Chapter 12

Daisy

The master stateroom is bigger than I expect. Pale wood cupboards and bedside tables, a cushioned curved love seat under the porthole window, and a king-size bed covered in a lemon and blue bedspread with matching scatter pillows. I stare at the bed, imagining Hart doing all sorts of wicked things to me in the middle of it.

He’s gripping my hand tightly, like he’s expecting me to make a run for it. I figure I don’t have to tell him there won’t be a ‘woman overboard’ situation today, not when I’m so hot for him I can barely see straight.

It’s not good, the way we bonded up on deck, sharing snippets of our past, chatting, joking around. He’s way too charming when he lowers his barriers and I’m considering ways to make him do it more.

I can’t get close to this man. It can only end badly for me. Aloof, reserved, hands-off, he’s the kind of guy who would screw with my mind if I get too close, making me want to solve all his problems and make all the hurt go away. I’ve already lost too much of myself in the past getting caught up in a guy’s life and trying to change the unchangeable: never again.

Hart is nothing more than my sexual sorbet. I must keep telling myself that and stay clear of personal topics, because that underlying vulnerability I glimpse every time he mentions his grandfather slays me.

I know why I’m indulging in this fling. Hart is the complete opposite of every guy I’ve ever been with. I like that he’s dark and brooding and mostly silent. Words are frivolous and wasted on him. Which explains why I practically hang on his every one whenever he speaks.

With what he revealed up on deck, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here, taking his grandfather’s place as head of the hotel conglomerate. He’ll leave once the business is stabilised, and head back to his altruistic work with kids. It’s a noble cause, which makes it harder to understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s like he hates the world and doesn’t give a crap, when he obviously does.

I can’t fathom how tough it must’ve been growing up in the foster system, but that was a long time ago. He speaks highly of his grandfather so I assume they had a good relationship. He wouldn’t be back here assuming control of their business if they hadn’t.

So why is he so grim all the time?

I don’t have time to ponder when I hear the door close and he comes to stand behind me. His body doesn’t touch mine but I can feel the heat radiating off him. I’m burning up from head to toe, knowing I’m in way over my head but powerless to stop.

When we had sex in the cave it was spontaneous, wild, and hedonistic. Today is different. Revealing snippets of ourselves has made us more aware of each other. I saw it in the way he looked at me up on deck and I’m sure my expression mirrored his: like I made assumptions about him, only to find there’s so much more simmering beneath his glowering surface.

He takes a step closer and rests his hands on my waist. I melt beneath his touch, my stomach flipping when he kisses the back of my neck, a soft kiss that grazes my skin and sends a shiver of longing through me.

His hands slide down over my hips and bunch my skirt, then his palms are on my skin. I quiver and lean back against him, grateful for the support considering my knees are wobbly.

‘You feel so good,’ he murmurs in my ear, nipping the lobe as his palms slide higher. ‘Smooth. Hot.’

Wait until he hits my really hot spot.

I don’t have long to wait as he hooks his thumbs into the elastic of my panties and eases them down. I like that he’s taking things slow this time, in contrast to our frantic sex in the cave. I’ve fantasised about this, about being with him with a bed in the vicinity, and I’m so turned on from his touch I can’t see straight.

My senses are heightened, not being able to see him. I can’t get a read on him if I can’t see him and not knowing where he’s going to touch me next is so hot.

As he slides my panties down, he kneels. I know this because my back is suddenly cold and his hands return to my waist, gently insistent in turning me around.

When I do I gasp because he’s staring at me with adoration. This stubborn, recalcitrant man is on his knees in front of me, relinquishing control, ready to give me pleasure. It’s incredibly heady stuff for a girl like me, who thinks all the talk of prolonged foreplay in magazines is a myth.

‘Beautiful,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me there.

I whimper.

I sense him smile as his tongue darts out and zeroes in on my clit, making me clutch the top of his head for balance.

He licks me over and over, his tongue delving and probing and driving me wild with an expertise that is definitely no myth.

Hart is giving me the best head of my life and it’s real.

Pleasure snakes through me as he laps at my clit, short, sharp strokes designed to drive me over the edge. It usually takes me a while to come this way but as my muscles clench and the ripples of release shimmer, I realise it’s no fault of mine, and everything to do with the guy.

His hands grab my ass, anchoring me, as his tongue circles me faster and faster, and I’m gone. Writhing against this mouth. Tugging on his hair. Screaming my release as I buck against him, wanting this exquisite pleasure to never end.

My knees buckle but he’s there, standing, and holding my ass, he lifts me onto the love seat. It’s the perfect height and I wrap my legs around him.

