Chapter 3
CAMILLE
H oly mother of God, that’s a huge penis.
And it’s sinking inside me, slowly invading my body inch by thick inch. The insertion goes on for hours, or maybe it’s just a few seconds. He’s taking his time, letting my body adjust to his size. By the time the man buries himself to the root, the walls of my sex stop clenching.
Balling my hands on the wall, I peel my cheek off cool concrete. As the stranger slides out of me, I cast an arrogant look over my shoulder. “Is that as hard as you can fuck me?” I’m playing with fire, and I see it flare up in his eyes.
Then I get what I want as he slams into me. Hard .
“Oh, God.” I tip my hips up to take him as he draws back and fucks into me again. He’s pounding me against this wall, angry and wild and so hot it’s blinding. My fingers slip down to my clit, fumbling and rubbing and struggling to find enough friction.
“Hands off,” he snaps, slapping the back of my wrist. Thick fingers replace mine, strumming that tight little bud like a master. “I decide when you come. Not you.”
“Then you’d better fucking get busy.” Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I never talk like this. Never in my whole life have I had unprotected sex with someone I don’t even know.
I must have gone crazy. That’s my only excuse for slamming my hips back into him, meeting this man thrust for thrust. He’s trying to kill me, or maybe I’m trying to kill him.
My psychologist brain catalogues what’s happening. Diminished inhibitions, rising blood pressure, increased heart rate, my system flooding with dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin.
“Fuck,” I cry out as his thick fingers roll my clit. “How are you so fucking huge?”
“How are you this tight?”
We’re both hurling words like they’re weapons. Like we’re trying to destroy one another. As he slams in again, I feel his thick cock hit my spleen. I know that’s not physically possible, but Jesus Christ.
“That thing is a menace,” I snarl as my climax creeps up like a sniper. I’ve never been fucked quite this hard. My forehead thumps the wall and I have the passing thought that I’ll probably wind up with bruises. Then big hands bite into my hips, dragging me back to impale me again and again.
“You got what you wanted,” he growls as he thrusts in harder. “You’ll take as much of this cock as I give you.”
The words push me closer to coming. His fiery rage, the strum of his fingertips pulsing and teasing. I can feel my walls clenching, feel myself hurtling over the edge.
“Come with me!” I scream, clawing my hands down the concrete.
He lets out a roar, pounding me fiercely as the first spasms hit. Oh my God . I’m coming so hard I can’t breathe. All I can do is keep driving back on his dick, meeting him thrust for powerful thrust.
Another raw roar rattles out of him as his grip on my hips gets tighter. I’m falling and tumbling, bumping along like a mannequin being dragged behind a car. That sounds so unpleasant, but the truth?
It’s the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had.
“Holy shit.” I scream as another wave hits me. My hands scrape the concrete wall and two fingernails break. There goes my stupid wedding manicure.
Also, my last shreds of dignity.
Ashton slows down, dripping sweat on my back as he thrusts three or four more times. Then he pulls out and spins me around to face him.
“What’s your name?” he demands, cool blue eyes searching mine.
“It’s on my reservation,” I retort. “Dr. Camille Plier, PsyD.”
Definitely the first time I’ve introduced myself with cum dripping down my leg.
“Dr. Camille Plier, PsyD,” he repeats, shaking his head just a little. “Are you actually clinically insane?”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
Two seconds ago, I was this close to crying—over a manicure, of all things—but there’s something about this man’s rumpled hair, his crooked tie dangling down his bare chest, and his stupid Armani trousers rucked around well-muscled thighs.
I’m laughing so hard I start wheezing. More cum rolls down my leg, and dear God, it’s the funniest thing ever .
I double over with laughter, howling and swiping at hot tears of mirth.
I manage to straighten, to get it together, only to hiccup another raw snicker.
Ashton’s brow furrows as he slides a pressed linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and hands it to me without comment.
I can’t stop laughing as I clean myself up.
I’m not making much of a case for why I’m not nuts.
I start to hand back the handkerchief, then decide that’s inappropriate.
The thought sets me laughing again. So does the sight of Ashton Holyfield’s bare chest heaving, his ripped-open shirt showcasing magnificent pecs.
He’s still wearing his tailored suit jacket with the tip of his silk tie pointing right at his cock.
“You’re a hot mess,” I manage to wheeze. “Your hair’s all fucked up and your pants?—”
“ I’m a hot mess?” He lets go of my hip and tugs up his trousers, fastening the button with fingers still sticky from me. “You show up at my resort without a reservation, go prowling around my boiler room commanding strangers to fuck you, and I’m the hot mess?”
“Just the one stranger,” I point out. It’s not much of an argument. “I’m open to multiple strangers, though.”
“I know. I saw your paperwork.”
Jesus, why did I hand him that? He might have a point. I might be insane.
But as I study his way-too-attractive face, I consider insane might be just what I need.
“Are you really Ashton Holyfield?”
His dark scowl unclenches. He looks almost bemused. “You think I’m the janitor?”
“You think that matters?” Of course he’s an elitist asshole. “I’ve got nothing against men who perform blue collar manual labor.”
“Nor do I,” he claps back. “But they don’t tend to wear Armani.”
Fair point. “Is the resort really closed?”
“Do you always question everything?”
“Yes.” Most definitely. “Some things more than others.”
“Though clearly not whether it’s wise to have unprotected sex with men you’ve just met in a boiler room.”
I wince. “Would you believe me if I said it’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like that?”
“Yes.” He sounds surprised to admit it. “I would.”
