My Killer Vacation

“You’re right. I don’t do vulnerable well. Or relationships.” Once again, the silence drags out. So long that I turn and look back over my shoulder to see if he’s still following me. And oh, he is. His intense eyes are trained on me in the darkness. “That’s why I’m just here to work the case, Taylor. Not chase you down the beach while you pretend to be mad.”

Caught between outrage and embarrassment, I whirl on him. “Pretend?”

Myles keeps coming. He walks until our bodies collide, pressing chest to thigh, his mouth hovering a breath above mine. “That’s right. I’m calling you out. You couldn’t be strutting that ass any sexier in front of me if you tried.”

Red bleeds in from the edges of my vision. “In other words, I’m asking for it?”

“I wouldn’t lay a hand on you without permission, Taylor. You’re asking for it?” He shakes his head. “No. I’m asking you to stop offering.”

“I’m not,” I murmur, trying so hard not to be turned on by how he surprises me. How he’s restraining himself despite the fact that his erection is spearing me in the belly. “I’m not offering you anything.”

“Really?” he drawls. “Whose fingers are those unbuttoning my jeans?”

Those would be mine.

I’m literally trying to twist the metal button free of its hole.

I draw my hands back like they’ve touched a hot stove. Which isn’t so far off considering the heat radiating from his hard stomach. His mouth. Eyes. All of him. I’ve never experienced this. Irritation and lust at the same time. It’s itchy. It’s consuming—and most definitely misplaced. “Are you implying that I’m sending mixed signals? Because you’re standing here asking me to quit offering you…physical pleasure—”

“Sex, Taylor. It’s called sex.”

“And yet, you stole my hookup panties and almost kissed me this morning. Who is the one sending mixed messages?” His jaw grinds so dramatically, I can hear it creaking, but he says nothing. “Going to bed with you would be a disaster. You have the emotional availability of a banana.”

“There it is. ‘Emotional availability.’” His expression shifts to smug satisfaction. “You see? You’re lying to yourself about wanting a hard, sweaty roll in the hay. You are a relationship girl. You are a spring wedding bridezilla waiting to happen.”

My gasp echoes down the beach.

I shove at his chest, but I’m the one who ends up stumbling backwards, due to him being built like a Mack truck. He ends up steadying me by the elbow. “Take back the bridezilla part.”

“The rest of it is true, though?”

“I never lied about wanting to settle down. There’s no shame in wanting a husband and a family and matching shirts at Disneyworld. If you remember correctly, I said I wanted the hard, sweaty rolls in the hay, as well. These things shouldn’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

Lord, the man appears to be chewing on burning plastic. “Maybe they’re not mutually exclusive. But there is nothing about you that even…hints to a man that you’d like to be manhandled. Not remotely.”

My interest is piqued. I hate giving him the satisfaction of wanting to know more, but my gut tells me he’s on to something. Something I might not want to know, but could be valuable insight, nonetheless. “What does that mean?”

“It means you shocked the hell out of me and I’m a trained detective. You’re not giving off the…I don’t know. Wildcat vibe?” Slowly, he begins to circle me. “When I saw you, my first thought was, she’s cute as a button. I’ve since amended that evaluation. A lot. But the men you’re hunting for—”

“Hunting,” I snort.

“If they’re in the marriage market, they’re only half as smart as me. At best. You’re expecting too much from them. All they see is the wholesome girl next door, like I did.”

“You’re saying I need different energy if I want to find a gentleman in the streets who also happens to be a freak in the sheets. Do I have that right?”

Having completed his circle, he comes to a stop in front of me, opening his mouth and closing it, as if the conversation is getting away from him. “I’m saying you’re marriage material. I’m saying you are a girl who demands respect…”

“And none of the disrespect I’m looking for.” Half in a daze, I turn and sort of float down the beach, considering the conversation from all angles. Is Myles right? Am I expecting too much from the men out there? How would they know I have a unique sexual appetite when I show up to my dates in a matching sweater set and sensible nude flats? “I’ve never gotten what I want in bed, not only because I don’t ask for it, but because the men who I choose to date…have resigned themselves to the predictable married life.”

“There’s nothing wrong with predictable. You should have predictable.”