She laughs. “No. Look out at the water, the sky, the sand. What do you see?”
“Water, sky, and sand.”
“You’re very bad at this game.”
“We’re playing games now?”
She sighs. “I see water the color of old-fashioned glass soda bottles, not quite green but not exactly blue. The clouds overhead look like fresh cotton balls, straight out of the bag. But the ones at the horizon, over there, look like they’re smudged with ink. And the seaweed washed up along the shore, baking from the heat of the sun, could be discarded cuttings of lace. Now you play. What do you see?”
I glance at my phone. For once’s it’s completely silent and still. “I see sand.” I pause, feeling Vivienne’s eyes on me. “It’s darker by the waterline, more firmly packed. Like a baseball mound. And the sand further up, near us, is loose and textured. Rippled, I guess. Kind of like the surface of the sea.”
Beneath her sunglasses, Vivienne’s grin is absolutely blinding. “Now you’re really here, really present. Welcome to the Hamptons.”
She rolls back onto her stomach and unties her bikini top. The flawless landscape of her skin is a temptation I have no intention of resisting. “Actually, I think my observational skills are needed in another area. It looks like you could use some assistance. Your back is looking a little warm.”
She snorts a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re just the man to keep me from getting burned?”
I glance around pointedly at the sparsely populated beach. This stretch of shoreline is private, access limited to the residents who can afford to rent or own here. “Looks that way to me.”
“Well, if you insist.” She nestles her head against her crossed arms. “But don’t get any ideas. I have a rule against getting involved with anyone in the share house.”
“It’s not a share house anymore.”
“We’re sharing the house. Let’s not make things awkward.”
My hands slide over Vivienne’s warm skin, thumbs digging into the muscles lining the column of her spine, fingers kneading at the rise of her shoulders. “I’m surprised by your rule, given the rather thorough examination of your new roommate last night.”
“I was checking on your foot.” Despite the massage, her muscles turn rigid. “And I thought you were sleeping!”
A low chuckle escapes my mouth. “Don’t worry. I have a few rules of my own. But sex . . . well, I don’t believe in arbitrary limitations on who, how, or how often I fuck.”
Vivienne is silent and tense. She clears her throat. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I bend low so that my breath ruffles her hair. “You do that.”
My hands are covered in sunscreen when my phone rings again. Vivienne looks over her shoulder at me, a curious expression on her face. “You gonna get that?”
I bite down on a groan. “Nope.”
“You sure? Because it looks like you really want to.”
She’s right. Ignoring a ringing phone goes against every instinct I have. “I’m fine.”
“What if it’s important?” she whispers. “Like, a completely catastrophic cybersecurity problem and you’re the only one who can fix it.”
I know she’s mocking me, but those are the exact thoughts running through my brain. I quickly wipe my hands on the towel and grab my phone. “Hello?”
Chapter 11
Vivienne
I don’t believe in arbitrary limitations on who, how, or how often I fuck.
Well, I’m glad Lance cleared that up.
Which is why I prodded him into answering his phone when it seemed like he wasn’t going to. Despite my reservations about Lance—his money, our unexpected meeting just twenty-four hours ago, the fact that we are now some strange combination of living and working together—he is, hands down, the sexiest man I’ve ever known. Just hearing the gritty, growly way he says fuck . . . I needed to get Lance’s hands off me before I begged him to put them in places that don’t require sunscreen.
As he jabbers more acronym alphabet soup on the phone, I can’t help but wonder what it would actually be like to fuck him. Not make love. Not make out. Not hook up.
Apparently, Vikings don’t do that.
They fuck.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the coppery taste of blood coats my tongue. But the pain doesn’t bring any relief to the heat pulsing between my thighs or the memory of his hands on my skin. Wide palms. Long fingers. And I already know what’s beneath his swim trunks.
I’ve seen every inch of Lance Welles naked. Which makes his words hit harder.
Because, while I’m far from a virgin, I’ve never had sex without intimacy. Never given my body to a man without first giving him my heart.
And since Richard broke that vulnerable organ a month and a half ago, I haven’t even entertained the notion of having sex. Not because it would be a betrayal of him, but because it would be a betrayal of myself. Turning something that should be meaningful into something that means nothing at all.
But what if I’m looking for meaning in all the wrong places? What if pleasure is the point? Lance sets my body on fire with just a glance. And I bet he’d approach sex in the same intense, smoldering way he looks at me. Am I holding back because of some outdated sense of morality?
No, I tell myself. It’s not morality at all. It’s simply common sense. Don’t sleep with your . . . What exactly is Lance?
My roommate? Coworker? Boss?
Whatever he is, he’ll be gone at the end of summer. Why bother when the only sure thing is goodbye?
Lance ends his two-hundred-and-eighty-seventh call with a sigh, and a moment later asks, “Want to go check on the house?”
“Um, sure.” I quickly retie the straps of my bikini and stand up. Together, we pack up the cooler, towels, and blanket and head back to the house.
It doesn’t take long to realize that the painters are going to be working for most of the night. After ordering a dozen pizzas for them, Lance turns to me. “Can I take you out to dinner?”
I immediately demur. “You don’t have to, I—”
He puts a finger over my lips, putting an end to my words and sending a ripple of shock through my nerve endings. “I want to.”
Well, all righty then.
Lance ushers me through the restaurant with his hand on my lower back. Which is probably why it feels like my entire spinal cord is vibrating with anticipation.
I sink into the chair he pulls out for me. “I’d kill for a margarita right now.”
It’s true. I rarely allowed myself to have any alcohol at all when the house was full of drunk twenty-somethings who forgot to flush toilets, turn off faucets, and close doors. Every weekend felt like a forty-eight-hour game of whack-a-mole to make sure that the house was still standing and no one wound up in the hospital. Mondays were reserved for cleaning up the mess and working. By Tuesday night, I either celebrated with a cocktail or a carton of Häagen Daz. And since I don’t like to drink alone, my reward is generally consumed with a spoon. With the long weekend, now it’s Wednesday.