What She Needs - Lacey Alexander [102]
But he had to. He had to make her see. This was how things had to be.
“I’m sorry, Jenna,” he finally said around the lump in his throat.
Then he pushed to his feet and walked away.
Chapter 11
Jenna lay on the bed in her room, trying not to cry. Oh God, you’re probably the only woman in the history of the Hotel Erotique who was dumb enough to fall for her guide, and now weak enough to shed tears over it.
But then she bolstered herself, remembering: Other women hadn’t been given a sexy male guide, asked to confide in him and trust in him in such an intimate way. So maybe this wasn’t her fault at all—maybe the blame fell on Brent.
Not that it made her any less crazy about him. No, instead she was just hurt and upset.
Did his refusal to be with her this afternoon mean her future fantasies wouldn’t include him, either? Or that he’d take part only as a spectator? Well, if that was the case, then . . . maybe she didn’t want any more fantasies. And she’d tell him that the next time she saw him. She’d use her safeword if that’s what it took. She knew they didn’t have a real relationship—she knew this would go nowhere . . . but for now, here, it was what she needed: sex with a man she was completely crazy about.
She was jarred from her despair by a knock on the door. God—what now?
Rising cautiously—because she’d learned surprises lay behind every door, sometimes even her own, at the Hotel Erotique—she twisted the knob and opened it to find no one there; yet another gift box rested at her feet. This one looked more innocent than some of the others she’d received—it was a simple white box tied with a thick lavender ribbon.
Of course, she hurriedly brought it inside and opened it up.
She discovered, nestled in lavender tissue paper, a lovely yet surprisingly old-fashioned peignoir set—a long white nightgown of silk and lace, and a matching robe that tied under the bust and possessed lace-festooned sleeves much like the dress she’d worn today. The set also came with a pair of white lace string bikini panties—certainly the most modern part of the ensemble.
A card lay in the box as well—another written in Brent’s jagged handwriting:
Put this on, sunshine. Then go for a walk on the beach.
That was it. Not even a signature this time.
Jenna pulled in her breath, wondering what this meant.
But as it was already fairly late—after ten—she quickly decided to quit wasting time and just do what the note said. She only hoped that whatever was happening here, it would include the man she craved. If not, she wasn’t going to play these games anymore.
Ten minutes later, Jenna left her room in the dainty, antique nightgown and robe, her heart beating in her throat. In one way, it felt odd to be going out like this, but on the other hand, it was demure nightwear to say the least, especially with the robe—and as she often had to remind herself, this was the Hotel Erotique, so she’d have to be seen in a lot less to make a passerby even blink.
Still, she was relieved not to encounter anyone as she followed the main path, barefoot, across well-manicured grounds lit by tiki torches. Crossing a wooden boardwalk that spanned the dunes, she stepped down into the cool sand and into another world.
The beach was empty, stark yet peaceful tonight, and it was easy to forget a trendy sex resort lay just behind her. A bright crescent moon guided her toward the shoreline, casting a ribbon of light across dark water. For a moment she forgot to wonder why she was here and simply soaked up the soft, salty breeze as it blew her satin gown up around her thighs, making her skin ripple lightly.
Leaning her head back, she took in the stars above—countless millions of them twinkling in an inky black sky. Would she see people fucking out here, experiencing their fantasies? Somehow, tonight, the very thought seemed ludicrous—because since reaching the beach, it did feel as if she’d been transported someplace else, someplace . . . simpler, quieter, more remote.
A glance to the sea at her right revealed . . . hmm,