“It’s cool, sweetheart.” He drapes his arm across the back of my chair and smirks. “I’m happy to give you the one-night stand you’re looking for on your vacation.”
Again, this offer is tempting. In my mind, I picture us naked—his tall, powerful body gliding over mine.
“What’s your name, surfer boy? It can’t be Manta Ray Whisperer. I bet it’s something proper and preppy from the south. This whole southern surfer thing is cute, but it feels like you’re hiding something.”
He laughs a deep rumbling laugh. “Kentucky, sweetheart. And the name is Wes.”
Wes.
Too young for me Wes.
Twenty-nine-year-old Wes.
This is a bad idea. I’m thirty-five, going on thirty-six. I know that six years isn’t a big deal. But it feels like it.
He bites his lip as his gaze sweeps over me.
This man wants me.
I stifle a laugh at the thought of him being a man.
Twenty-nine. He’s not even thirty.
Wow. I’m really fixating on this age thing.
Wes leans into me. “Let’s get out of here.” The scruff of his jawline temps me. I want to feel it between my legs.
“Now?”
“Yeah. What do you say to no strings? No promises. One night and then we’re done. You get what you want, and I get laid.”
I cock a brow. “You’re arrogant.”
“I prefer confident. I’ll give you everything you want,” he says. The whisper of his promise slides right over my ear and down to my toes.
The next thing I know, he drags me off my barstool and onto the restaurant’s lanai. Wes pins me between a palm tree and a decorative surfboard. The railing claws at my back as his fingers dig into my hips.
“When you said ‘let’s get out of here,’ I thought you meant like your place or mine.”
His mouth curls into a devious smile. “This is just the beginning.”
My mind races again. I picture Wes being intense and fast.
I’ve been with two men since my divorce. The first guy wouldn’t let me take his shirt off. Red flags flew up everywhere. I couldn’t have an orgasm because all I kept thinking about was his chest. What was he hiding underneath his clothes? The various images of him showering and swimming with a shirt on passed through my mind. The second guy was a fumbling, bumbling mess. Absolutely no finesse. He didn’t know his way around a vagina to save his life. It was sloppy and disappointing.
Wes leans in closer and I lick my lips. The air crackles around us. My body vibrates with heat as the anticipation churns through me. I’m helpless to the spell he has over me.
“Minka,” he whispers, and one hand comes up to cup my cheek. My dress feels like sandpaper against my skin.
“One night,” I tell him. Fisting his shirt and drawing him closer.
“One night,” he repeats. Wes’ lips move over mine and the deep low rumbling in his chest sends me over the edge right into the abyss.
The moment my lips touch his, his hands slide up my back, coming to a stop and tangling in my hair.
His mouth claims mine over and over. It’s an extraordinary, dangerous lust that can only be described as combustible.
Oh god, it is the most insanely beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. Wes knows how to kiss.
“Damn, sweetheart, you taste incredible.”
Our hands are as urgent as our mouths.
“Get a room, you two,” someone calls out.
Wes laughs against my lips. “Well, I guess we should do what he says.”
“Your place or mine?” I ask.
He takes my hand in his and drags me down the steps and onto the sidewalk. “Mine. Definitely mine.”
“What about the bill?”
Wes swipes his phone to life. “There, all paid. Feel better?”
I nod.
A few people standing under the awning of the ice cream shop next door turn their attention toward us.
“Have a good night,” Wes calls out to the crowd.
They all wave back.
“Do you know everyone on the entire island?”
“I make it a point to be involved with the community wherever I am.”
“Wherever you are?”
“I’m a bit of a nomad.”
Never in one place for too long. Just like another guy I know.
Wes and I walk along the sidewalk. The smell of rain hangs heavy in the air. The breeze toys with his hair and he brushes it off his forehead.
I want to do that for him.
We stop outside a green wooden door. Wes unlocks it and then pulls me with him. We trek along a stone pathway down the side of a house. When we reach the backyard, my eyes don’t know where to look first. The ocean is a stone’s throw away. It’s absolutely stunning.
I turn toward the house, which I realize is a bungalow. Dense naupaka, lilies, and heliconia greenery surround the property. It feels remote. Like living off the grid.
There’s a sizable wooden dining table on the porch that seats six. A large vase of yellow flowers sits in the center. They’re the exact shade as the giant surfboard leaning against the house.
If I’m honest, this isn’t at all what I pictured when his place came to mind. Part of me wondered if he lived in a van. The other image of his living situation—a tiny apartment above one of the charming gift shops. A mattress on the floor with no pillowcases. Empty pizza boxes and beer cans covering the kitchen table and lining the countertops.
I’m only outside. The inside has yet to be reviewed.
“Is this your house?”
“No, a friend of mine owns the property. I’m the caretaker. He and his partner spend the off-season in London.”
“Ahh, that makes sense.”
“Come on.” He smirks and tugs me up the steps. “The inside is incredible. This place has two kitchens. If you’re into that kind of thing.”
Shit. That is something I’d be into. I wish my house had two kitchens.
“I’m more interested in the bedroom right now.”
He opens the back door, and I step inside first. The lights come on and he grips my waist, lifting me with ease onto the concrete countertop.
His lips press to mine quickly. He clutches the hem of his T-shirt and tugs it over his head.
My fingers trace over the tattoo on his chest. A Celtic cross with a swirling serpent in shades of blue and green wind up the center.
His board shorts hang low on his hips. Japanese script inks his lower abs—boketto.
I can’t help but stare at the word. This guy may be deeper than I originally had him pegged.
“Boketto—the act of gazing vacantly into the distance without a thought.”
He cocks a single brow. “Yeah, how’d you know that.”
I laugh. “My father taught me some Japanese when I was younger and it stuck with me. I learned to speak multiple languages. It’s fun.”
“Fun. You study languages for fun? No wonder you’re wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.” Wes’ hand brushes my hair over my shoulder.
“Is that some kind of hokey backwoods Kentucky saying?”
“Maybe. I think that you’re in need of some serious relaxation.” His fingers massage the muscles in my shoulders.
The tension in my neck begins to uncoil, and then his fingertips brush against the zipper of my dress. The sound of metal pricks my ears and goose bumps splash over my skin.