My Killer Vacation

I get off my bike and start to pace.

It takes me about fifteen seconds to admit that Taylor’s recklessness is only partially to blame for my fevered skin. My sweaty palms and jumpiness.

She wants—needs—an orgasm so bad, she’s risking her neck for it.

And I’m to blame.

That isn’t arrogance talking, although, sue me if it is. I’ve brought her to the brink of climaxing twice without delivering. Thanks to a rogue buoy. Thanks to Jude getting stung by a jellyfish. Sure. But that doesn’t make the facts sit any better. Not at all. She’s horny, I’m the cause, and she’s about to get the relief she needs from somewhere else.

That’s not just a bitter pill to swallow, the damn thing is stuck in my throat.

Yeah.

Yeah, I don’t think I’m capable of letting this happen. I’m just not. I’m sure this makes me an intrusive bastard, but I can’t fucking stand the idea of her sailing over the edge with some piece of silicone when I’m the one who drove her there. Created the need in the first place. Until now, I was using the fact that we haven’t had sex to console myself, as agonizing as it has been to maintain that boundary—one that I’ve almost crossed twice now. As long as we don’t have sex, I’m focused. As long as I’m not sleeping with her, I can maintain my professionalism and objectivity. Right?

Yeah.

Only…Taylor’s pleasure coming from anywhere but me makes me want to kick a hole through the plate glass window advertising lingerie, massagers and aromatherapy in gold script. What is she picking out in there? Will I be able to stand by while she drives home with her purchase and uses it to get herself off?

Nope.

No way in hell.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, preparing to stride across the side street.

Before I get the chance, she exits the shop, a small purple bag clutched to her chest. Instinct has me scanning the immediate area for any kind of threat. By the time I’m done, she’s already walking at a fast clip toward the lot where she parked. Alone. At night. In a strange town. Holding a bag from a sex toy shop. What the hell is in that bag?

Telling myself it’s none of my business doesn’t help. Nothing short of giving her the orgasm myself is going to help—that’s the truth. And with that very ill-advised, very tempting thought circling my mind, I follow her into the parking lot. Just to make sure she’s safe. That’s what I tell myself. I’m just going to make sure she gets to the car without incident, but when she turns around and spots me, eyes widening, quickly attempting to hide the bag behind her back, this dangerous combination of affection and lust propels me forward, closer, closer until we’re toe to toe. Until her back is pressed up against the side of the car.

“Hey Taylor,” I say, planting my hands on the roof of her car.

“H-hey.” Oh Jesus, she’s so excited about whatever she just bought, her pupils are the size of hockey pucks. “What are you…are y-you following me?”

“I’m protecting you.”

“Oh, right.” She wets her lips and my blood rushes south, stiffening my dick right up. “H-how long would you say you’ve been protecting me? Ten minutes? Two?”

“Long enough to know it’s not sunscreen in that bag.”

“Maybe it’s tampons,” she says quickly. “Very private. For my eyes only.”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She is still trying to keep the bag stuffed behind her back. “Well, I was just going to leave this in the car and go get Jude. I don’t want to walk into the bar with…whatever it is.”

I bring our mouths closer and her breathing accelerates. “What is it?”

“None of your business, Myles.”

My lips brush sideways across hers, making her eyelids droop. “Your unsatisfied pussy is my business and we both know it, Taylor. We’ve been edging each other for days.”

She shudders. “Can you please stop talking to me like that?”

“Why? You like it too much?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Give me the bag.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“It depends what’s inside.”

“Just some lavender oil.”

“And?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Something called a G-spot Thumper.”

“Really.” I drop my right hand and I bring it up between her thighs, gripping her pussy tight beneath her skirt. Yeah. No fucking way something called a G-spot Thumper is taking the honor of making her come away from me. “What about your clit?”

“It does that, too,” she whispers in a rush, her free hand curling in the front of my T-shirt. “There’s a nubby thing.”

“Good. Give me the bag, sweetheart.”

She wedges it in between us, eyes unfocused.

After one more slow rub of her flesh through her dampening panties, I take the bag. Toss the tiny bottle of oil onto the roof of the car. “We won’t need that.”