The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Sierra
This is what couples do on honeymoons and romantic getaways.
Walk into a luxurious, sex-drenched suite and gawk at it together.
Just look at that bed.
It’s king-size, maybe even bigger. It’s more like fuck me all night long size and it sports a white, fluffy duvet that makes me want to fall onto it like a naughty angel. To ask him how he thinks I look in burgundy lace, stretched out on this pure white bed.
The whole ensemble screams “take me now.”
Right now.
Or maybe that’s what my body is saying.
The smells are an aphrodisiac too—gardenia and coconut, pineapple and luxury. Right along with a salty breeze billowing through softly blowing curtains. The sliding glass doors open to a terrace with a spectacular view of the endless ocean.
But the bed keeps pulling my focus.
It has its own heartbeat. It’s the pulse of the room. Maybe it even has a voice too, like it’s daring us to explore it.
Come lie down . . .
Since the bedroom is not quite a bedroom—it’s more like an extension of the living room. I can’t shut the door on him tonight and hide out in the bedroom, and nor do I want to.
Especially since the thought of Chance, and his big, long athletic frame trying to fit comfortably on that pullout couch nags at me.
I don’t like that image at all.
I want him to feel as good as I bet I’ll feel in bed tonight.
Chance sets down his bag on the tiled floor in the living room, then turns to me, a look in his brown eyes that’s both inviting and nervous. “So, Sierra? Is this suite better than camping on the beach?”
I drop my bag on the floor, then throw my arms around him impulsively. “You are my hero.” I’m so relieved, so grateful. “I didn’t want to find another place,” I tell him as I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his woodsy aftershave that’s fading as the day goes on.
Still, he smells so damn good.
There’s nothing quite like the scent of a man who turns you on.
As I hold him a little more tightly, a gruff noise falls from his throat as he murmurs, “I didn’t want you to either.”
He loops his strong arms around my waist, tugging me a little closer.
The tropical breeze mingles with his hair. Here in his suite—no, our suite—we must seem exactly like a couple on a romantic escape.
We feel like one to me.
Maybe to him too?
His hand rubs gently against the small of my back. He murmurs as he brings me close. Perhaps this isn’t fake for him at all.
Nothing feels like pretend, and neither one of us is breaking this embrace that’s zoomed well past friendly. This hug is living firmly in prelude-to-more land, complete with roaming palms and deep, sexy sighs.
I flash back to my Wild Chemistry drink. To all my reasons for concocting it—to lay my wishes on the line with Chance.
I didn’t that night, of course.
But now sure as hell feels like the moment to voice my request.
The pull between us feels completely mutual.
And totally inescapable.
The intensity of this newfound awareness is like a low, steady drumbeat that soundtracks my desire.
A desire that’s growing stronger by the minute.
Maybe this is the time to serve up the metaphorical drink and extend an invitation to get in my pants.
I break the embrace, curling a hand over his shoulder. “So, Chance . . .”
“Yes?”
The heat in his eyes tells me to go for it, but there’s a flicker of nerves there too. Maybe some understandable reservations.
Before I can jump in and tell him all the things I’d like for him to do to me tonight, the planner in me shoves the impulsive part clear out of the way.
I need to get my bearings. I know what I want, but this man has a code. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer to make sure he’s truly ready to break his rules.
Chance works with my brother, and I don’t want to mess things up for either one of them.
Sex can ruin a friendship—any relationship, really. It can derail your whole damn future.
Best to be certain.
I put on my best everything is cool face, tipping my head to indicate the rest of the suite. “Do you want to explore?” I ask, as if that’s what I meant to say all along.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
As we check out the suite, he walks past the bed, pats it, and says, “You’ll sleep so damn soundly tonight.”
Impulsive me wants to add, “And there’s enough room for you to sleep next to me,” but his phone buzzes.
That’s a relief for planner me.
Chance grabs it from his pocket, slides open the screen, then says, “It’s TJ. He says the party’s going to start in about an hour.”
I look at my attire, wrinkled from the plane. I glance in the nearby mirror. My hair needs some va-va-voom. My face needs a freshening up. Saved by circumstance. “I should . . . shower.”
Chance looks down at himself, backs up. “Same.”
I am dying to say shower with me.
Instead, I purse my lips so I don’t blurt out that tantalizing invitation.
I’m so damn good at holding in my desires.
He clears his throat. “Why don’t you take the first shower?”
“Good idea.” I grab my toiletries from my bag, some fresh lingerie, and a sundress, then head into the bathroom, shutting the door.
I sink against it.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
My pulse races. My face is flush. And my panties are soaked.
I have no clue how I’m going to survive being near the man I madly crave.
A few deep breaths.
I try to center myself, fanning my face to cool down.
Then I pull myself away from the door.
I don’t lock it, though. Chance is a gentleman and I know he won’t come in, but there’s something so deliciously naughty about the idea that he could.
And I like naughty.
I’d like to invite it into my life this weekend.
But now isn’t that time.
