Married to the Secret Billionaire

The curve of her body underneath that flowing dress. It was nothing like the outfits the other girls on this beach wear, barely-there skimpy things that leave little to the imagination. Not that I’m complaining about that. Normally I’m a man of simple taste, and I don’t like to spend too much energy on imagination when I could focus on reality instead.

But two months and more without sex has left me more familiar with daydreaming than ever before, and that in turn makes me wonder what she’d look like without that sundress on. Whether those freckles I glimpsed across her nose like a scattered constellation would appear on the rest of her body, too.

What she’d taste like, if I kissed that sexy, pillowed mouth of hers. What kind of soft, beautiful body she’s hiding, and why she doesn’t show it off like the rest. Is she shy? I think about the giant sunhat. Or maybe she just burns easy.

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. Whoever she is and whatever she’s doing here doesn’t matter, either. I’m still weeks away from ending my self-imposed hookup ban, and besides, she had the look of a tourist, someone just passing through. She’ll likely be long gone by the time I feel comfortable letting myself sample the local goods again.

And frankly, that’s probably a good thing. Because that woman had the look of somebody I might not just want to sample, but someone I might get a little too addicted to, if I let myself.

2

Ankor

All night, she turns circles in my head. In my dreams, I see her on the beach again, except this time there’s no crowd between us, separating us. There’s also no emergency distracting us, claiming her attention. This time, it’s just the two of us on the beach, and when I reach down to draw that flowing dress off of her body, she smiles and lifts her arms to encourage me.

Of course, thanks to my frustrating as hell sleep cycle, I wake up just before the dress falls to the sand beside us, not letting me get a single glimpse of what’s beneath it.

With a groan, I slap my buzzing alarm into silence and roll out of bed, forcing myself through the motions. In the shower, I shut my eyes tight and let the fantasy run a little longer, the hot water cascading over me as I picture those big blue eyes of hers locked on mine, the way they did on the beach, just for a second. I picture those thick, pillowy lips of hers kissing down my body, until they wrap around the tip of my cock. Then she’d peek up at me again from beneath her long dark lashes, smiling a little, and…

Fuck.

Yeah, I really need to get laid soon. With a growl of frustration, I finish showering off and get dressed for class again, just like every morning. I slept a little too late for my morning jog along the beach this time, but that’s fine, I figure. I’ll have time over lunch, assuming some other emergency doesn’t crop up and steal my attention—or risk exposing me to too many damn cameras—again.

I head to the pool and find the usual crowd. I wave and smile, greeting each woman by name before we start the lesson. Usually I have them warm up in the shallow end with some easy exercises. Knee-ups, stretching under the water, some kicking while they’re holding onto the side of the pool, to get their equilibrium right.

We’re about halfway through those when I hear a low cough from the far side of the pool.

“Excuse me, is it too late to join the class?” a soft, feminine voice asks.

I turn, along with half the rest of the women in class, and freeze in place, my eyebrows shooting upward.

Because there she is. Almost like she’s walked straight out of my fantasy and into reality. Granted, she’s dressed differently today—she’s ditched the long flowing cover-up for something a little more revealing this time. A one-piece bathing suit in a deep navy blue that really brings out the color of her eyes—not to mention hugs every inch of her curves.

It’s a good thing I’m waist-deep in water and wearing really loose trunks for this lesson, too. Because fucking hell. The sight of those curves—a tiny waist between the luscious swell of her breasts and broad hips that make me long to run my hands over them (not to mention my tongue).

I want her. No, scratch that. I need her.

It’s an instinctive thought, every bit as animal and base as breathing or hungering. I force myself to tamp it down, as much as I possibly can. With all that running through my mind, it takes me a second to drag my eyes away from those curves and back up to her face. It takes an even longer second to process what she just said.