21. Wyn

I head to the outdoor lounge, a plate of freshly air-fried nuggets in hand, to look for Jamie. It's almost lunchtime, and I'm hungry too. I think I might have a salad today. I haven't had one since I arrived, and I think today is the day. Maybe I'll have a nice chicken salad with lots of avocado. No, maybe a grilled steak salad with a nice balsamic vinaigrette. On a bed of couscous. Or maybe mash. You know what, maybe I'll just have steak and mashed potatoes again.

I spot Ryan and Miller in the outdoor lounge. They're squished into a hammock together and Barbara Anne and Sage are draped on a double lounger. Barbara Anne must be fresh off the beach because she's wearing an elaborately beaded kaftan, an obnoxiously big hat, and a pair of dark glasses. She looks like a famous Hollywood star in disguise.

The bitch.

Honestly, don't even get me started on that little display between her and Derek earlier. It was horrible. I didn't know what to do with my face. I haven't been able to think of anything else, so it's kind of a relief that the scene I've just stumbled upon is so peculiar.

Ryan has his head on Miller's shoulder and is making strange, happy sounds as he nuzzles his face into Miller's neck. Miller's face is tight with concern. When Ryan looks up, I see why. He doesn't look like himself at all. He looks severely stoned, mouth lax and turned up goofily at the corners, but his eyes are bright and crystal clear. There's something very, very wrong about all of it. It takes me a beat to work out what's wrong with him, and when I do, it doesn't make things less odd at all. He looks relaxed. Ryan Haraway looks relaxed.

"Sage," Miller warns, "if you broke Ryan, you better hope you know how to fix him." He pats Ryan's hair down and examines his face. He's not pleased with what he sees. His voice turns into a wail. "I want my rude, complicated little stress ball back."

Ryan laughs uproariously at that, and Barbara Anne preens, giving an unmissable told-you-so look.

The shape of a dark, broad-shouldered man emerges from the path that leads to the beach. I dump the nuggets into Jenna's hands and make a run for it without waiting to see if it's Derek or not. I have to. I humiliated myself earlier. I wasn't expecting Derek's latest request. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn't. I had a strong reaction to it and gave him my stupidest quote yet. I basically just said every number I could remember.

Five hundred and seventy-six dollars and eighty-three cents?

What the hell kind of number is that?

Just my luck, I'm such a fucking over-achiever when I'm in go-time mode that I even set a time for our little—I don't know what you'd call it—meeting, I guess. So now, here I am, having one of the highest-pressure days of my career, and instead of focusing on that, I'm spending most of my time counting down the minutes to four p.m. this afternoon.

The curtains are drawn in the suite. It's dark and sultry despite the fact the sun is still up. Derek is on the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, reading a book. He looks up and flexes his toes when he sees me.

"I had housekeeping draw you a bath," he says.

The bath, an egg-shaped solid stone creation, has indeed been drawn. It's been drawn and then some. Candles have been lit all around it and the water is deep. The whole room smells like bergamot and fig leaves. Steam wafts from the tub, and when I get closer, I see orchids floating in the water.

The stupidest part of me, the part that sees things like this and thinks Derek wants to be my boyfriend, is quietly thrilled. The rest of me is deeply embarrassed for that part.

"Should I get in?" asks the stupidest part of me. The stupidest part can't think for itself. It doesn't know how. Either that or it likes being told what to do.

"Sure."

Derek looks unbearably sexy, lying back and watching me. He's shirtless, chest matted with dark hair. He looks like an animal. A big cat. A panther stalking its prey. Stalking, but not overexerting itself, mind you. Lying in wait, waiting for its meal to walk into a trap.

I undress, and after a brief, horrifying moment of indecision regarding whether it's best to present my back or my front to him, I dip my toes into the water. It's hot but not scalding. Perfect. I ease myself in. Muscle tension releases and is quickly replaced with a different, more urgent type of tension. I'm acutely aware of Derek watching me. Hunting me. I splash my chest so water runs over my pecs, and then I let myself sink underwater. I stay under for as long as I can, the waterscape I find myself in quiet and comforting until my lungs start to burn. I tilt my head as I emerge, washing my hair off my face. Then I turn to Derek. He's already on his feet, moving toward me. He's close. Quiet. I sit up without being told to, and he takes his place behind me. The water level rises dangerously, rocking and nearly overflowing from his body mass.

We stay like that, my back resting on his chest, both of us not moving, except for the big hand that cups water and pours it over the parts of me that aren't completely submerged. Chest, neck, arms, hands. We stay like that for ages. Forever. It's hard and it's easy, but being completely relaxed and wired at the same time isn't a feeling I'm used to.

