As Iris’s orgasm fades, she turns around to face me, throws her arms around my neck, and devours my lips. As we make out passionately under the raining water of the shower, I grab her ass and pull her up, and she slams herself onto my straining cock and rides me like the world is ending tomorrow. As we fuck, Iris greedily clutches my shoulders, neck, and face. She nips at my jawline and digs her fingernails into my flesh and begs me not to stop.
“Never stop,” she grits out. “Fuck me forever.”
I wish. But since I’m only a man, I fuck her till I’m delirious. Till I’m drowning in as much lust and euphoria as the hot water pelting my face. I can’t remember the last time I felt this unencumbered and free. Over the years, I’ve shamelessly enjoyed the perks of fame more than I care to admit. I’ve fuckedmy share of star fuckers and fame whores, just because I was bored and they were there. But fucking Iris is a new species of fun for me. I’m making her quiver and shudder and quakewithoutthe benefit of my name and the reputation that precedes me. It’s a rare gift.
Out of nowhere, Iris stiffens in my arms and lets out a keening howl that’s so primal and raw, so fucking gritty and animalistic, I can’t stop myself from coming in response to it. As waves of bliss throttle me, Iris’s intimate muscles begin squeezing and rippling around me in concert. And I swear, for a long moment, I’m convinced I’m going to literally die of pleasure. Not that I’d complain.
As my euphoria fades, I slide Iris down my body. When she’s back to standing on her own two feet, I take her pretty face in my palms. “Fuck your ex,” I grit out. “And fuck the internet. This week is going to be about forgetting everything and everyone and having a blast, just you and me. Okay?” When Iris nods furiously, I add, “For one glorious week, baby, we’re going to make our own kind of paradise.”
Chapter 14
Roman
I open therestaurant door for Iris with a wink. “After you.”
After a morning helicopter tour of the island, I’m taking Iris to lunch at a restaurant recommended by our pilot—one he called a “hidden gem.”
“So chivalrous,” Iris replies flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes as she glides into the restaurant. Amazingly, it already feels like her factory settings have been reset. Indeed, the happy, relaxed woman practically floating past me bears little resemblance to the frazzled woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown who crashed into that bathroom yesterday.
The hostess smiles as we approach. “Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“For two, yes. I asked for a quiet table with an ocean view in the back. The name is Roman.”
Iris doesn’t know my last name, and I’d like to keep it that way. That’s why, when I booked today’s helicopter tour, I told the guy on the phone I’d throw in a thousand-dollar tip for the whole staff to split, as long as nobody uttered my last name today or asked me about football.
The tactic worked. Nobody called me anything but “sir” all morning long, and nobody said a single word about football or the Crusaders, either. Will my luck run out at some point this week? Probably, given that I’m planning to go out in public with Iris quite a bit. But I’m having so much fun being Roman the Gym Owner from Delaware, I’m determined to at least try to keep my last name out of Iris’s ears for as long as possible.
“Yes, sir,” the restaurant hostess chirps, looking up from her screen. “I’ve got a perfect table for you. Right this way.”
As we follow the woman toward our table, Iris puts her head down and raises her palm to her face like she’s a movie star trying to avoid paparazzi. She’s so damned cute. I love that she has no idea the supposed gym owner walking behind her is exponentially more likely to be recognized than a viral flavor of the week.
We make it to our table in the back without anyone giving us a second glance. To my relief, our table is exactly as described to me on the phone: tucked away in a quiet, secluded corner with a fabulous view of the glittering sea.
“This is so romantic, Roman,” Iris gushes as I pull back her chair. “You’ve pulled out all the stops today.”
“I figured you could use a little TLC.” I take a seat across from her. “The fish here is supposed to be amazing, if you like fish.”
“I do, and I’m hungry.”
We look down at our menus, but we both keep peeking over the tops of them to grin at each other like teenagers.
“Are you always this romantic?” Iris asks.
I’m surprised by the notion, because I don’t consider myself a romantic person in the slightest. Back home, I don’t have the time or inclination to invest in romance. I’m way too busy and focused on my job to allow that sort of distraction into my life. But here with Iris, I’m feeling uncharacteristically inspired to play the part of her white knight. It’s only one week of my life, after all, and her excitement is infectious.
“I’m not normally as romantic as this,” I confess with a smile. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“Well, I’m grateful for whatever it is.” She lowers her menu. “Please, don’t worry that I’m misunderstanding the nature of the situation here, simply because I used the word ‘romantic.’Despite all the swooning I’ve been doing today, I promise I’m crystal clear this is a no-strings fling.”
I bite back a chuckle. “Thanks for clearing that up.”
Iris blushes. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing. You’re just cute.”
“Shoot. Do people in the midst of flinging not talk about the fling being a fling? Is that what’s funny?”
I can’t keep my wide grin at bay. “It’s normally just kind of assumed a fling is a fling, I think. But that’s okay. No harm in making it clear.”
