Chapter 2
ASHTON
I stare down the willowy redhead wearing a wispy white dress and the baffled expression of someone who expected Geoffrey the Butler and got Godzilla instead.
Or maybe Norman Bates.
She’s not answering my question, so I try again with more professional grace.
“Pardon me, that came out wrong.” I fix one of my cufflinks that’s turned sideways and watch her eyes dart to my sleeve. “Who the fuck are you, ma’am ?”
She straightens to her full height of five-foot-nothing and I watch her jaw clench. “Real fucking polite,” she claps back. “If this is how you treat all your guests, it’s no wonder this place is deserted.”
Now she’s just pissing me off. “A guest,” I snarl, “would have a resort reservation. I can assure you, madam, that you do not.”
That steals some of the stiffness from her spine, but she puts it right back and tips up her chin.
“I can assure you that your website malfunctioned when I attempted a last-minute booking. But the system showed unoccupied rooms, which I was able to book with a two p.m. arrival.” With a glance at her watch, she holds a pale wrist aloft in triumph. “It’s two-oh-two.”
She must be lying. Either that or there’s a glitch with the website. Someone on the tech team is getting fired. “Be that as it may, you do not have a reservation for the resort.”
“Are we seriously quibbling over a technicality?” The woman huffs.
“I can show you my credit from Holyfield Properties, my room reservation, screenshots of my desired reservation dates, proof of vacation insurance, and the stupid zillion-page questionnaire with tick-marks beside all of my kinks and most passionate desires.”
She sounds passionate, all right. But it’s the rip-your-dick off brand, so I absolutely, positively shouldn’t ask to view the forms that detail her most intimate fantasies. That’s none of my business. Also, irrelevant.
“Let me see it.”
I expect her to hand me her phone, but she digs in her bag and yanks out a thick sheaf of papers. “The airport had a business center.” She thrusts the forms at me and I have no choice but to take them. “I’ve learned to always make printed copies.”
“I see.” I most definitely should not look at this.
But should nots are my personal weakness, so I let my eyes drop to the paperwork.
The redhead’s creative, I’ll give her that.
She’s ticked boxes for activities like skinny-dipping and nude sunbathing.
She’s apparently open to group sex, plus some exhibitionist play.
There’s a tick-mark for age gap, which isn’t the most common selection for guests.
Our system defines it as a minimum gap of ten years, and I ponder who’s on the schedule this week.
Then I punch myself in the dick—mentally, of course—because this woman’s not staying here. Goddammit.
I thrust back the paperwork like she’s used it to blow her nose. She stares at my outstretched hand, refusing to take it.
The hell with her.
“While this is all very interesting,” I begin, setting her forms on top of a tankless water heater, “I can promise you that you do not have a reservation. Not for this specific Holyfield Properties resort on the dates you indicate.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m Ashton Holyfield.” I watch for the wide-eyed jolt of surprise. For the awe that always accompanies this announcement. The news that I’m one of the world’s wealthiest men.
“How fortunate for you Ashton Holyfield ,” snaps the redhead. “Did kids at school call you Ash Hole?”
I blink. “Surely you can’t be serious.”
“I am serious.” One edge of her mouth ticks up. “And don’t call me Shirley.”
“ Airplane .” I wasn’t expecting a movie quote, so I’m more than a little thrown off.
And she clearly wasn’t expecting me to know it. Her hazel eyes blink in surprise. “You’ve watched Airplane ?”
“ Everyone’s watched that film. It’s a cultural staple.” We’re getting off track here. “Madam, I regret to inform you there is no possible way we’re equipped to handle your nonexistent reservation this week at Crystal Bliss Retreat. The resort is closed for the holiday.”
This time, she flinches. “What holiday?”
“World Baking Day.”
Her eyes drag my body, slowly. “And why are you not off sliding your baguette in an oven?”
I decide to overlook her salacious suggestion, though not all of me wants to ignore it. My dick’s paying attention.
But that’s an organ I’ve learned to disregard, so I retort. “I’ve given my staff a full week’s vacation to recoup, regenerate, and relax. Fully paid, of course.”
“I see.” She’s looking a little less sassy. “So why are you here?”
“I’m using the downtime to switch over the boilers to solar.” Because yes, I care about the environment. “The repairman will be here at three-thirty.” It’s barely after two, but I believe in being prepared.
The redhead stares with a little less fire in her eyes. The hand gripping her bag turns white at the knuckles and I can see she’s fighting to quash what she’s feeling.
I’m familiar with the look.
