing him a very enthusiastic wink.
The corner of his lips twitches for a beat. Obviously, he’s at war with himself, experiencing major turmoil. His primal attraction toward me in this very instance is too much for him to bear. He can hardly control himself as it is.
“How about you deal with your brain freeze first?” he says gently.
The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is strong.
“Only if you don’t stop”—my voice sounds almost as breathless as I was earlier today, biking those damn six miles nonstop in the godawful summer heat—“bossing me around for the rest of the night.”
Powering through my headache, I bat my eyelashes at him and twirl a strand of my hair around my finger.
His expression turns inscrutable. “You want me to boss you around?”
“I need you to,” I reply in a sultry and slow cadence.
“Oh, yeah?” His brow quirks as he regards me with a heavy-lidded stare. “How’s this, Barbie? Why don’t you be a good girl for me and deal with your brain freeze?”
“And then what?” I prompt with a coy lip bite. So help me, I will have this guy giving in to temptation before the night is over.
“Then I want you to walk to that side of the bed”—he tips his head, inching closer to me—“and bend over for me—”
“Ooh, I like where this is going.”
“—take out your laptop from your suitcase,” he continues, placing his hands on my hips and drawing our bodies close with a gentle tug, “log into your email, and agree that our cover sheets do not need to be standardized—”
“Ooh, I do not like where this is going.” My nose scrunches while I flatten my tongue against my mouth’s roof once more.
“But Barbie,” he says, and how dare he use his sexy rough voice, “I thought you wanted me to boss you around?”
“I changed my mind,” I reply sweetly. “I want you to kiss me instead.”
“You want me to kiss you?” He smirks. “I thought you wanted to edge me. What happened to your little operation?”
Oh. Right. I’m supposed to edge him so hard that he’ll be known as the extreme erectile function guy.
“It’s still ongoing,” I say, reaching for his hands still on my hips and hastily nudging them to my ass. “Oh. Whoops. How did that happen?”
Ethan holds me with a long, contemplative gaze. Like a sexy game of chess, I’m trying to anticipate his next move before he makes it.
Maybe he’ll give my ass a good, dirty squeeze. Perhaps he’ll hoist me into the air, which I’ll retaliate by wrapping my legs around him. Or he’ll hold me against the wall—
He cranes his neck down and kisses me.
On the fucking forehead.
“Oh. Whoops. How did that happen?” he mimics.
Wow. Okay. I see how it is. Boss Man over here thinks he’s so funny.
The thing is, I never back down from a challenge. The scar on my right knee is a testimony of my stubborn will.
I arch my body, thrusting my tits into his chest, then brazenly tug my pink top down so he can see them in their pushed-up and smushed-together glory. “Oh. Whoops—”
“Aw, Barbie,” he cuts in. “You’re going the wrong way if you want to take your shirt off for me.”
“Seduction,” I drawl, “is about the teasing. The anticipation.”
“The torturing,” he supplies without missing a beat.
Amusement curls the corner of my lips. “You think I’m torturing you?”
“You know you are,” he says. “But I can sink to your level.”
“You might have to get on your knees for that,” I reply, letting out a startled shriek when he lifts me into the air without warning, and my back hits the mattress, his body on top of mine a beat later.
“Oh.” His dark eyes gleam with mischief. “Whoops.” His mouth twists upward; his lips still not crushed against mine. “How did that happen?”
“Okay, I’m seduced and tortured,” I breathe out quickly, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead, and he snorts.
“You’re not seduced and tortured,” he responds, his breath featherlight against my jawline.
“How would you know?” I grumble. “You thought I was a bot up until this week. Anyway, I’m very, very tortured, so let’s move on to the next step, removing—”
“The leaves from your hair?”
“—our clothes. What?” My eyes go wide when he plucks what appears to be a small twig from the top of my head. “Is that from biking earlier?”
I mean, obviously, it is. Not only does it serve as a reminder of the six miles of nonstop pedaling around overgrown bushes and low-hanging branches, but I’m hit with the realization we’ve been active all day, weekend warrioring to the max. We’ve worked up a sweat and then some.
As much as I want this to continue uninterrupted, basic hygiene is my kink.