So it was up to me to make sure we didn’t let the moment get out of hand.
She ran the tip of her tongue along the outer edge of my earlobe. “I want to give you a massage,” she purred.
“Mm mm,” I groaned. “You’re already undressed. Let me give you one.”
“I’d need to be more undressed than this for a massage.”
I pulled my face back a few inches. “Really? You were naked?”
She laughed. “No, silly. But I did take my bra off.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“So, I guess, if you insist…” she trailed off, placing her hands behind her back and unhooking her bra. It fell to thefloor and she stood before me like that. I could do nothing but revere her, this goddess in my atmosphere, this deity in my ether. I placed my hands on her so gently, worshipping every inch of skin as my palms grazed it.
“Lie down,” I requested.
She conceded. I took her hand and helped her up onto the massage table, then turned her so she could face down. I dropped my lips to her upper back, planting tiny kisses along her spine as I pushed her hair to one side. I looked around, hoping to find anything that I could use to rub into her skin. There was a cabinet above a sink on the far side of the space. I walked over to it, opened the door and pulled out what appeared to be a bottle of massage oil. I pumped a small amount into my hands, smelling it to make sure it was pleasant. The fragrance was floral and subtle. Rubbing my palms together, I generated enough warmth that it wouldn’t cause Harmony to jump when I finally laid them down on her back.
“Mmm,” she moaned, eliciting a response in my body that I consciously worked to tamp down.
I glided my fingertips down the curve of her back, relishing the slope of her form as it narrowed to her waist. Applying just a light touch of pressure produced another sound from her mouth that threatened to excite me even more. I fought it, waging complete war between my body and my mind. I focused my energy on bringing her pleasure in this new and different way, adulating every curve, every rise and fall of her body. I could hear the music floating into the air from the DJ booth at the wedding, just a short walk down the beach. I remained engrossed in my reverence, notably proud of myself for winning the battle of mind over matter.
Until she flipped over.
Lying there, with her breasts exposed to the night air and her face so tranquil, Harmony took on a different aura of exquisiteness. “Touch me,” she whispered.
I couldn’t say no.
There was no doubt in my mind that she was trying to entice me to take her on that table, beneath those stars, but a man who knows the treasure he has is careful not to waste it. I worked to please her in other ways, both physically and emotionally, without crossing the line I’d established in my mind. I had special plans for us. I only had to wait two more days to execute them.
After bringing her to the height of her desire, Harmony’s body relaxed tremendously. She yearned to indulge me similarly, but a passing group of night swimmers sent us into a fit of giggles that gave us the sense we might be better off not pushing our luck.
I was so, so grateful for those night swimmers.
Beckett’s writing is making me kind of angry.
First of all, the spa-hut-after-dark wassospicy in real life, and to close the door on that scene and deprive the reader of the magic that man’s mouth was capable of is truly criminal. But given the fact that it happened to me and I am currently drowning in a sea of mixed emotions, I’m sure I’d be angry no matter how he presented it.
I suppose one could say he was being tactful. And yes, of course there are some readers who prefer a sweet love story. I guess what’s making me angry is the fact that I knocked that scene out of the park and he just glossed over it, as if it were just another day in paradise and wasn’t one of the sexiest things that had ever happened to him.
Well, at least, to that point. Who knows what kinds of sexcapades he’s participated in with his betrothed, fame-soaked singer-superstar?
I certainly don’t.
But Google does.
Don’t do it,I tell myself.
But I can’t help it. I’m reading a book that he wrote about a trip he was onwith me, struggling to keep myself from falling in love with this man all over again, remembering every detail, trying not to let my soul get crushed under the weight of what that week did to me. And now, the thought ofseeinghim. And those goddamnwords.
Listen to me, Mel,he’d said.I fell in love with you in Aruba.
The chasm that I slide into is deep and dark, leading to the seedy underworld of the internet. Early pictures taken by paparazzi litter the Images subset of my Google search, along with links to articles from TMZ and the like. He’s as beautiful as I remember, holding the hand of a woman who could not be less like me. Look at them, going on a walk with matching Starbucks cups.Click.There they are on a yacht in the Mediterranean, her entire back showing thanks to a barely there string bikini, with a tattoo of a tree crawling up her spine and extending out over her shoulder blades. He looks at her with a familiar smirk, but his eyes are shielded by sunglasses.Click.There they are walking the red carpet at the Grammys. He’s wearing a tuxedo and has his arm around her waist. The giant rock on her left ring finger glistens in the flash bulbs.Click.
But wait.
There’s a picture of Analise Renda—a blurry one—where she’s canoodling with someone who is most definitely not Beckett. His dark hair is up in a man bun, nothing like Beckett’s closely cropped locks. The accompanying gossip website asks,Is it over for Analeckett?