“Fuck.” She squeezes her eyes shut, jaw clenching tightly.
“It fucking figures, doesn’t it? My fucking fiancé forgets to show up for his own fucking wedding, so why the fuck would I expect this fucking disaster of a day to start going my way the instant I get on a fucking plane and fly all fucking night wedged between a guy eating a tuna wrap and some fucking stockbroker who hit me up for free fucking therapy.
” She doesn’t even take a breath between sentences.
“I fucking counsel patients constantly not to seek a geographical cure for a fucking internalized problem, and what do I fucking do? The same exact fucking thing I know will create more problems.”
I stare at her face. At the bright spots of color high on her cheekbones. I’d never say this out loud, but she’s beautiful when she’s angry.
And I know what it’s like to have a bad day. A bad life, to be honest.
But I’m still not taking her in. “Rather impressive,” I manage, “the quantity of fucks you managed to fit into one mouthful.”
“Wonderful.” She doesn’t unclench her jaw. “Because they’re clearly the only fucks I’ll be getting this weekend.”
“And the only mouthful?”
I expect her to slap me. I probably deserve it.
Instead, she steps forward. “You’re an asshole, aren’t you?”
“Most assuredly.” That’s an easy one.
“Straight?”
That catches me by surprise. “Yes, but I don’t see?—”
“Married?”
It’s my turn to flinch. I cover it well, but I think she just noticed.
“No.” Injecting my voice with stiff rods of steel, I respond. “Not married.”
“Well, then.” She lets go of her bag, which flops to the floor with a smack. Her right hand snakes out, catching my tie in a fist.
As she jerks me forward, I manage to stay on my feet. Pulling my face down to hers, the redhead looks right in my eye. “Let’s go, Ash Hole.”
“Go where?” I’m dimly aware of a buzz in my brain that tells me she isn’t inviting me to dinner. The way she just licked her lips makes that clear.
Or the heat in her eyes, so blazing and fierce, when I haven’t felt fire in ages. A faint whiff of Shalimar—of bergamot, spices, and iris—clings to her skin. I dip my gaze down and find myself drowning in lush cleavage.
“Lovely breasts.” I didn’t intend to say that out loud, but it’s true. They’re quite remarkable.
“Thank you,” she snaps, her mouth mere inches from mine.
“Are you aware,” I say slowly, “that your dress is unbuttoned?”
She doesn’t recoil or let go of my tie. She doesn’t even blink.
“Are you aware,” she retorts, “that I came here for a rage fuck and I intend to collect one way or another?”
“I see.” And I’m seeing quite a lot of her breasts from this angle. Pale freckles sprinkle the tops like a dusting of cinnamon. I’m aching to taste them. To savor the rest of her body. To give this woman exactly what she wants.
Swallowing hard, I try to force some sense into my brain. “That would be…inadvisable.”
“Inadvisable?” She laughs like I’ve said something funny. “Getting on an airplane to go to a sex resort with a questionable reservation is inadvisable .” She licks her lips and my cock twitches. “Having rage sex with the owner is just practical .”
There is absolutely nothing practical about it.
Why was that again?
I look into her eyes, getting lost in those bright, hazel depths. Her breasts rise and fall, heaving with the passion of her speech. Possibly something else.
Fuck it. I’m a strong man. That’s what they say in the gossip rags.
But there’s only so much I can take.
Grabbing the wrist that’s attached to the hand on my tie, I give a tight squeeze. With a squeak, she releases her grip. Backing her up toward the boilers, I feel her sharp intake of breath.
“You’re playing with fire.” I’m trying for fierce, but it comes out a little bit strained.
“Maybe I am.” Her chin tips up and it’s all can do not to kiss that smug smile off her pretty pink lips. “Maybe I want to get burned. Maybe you’re exactly what I need.”
I know that’s not possibly true, so why am I pressing her lithe little body against this rough, dusty wall? The back of her skull thumps the concrete, and I start to make sure she’s okay.
But the hand I’m not gripping grabs the front of my pants and squeezes. Hard.
“That’s what I thought.” Her expression turns even smugger. “You’re as turned on as I am.”
“Maybe it’s a medical condition.” I’m sweating enough to feel ill.
“Maybe you want to fuck me. Maybe…” She licks her lips, and I hate how badly I want to fuck that smart mouth. “Maybe the neurochemical effects of anger heighten the intensity of arousal, increasing serotonin to enhance the sexual experience.”
Uh…?
What is up with this woman?
And why do I still fucking want her this badly?
She’s haughty and rude, entitled and vulgar.