His expression is fierce as he unzips, like he’s hellbent on pleasuring me. He won’t get any protests. But we haven’t spoken since he gave me the best orgasm of my life and I have no idea if I should thank him or return the favour.

‘I’ve wanted to fuck you since we set foot on this yacht.’ His tone is barely above a growl and it reverberates deep inside where I want him most.

‘Then do it.’

I tilt my chin up in defiance and spread my legs. His hungry gaze zeroes in on where I want him to be. My breathing is shallow, my nipples so hard they hurt, my skirt is rucked up, and I’ve never felt so wanton.

I watch him tear open a foil packet and roll on a condom like he has all the time in the world. Either he’s teasing me or he has the self-control of a monk.

I wriggle closer until I’m teetering on the edge of the love seat. Sensing my desperation, he steps between my legs and claims my mouth in a kiss that defies logic. His tongue plunders my mouth, ravaging me with a precision that makes me go a little wild.

I claw at him, trying to gain purchase, grasping at his chest, his shoulders, and just when I’m on the verge of begging, he slides inside. Full and long and thick, making me gasp with the depth of his penetration, making me crave everything he’s willing to give.

I tear my mouth away from his and lean back on my outstretched arms so I can watch. My boldness is a turn-on if his reaction is any indication: he withdraws slowly, inch by exquisite inch, before thrusting into me hard. Over and over until I’m panting, desperately clinging to the edge of sanity, the pleasure is that intense.

My muscles tense and I writhe, eager for release. His gaze, smouldering and confident, locks on mine as he lifts my butt slightly and changes the angle of his hips, driving into me with calculated precision.

He hits my sweet spot and I come apart, wave after wave of soul-searing release swamping me until I’m floating.

He groans a moment later but I’m oblivious, stunned by the intensity of my first internal orgasm. I’m boneless when he lifts me and lays me on the bed. I don’t expect a cuddle. I’m not that na?ve. We’re indulging in a sexual fling and it’s stupendous.

But when he stares at me, an inscrutable expression in those fathomless eyes, I feel compelled to say something to articulate how freaking fantastic that was.

However, as I try to come up with something suitably light-hearted, a wave of nausea washes over me.

Crap.

While I was upright and the boat was moving, the rocking didn’t bother me, but now that I’m lying down and the anchoring makes the boat bob, my stupid body is registering the change in posture. Repeated ear infections as a kid ensure I’m not a great traveller and motion sickness can be a problem.

My stomach gripes and a cold sweat breaks out over my body. Hell. This isn’t going to be pretty.

‘I’m sorry,’ I manage to say, surging off the bed and making it to the bathroom just in time.

I slam the door and bend over the toilet, retching. It’s not good. That tropical fruit salad I had for breakfast was a bad idea.

I try to stand but my body has other ideas and I retch again and again until nothing is left. Weak and woozy, I finally push to a stand and prop myself on the basin. Glancing in the mirror is a mistake. I look like shit, my skin a weird grey-green and my eyes watery.

Groaning, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth out. I open the glass cabinet and thankfully there are fresh toiletries there. I tear open a plastic-covered toothbrush, squeeze a dollop of paste from a mini dispenser, and brush my teeth. Only then do I start to feel slightly human again.

This time when I look in the mirror the green has given way to pale but I feel better. Time to face Hart and explain my humiliating bolt from the bedroom.

I open the bathroom door and he’s pacing, his expression formidable. When he spies me, he takes two steps towards me then stops, as if he doesn’t want to get too close.

‘Are you okay?’

I nod and wrinkle my nose. ‘Sorry about that.’

His eyes turn flinty. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

Too late, I remember he has a weird thing about apologising when it isn’t one’s fault.

I point at my ears. ‘These go wonky sometimes so when I lie down on a moving vessel…’ I mimic barfing. ‘It’s not pretty.’

He doesn’t say anything for an eternity and when he moves it’s so swift he startles me. He pulls me into his arms, one hand clasping me tight at the waist, the other cradling the back of my head against his chest.

I feel his heart thudding against my cheek and it’s disarming how much I like being comforted. I’m under no illusion that’s what he’s doing. He may be a man of few words but his actions speak volumes and he looked tortured when I opened the bathroom door.

‘I’m okay,’ I murmur, when he finally releases me. ‘Though I feel like an idiot for disrupting your plans to spoon me.’

I smile, hoping my joke will alleviate the tension bracketing his mouth. It doesn’t.

With a final glower, he stalks out of the cabin and slams the door.