What She Needs - Lacey Alexander [76]
Turning from the fridge with a small tub of margarine in his hand, he grinned. “I used to be into cars—before I came here.” So he’d given up cars for sex. She supposed when push came to shove, most guys would.
Then her eyes fell on an old photo album, the kind with sticky pages. Checking to make sure he wasn’t watching, she smoothly pulled it out and let it fall open.
Inside, she discovered snapshots of a younger Brent. She guessed him to be around twenty in most of them, and whereas he was a rugged, handsome man now, then he’d been a fresh-faced, just-as-good-looking boy. Quick glances told her he’d had a lot of friends—there were group pictures at parties, picnics, events she couldn’t identify. In one, he had his arm around a pretty yet plain sort of girl and she noted how comfortable they appeared together. Jenna might have thought it was a sister, except they looked nothing alike. She was struck by the girl’s simplicity—hardly the bombshell cheerleader type she would have expected Brent to hook up with at that age, or any age.
When she heard the toaster pop and Brent said, “Breakfast is served,” starting to butter the bagels with his back to her, she quickly returned the album to the shelf and made her way to the kitchen—she didn’t want to be caught snooping quite that much.
And as they ate and Brent started chatting about the other resort owners who were his neighbors, she was almost sorry she’d gotten this peek into his life, into how normal it all seemed.
Because being with him had been . . . well, easier when she’d thought he was so different from her. She was already in major lust with the guy, and she already felt way too much when she had sex with him. Or—hell—even when he watched her fool around with someone else. So she surely couldn’t start feeling attached in nonsexual ways, too.
She would be here for only another week, after all. And at heart . . . they were different. Very different. You have to remember that. He’s had sex with hundreds of women, maybe thousands. He’s happy living here on an island doing nothing but creating sexual fantasies for people and having still more sex. He’s no one to fall for. No matter how hot he is, no matter what crazily intimate things you’ve done with him—and for him.
You have to see him as . . . a sexual conduit, nothing more. Do not get any more attached here.
So she resolved not to ask him about anything else in the house—not where he got the peaceful beach painting over the sofa, or where he’d traveled, or who the people in the album were, or anything. She had to do what Brent was so good at—keep this all about sex.
So when they both stood up a little while later to carry empty bowls and plates to the sink, she set hers back down, stepped close enough to him to feel his warmth, and said, “Fuck me again.”
He lowered his chin, looking somewhere between amused and aroused. “Who’s the master here, sunshine?”
“Maybe I am. Or would I be the mistress?” Then she slapped his ass through his underwear and tried to sound more dominating than playful. “Now do it.”
It didn’t work—she just wasn’t the bossy type—but that didn’t keep Brent from easing his strong arms around her, planting them on her bare ass, and lifting her onto the kitchen table. He stepped between her legs, kissing her—kisses she could easily get lost in—but she still managed to reach inside his underwear. He was only half hard, but still big in her hand, and stiffening rapidly.
He let out a hot sigh when she squeezed and began to massage the length in her fist. “Mmm, sunshine, that’s nice. You’re getting better at this all the time.”
She didn’t answer, simply took pride in the fact that his cock had just become a stone pillar in her hand. “God, you’re so big,” she murmured, always amazed by it.
“And you like it,” he teased with