The Two Week Stand (Sizzling Beach 1)

He’s also seen me naked.

Shiver.

“So, um”—I clear my throat—“how was your day?”

“Good. Went scuba diving, which actually turned into a night dive. I didn’t mention it to you because I didn’t think it’d be your thing.”

“You don’t have to let me know your every move.”

That’s the right thing to say, right? Play it cool. He doesn’t need to know that I’ve been thinking about him today, worrying a little that he was avoiding me, which was totally silly because we’d had breakfast together. Which he’d invited me too. Even though we probably would have both ended up there at the same time.

Fuck’s sake, I really need to get out of my own head. It’s not a healthy place at times.

I have to stop acting like I’m cool and actually be cool.

“And you would be right about the dive. Scuba diving sounds … fucking awful, and doing it at night is just like a death waiting to happen.”

He chuckles, stepping forward, coming more into the light. Droplets of water slide down his chest and in between those gorgeous abs, heading for the prize encased in those swim shorts.

I suddenly feel very, very thirsty.

“How was your day?” he asks me.

“Good. Yeah. I chilled on the beach. Read my book. It was nice.” Wow. For a writer, I’m truly shite with words.

“Cool. So, I come bearing gifts.” He walks toward me and pulls a bottle out from behind his back.

“Um, where was that? Strapped to your back?”

He grins down at me. “Tucked in my trunks.”

“You swam over here with a bottle tucked in the back of your swim shorts?”

“Yep.”

He really is Aquaman. Just less tattoos and blond. And no beard. But he does have a five o’clock shadow right now, so there is that.

I could be his mermaid tonight.

I feel giddy all of a sudden.

Okay. Enough of that.

“Where did the bottle come from? Aside from your pants,” I ask him.

The villas have a minibar, but that’s stocked with wine, beer, and soft drinks. And from here, that looks like either vodka or gin. That’s only stocked in the bar, and you can’t take bottles from the bar back to your room.

Unless he’s getting special privileges that I don’t know about. But if he is, then I definitely need to know.

“I might have slipped the guy who cleans my room some money this morning in exchange for a bottle of liquor. This is what he left for me. It was there, waiting for me, when I got back to my villa. I thought we could have some fun tonight.”

I take the bottle from his hand and read the label, “Death’s Door.” My brow lifts as I look up at him. “It’s called Death’s Door.”

He grins. “I didn’t exactly get a choice in what I got. Just asked for something strong.”

I turn the bottle, reading the back, “Forty-seven percent ABV. That’ll do it.” I chuckle.

He sits down on my lounger across from me, straddling it. Those thick thighs spread wide and his junk very much outlined in his trunks. He’s definitely rocking a semi in there. Which I like. Because he’s rocking that semi from just being here with me.

I get him hard on sight.

There’s a certain kind of power in that.

“I thought we could have a drink together,” he says to me.

I purse my lips in thought. “I did say I was gonna stay off alcohol after my drunken night.”

“You had a beer at lunch yesterday and a mimosa at breakfast.”

I also had a few cocktails on the beach when I got bored with mocktails and a glass of wine with dinner, but I don’t need to point this out to him.

“I know, alcohol police. I meant, hard liquor. And I’m on holiday. Most people drink mimosas at breakfast when they’re on holiday.”

“Sure they do, Double D.”

“Ugh. We still going with that nickname?”

“I like it. Suits you.” His eyes drop down to my breasts.

“I thought it was Double D because of my name, not because of my boob size.”

His eyes drag back up to my face. A cheeky grin in them. “Are they a double D?”

“Nope.”

“Well, there you go then. The nickname can’t apply to your tits.”

Is it weird that I get all shivery when he says stuff like that? Tits. Just so openly, but it sounds so dirty.

“What size are they?” he asks. “Just for educational purposes, of course.”

“Of course. They’re a D.” I place my hands on either side of my boobs and pretend to cup them.

His pupils flare as well as his nostrils.

“Definitely not a double?” he asks, eyes on them again. He is definitely a boob man, like he said.

“Nope. Just a solo D.”

“Well, I like them.” Gray eyes, almost blacked out by his dilated pupils, come back to mine. “A lot.”

My mouth suddenly dries. I lick my lips. “So”—I clear my throat—“are we drinking this then? See if it tastes better than it’s called? Although I don’t have any shot glasses.”