“Well it was.” I look down at my dress on the floor. “It’s been a weird day.”
“You don’t say.” He bends down and picks up the tattered remains of my dress, folding it neatly before handing it to me. “I’m not certain it’s salvageable, but if you like?—”
“Don’t bother.” I walk to my duffel, still leaking his cum down my legs. My underwear’s missing, so I’m dressed in a bra, attempting to maintain as much dignity as possible. “I’m sure there’s something else I can wear.”
Unzipping my gym bag, I pull out pink Lycra bike shorts and the bright-yellow sports bra I wear when I need to do laundry. There’s a good chance I didn’t bring underwear.
“So much for dignity,” I mutter as I pull on the shorts.
“Allow me to suggest a shopping spree in our on-site boutique.” Ashton steps to my side, lending his muscular forearm for balance while I wriggle into the bike shorts. “Complimentary, of course. It’s the least we can do before sending you on your way.”
“We?” I straighten and smooth down my hair. “Thought you gave the whole team a paid holiday.”
“Yes, well.” He clears his throat, looking a little bit flustered. “Be that as it may, my accountant will want records of why I gave away hundreds of dollars in charitable clothing donations.”
Charity? Something about that word sets me on edge. Clenching my jaw, I stuff the ripped dress in my gym bag.
“Don’t let me trouble you, Ash Hole.” I try to pull on the bra top, but it gets twisted around my head. “I’ll be out of your hair in a second.”
He frowns, catching the edge of the Lycra to help me tug it in place. “You can’t go like this.”
“Dressed like a refugee from a Lululemon explosion, you mean?” I look down at my outfit and yeah—it’s not awesome. “Believe me, I’ve done worse.” Today is a perfect example.
What the hell was I thinking?
And why is some twisted part of me aching to do it again?
“Stop.” The man looks like he’s trying for a medal in Olympic frowning. “I can’t allow you to leave like this.”
“ Allow me?” Does he think because I let him call me a dirty slut he’s now my keeper? Degradation’s never been my thing, so I’m a little perplexed by how hot that was.
But I’m drawing the line now. “No man allows me to do anything.”
“Certainly,” he agrees. “But the captain of the transport vessel that makes twice-daily deliveries to this island might have an opinion on your wish to leave forty minutes after the final boat has departed for the day.”
“Motherfucker.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Did I mention this isn’t my day?”
“It might have come up.”
I open my eyes and size up the man. “Now what?”
“You’re asking me?” There’s that bemused look again. “I thought no man allows you to do anything.”
“I’m not seeking permission. I’m asking if you have any ideas for how you can get rid of me so I can move forward with at least a few shreds of dignity.”
His eyes travel my body, going a little bit molten. “On the latter count, there’s no chance. On the former?—”
“Fuck you, Ash Hole.” I stoop down and pick up my gym bag. “I’ll swim if I have to.”
“Wait.” He catches my arm and I turn. “I apologize. I’m being inhospitable.”
“You think?” I glare at his hand, then soften.
A memory of those fingers on my clit sends a shockwave of lust through my body.
“You seemed pretty hospitable with your dick buried inside me. Thanks for that, by the way.” It’s maybe not wise to be bitchy to the guy whose private property I’m trespassing upon, so I dial it down a notch.
“I apologize for basically bullying you into having sex with me.”
“Madam.” His grip on my arm tightens. “I can assure you that no one—no man, woman, or non-gendered individual—bullies me.”
I hate how fucking hot that is. Not just the confidence. The utter arrogance. The fact that he just used inclusive language. I want to hate this guy, but part of me can’t seem to manage.
“Okay.” I draw a deep breath. “We’re two intelligent, educated, rational individuals.” I try to recall what I’ve read about Ashton Holyfield and his Ivy League pedigree floats through my mind. I’ll look him up later. “If the last boat of the day already left, what are my options?”
He opens his mouth to say something snotty, but my stomach chooses that moment to let loose a ferocious growl.
Ashton’s blue eyes drop to my midsection. “Did you smuggle a gargoyle with you on the plane?”
I laugh. The man’s funny, I’ll give him that.
“The only thing I’ve eaten since yesterday was a whole can of Pringles on the plane.
” I meant to buy something at the airport, but I couldn’t find any restaurants open during my 3 a.m. layover in Houston.
“I don’t suppose you have a granola bar or something? ”
He studies my face and those steely eyes shift to something a little less chilly. An odd warmth seeps into them. Not pity or fondness. Kindness, maybe.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Ashton Holyfield might actually have feelings.
He straightens his tie, which is silly since he can’t even button his shirt. “I might wind up regretting this.”
“Welcome to the club,” I mutter. “I wrote the fucking book on regret today.”
He frowns. “You regret what we did?”
I replay the last twenty-four hours in fast forward: getting stood up for my wedding, racing to get on a plane and flying three-thousand miles without a plan, leaving my friends with little more than a text.
There’s plenty I regret. Having sex in a boiler room with Ashton Holyfield isn’t one of them.
“No.” I watch his shoulders drop with something that looks like relief. “I don’t regret it.”
“Nor do I.” He tugs at his tie again, long fingers brushing his bare chest.
My mouth starts to twitch. I fight to refrain from laughing again.
One haughty brow lifts. “Is something amusing?”
“You’re not a little bit amused?”
He doesn’t respond, but something in his eyes goes a little bit softer. He looks down at his torso, then back at me. Clearing his throat, he drops his hand from my arm. “Follow me.”
And like a complete moron, I do as he says.