The entire time, my mind drifts. It drifts into his mind and back to mine. To where his body ends and mine starts, to where we're touching. It drifts to thoughts of his mouth and his tongue. It drifts to my cock, needy and swollen between my legs, as his digs into my lower back.

At last, I can't take it anymore. I can't. I'll start saying stupid things if I do, so I push myself up and clamber onto my knees, sending a torrent of fragrant water onto the floor. It's too bad. I don't care. I kneel, my back toward Derek, and soap myself, slowly working my way down. I pause at my cock, stroking just hard and long enough that I almost forget my assignment. My job.

Focus, I tell myself. Then I reach back and trail a soapy hand down my crack.

To say I feel observed doesn't begin to describe it. Derek's eyes burn into me. Lasers track down my skin. I lean forward, showing him more. One hand rests on the edge of the bath, supporting me as I bite back a groan and ease a single finger into myself.

Derek hisses behind me, and it gratifies me. I'm stupid. That much is certain. But so is he.

When I've made as much of a meal of washing myself as possible, I arch my back hard, pushing my hips back, presenting Derek with his meal. There's a splash at the base of my spine and hot water trickles down my crease, followed quickly by a hand that rinses me just a little rougher than I do it myself. I like it.

Oh God, I like it.

There's another splash, another trickle, but this time, it's followed by a light, teasing touch. A touch that runs down the cleft between my cheeks and dances over my hole. He circles me. The pad of a finger tracing puckered skin, following the tiny creases that fan out of me. He takes his time touching and exploring. Learning, maybe. Each touch, each sensation, doubles my arousal and then triples it.

It isn't long before I find myself in the most precarious of positions, knees spread as wide as the confines of the tub allow. One hand is on the edge of the bath, the other on the floor beside it. The rest of me is prostrated, bent, presented in a way that might make one think I have no shame, and right now, right this minute, I don't.

I release a series of muffled grunts, jerking my hips and shaking my ass in impatience. Derek chuckles behind me, the sound swallowed by my wet flesh. He kisses my ass, right cheek and then left. He's thorough, leaving no skin untouched. Unburnt. Chaste kisses give way to kisses that are anything but, and those give way to teeth raked over my skin. I'm alight. On fire. Every nerve in my body cries for more.

He hears my cry and, by some miracle, understands it and takes mercy on me.

When the first stroke of his tongue lands, I realize I was expecting it to be tentative. The realization is in stark contrast to what I get. What I get is sure and firm. A broad stroke entirely devoid of hesitation as he lathes my hole. My spine arches, and I pulsate in pleasure. He licks me again, slower and firmer. He does it until I'm thrashing and a waterfall cascades over the edge of the tub from my efforts. He switches it up the second it gets too much, or I get used to the sensation. Hard, soft. Slow, fast. His hands are on me hard, kneading my ass and prying my cheeks open.

As hot as all this is, it's far from the hottest thing happening right now because, behind me, Derek is moaning. He's moaning because of me. The taste, the sight, the feel of me. It's driving him crazy. The thought of that makes me take leave of my senses. I literally feel them leaving my body. I feel better without them. Lighter.

A torrent of expletives rushes out of me, bracketed by the odd "Please" and "Jesus!" I'm relieved that, this time, I don't cry for help. I think that's an improvement, but sadly, I do hear my voice begging, asking for things I never thought I'd hear myself ask for. Most of it is nonsensical, and I'm grateful for that, but sadly I do hear the words dick fingers and fuck me, Mr. MacAvoy bouncing off water and wood.

My hips thrust feebly. Desperately. Punctuating my words and my pleas with wet slaps as my boner hits the water below it and my belly above it.

Derek opens me more, his grip so hard I can tell I'll be wearing red marks on my skin for hours, possibly days. He strokes a finger over my hole again, lightly, changing the pace and resetting me. Wiping the slate clean and starting again. This time, his tongue doesn't simply caress. It nudges me, prods me. Presses gently against me until it finds the point of least resistance. The second it does, it slides home. The feeling of his tongue, wet and worming its way into my ass, is almost too much. My moans aren't moans anymore. They're mindless shouts.

Derek grunts behind me, rough sounds that trail off, flitting through the room and hitting me straight in the chest. In the dick. In the balls. In my brain. My thighs start to shake, and for a second, I'm confused. My balls think I'm coming, but I don't come from this. I can't. I never have…but oh Jesus, oh Jesus, I am. Pleasure slams into me. A hard, unexpected impact that makes me see stars and then nothing at all.

I'm still bent over the bath, ass in the air, wracked by pleasure. My dick is still pulsing repeatedly when I hear Derek's breathing stutter and break, and I feel a gratifying splash on my back. A satisfying lashing of heat followed wetly by another and then another.

I'm not at my best, so I can't be one hundred percent certain. Things are a little vague right now, I admit it, but the feelings and sounds that accompany the heat on my back might be even better than my own blinding peak.

We're seated with Miller and Ryan to our right and Emily and Kat across the table. The food is perfect, but I'm not totally satisfied with the place settings. I think they could use a little more finesse. When no one's looking, I tap at my phone, creating reminders for things that need to happen before the wedding tomorrow. When I'm not doing that, I'm lost in thought, wondering whether I owe Derek a refund because no matter how I look at it, I didn't teach him a damn thing about rimming that he didn't already know. If anything, I might actually owe him money for teaching me that I can come like that. It's a conundrum. I have no idea how much I should give back to him or how much I should pay him. It bothers me. It's all I can think about. At least, when I'm not feeling the phantom of his tongue up my ass, it's all I can think about.

Derek, on the other hand, seems to be having the most marvelous time at the rehearsal dinner. He's in top form, a vision in a pale chambray shirt rolled up to his elbows. I'd almost think he was showing off if I didn't know better. He's talking about me, telling the people around us about my childhood, my grandparents, and even my scrapbooking skills. I have to admit, his recall is impressive.

"You should see the projects Wyn does," he says, "they're amazing."

To my endless surprise, Ryan, albeit this new relaxed version of him, asks if I'd mind making a scrapbook of the wedding. "I think the kids at school would really enjoy paging through something like that."

I've only had one and a half glasses of wine, but they seem to have gone to my head because I am overjoyed by the request. Flattered and honored and hugely excited. Really delighted. Bridget always says that one of the hardest things about being a crafter is finding people who actually want the things you make for them, and she's dead right. I can't believe this just dropped into my lap.

I've just finished typing a message to Bridget, letting her know we need to start thinking about a theme for the scrapbook, when Derek's voice, which has been vibrating through me almost constantly this evening, jars me. He's saying words I know, talking about people and names I recognize.

"…Wyn's friend Trouble is a world-famous burlesque dancer," he says.

Kat and Emily's jaws drop at exactly the same time.

"You know Trouble?" squeals Emily. "Why didn't you tell us you knew him?"

"Yeah, Wyn," agrees Kat, for once almost as animated as Emily, "why didn't you tell us? We caught his show a few months back, and holy shit, it was amazing."

"Yeah, totally amazing. Hot girls, hot guys, hot girls dancing with other hot girls, hot guys getting stripped almost naked." Em waves her hands around like someone experiencing the rapture.

"Mm, it was marketed as a feast for the bisexual eye," says Kat, "and let's just say it delivered."

"Gee," Derek thinks aloud, "I wonder if it's something I might enjoy."

"Absolutely not," I snap, without thinking it through or meaning to say anything at all. "You're not going anywhere near that show without a blindfold."

Miller almost pisses himself laughing.

"You know, Wyn, I had a feeling I liked you as soon as I met you," says Ryan.

It's finally here. The wedding day. It's here. Thankfully I've woken early and have managed to extricate myself from Derek without waking him. I have about a million thoughts rushing around, vying for my attention, and it's getting pretty loud in my head. I decide to go for a walk on the beach to calm myself. It's not really the type of thing I usually do for fun, especially not on my own, but hey, I still have three unworn running outfits to work my way through, so I guess I should at least try to get my money's worth.

Dawn has begun throwing a profusion of pinks into the sky, but the beach is deserted, aside from two men setting up the loungers for the day. I watch for a while as they perform their routine. Loungers are dragged through the sand and unfolded. Cushions are shaken and beaten and then carefully laid out. Something is satisfying, almost calming, about watching it.

When they've finished, I walk down to the shore and dip my feet into the water. It's frothy and warm, and I have to admit, I enjoy it. Saltwater and sea air is an invigorating combination. I start walking, heading west, along a long, pristine strip of beach. I let my thoughts drift with the tide, washing up new things and bad things. Stupid things and stupider things.

I'm so deep in my own world it's a bit of a rude awakening when I come across others using the beach at this time of day.

Two men in the distance. One fair-haired, the other brunette. They're sitting side by side, knees bent, feet planted in the sand, watching the sunrise. The blond has his arms wrapped around the dark one. The dark one is smiling as his partner plants a trail of kisses along his jawline.

Miller and Ryan.

I stop moving so I don't disturb them, but I also don't retreat immediately. I watch them. I take a few seconds to witness what's happening. Even from here, I can tell there's something almost spiritual about this moment. It's their day. The start of the rest of their lives. They're in their own world. A beautiful place where nothing but the two of them exists.

It makes me ache. It makes me hopeful and lonely at the same time. My chest feels too tight and too empty, and the expanse of air around me, peaceful moments ago, now feels vast and eternal.