No matter. He suspected they saved any ritual sacrifices for the nightly Parrot Cay Spectacular, which didn’t occur for many hours yet. He should be safe.
He settled into one of the lounge chairs, stretched his legs out on the cushioned seat, let the salty ocean air fill his lungs, and watched the steady rush of the gentle waves until the urgency of his need receded like the tide. In its place, reason slowly returned.
Yes, he wanted Callie with the single-minded desperation of a sailor in thrall to a siren’s song. Yes, maybe she was beginning to want him too.
He hoped so, given the way she’d grazed his arm, his knee, even his chest, with light fingertips during dinner. The way she’d begun focusing that hot brown gaze on his mouth and biting her own lip. Even the way she’d held his hand and nestled close to his side as they made their way back to the hotel under the watchful eyes of the camera crew.
But that wasn’t enough. Not given the shadow of uncertainty he still spied on her face every time they moved a step closer to one another. Not given how easy it would be for them both to confuse the forced intimacy of their deception with genuine desire on her part.
He wasn’t making love with Callie—wasn’t even kissing her—unless that shadow was gone and he knew she wanted him, not merely a placeholder man on this journey with her. If they were both conscious and in bed together and she made an approach, though, he wasn’t sure he could make himself say no.
Which was why he’d fled, before she blinked those brilliant eyes open and undid him once again. Just the thought of her turning to him, the sheets rustling in the quiet of a lazy morning, and shifting nearer with a soft smile of welcome?—
Like the tide, his need returned. That vicious ache only Callie had ever inspired.
So he supposed he was going to watch the waves and read about harrowing 1930s aviation adventures for an hour or two, until he was certain she’d be awake and dressed. Until it was time to pack their bags, check out, and head to their next destination, Thongs.
Christ, another night in bed together was going to prove a stern test of his mettle.
But for the chance of a real future with Callie, he could withstand just about anything. Even the brutal undertow of his own desire.
“Wow,” Callie said. “Does that chair…”
Thomas gave a short nod. “Yes. The seat vibrates. At different frequencies and intensities. The remote is tucked into a pocket on the side of the cushion, according to the guest handbook.”
He’d tried reading that handbook to distract himself while Callie explored the suite. It wasn’t helping.
“Huh.” Running a hand over its plush velvet cover, she studied the armless chair and tilted her head in what appeared to be—God help him—intrigued speculation. “I guess I hadn’t realized an adults-only island would be so flagrantly…uh, adults-only.”
Their room, he’d found, was full of such unique features. Unique in the sense of torturous.
Callie trailed to the bed.
“That’s a weird design on the headboard. Not very comfortable for sitting. Why would anyone put leather loops all over—” She trailed into silence. “Never mind.”
Clearly, he’d underestimated the problematic nature of the second island on their itinerary. But in his defense, the destination’s logo was a pair of flip-flops entangled with one another. I.e., thongs.
He hadn’t realized that Thongs was about flip-flops in the same way Hooters was about nocturnal birds of prey. And he definitely hadn’t anticipated the wholehearted commitment of Thongs’s staff and owners to hedonism. Also to Georgia O’Keeffe paintings and leather.
But his mistake had become evident very, very rapidly. Immediately upon their arrival at the island’s dock, in fact.
A limousine had been waiting for them. One with an opaque glass partition the driver—after offering them flutes of chilled champagne and a crystal bowl of condoms—had pointedly raised after noting its soundproof design.
At the last moment, she’d rolled it back down for a final comment. “Wet wipes are in the right lower cabinet.”
Then up the glass had gone again, while Callie choked and began coughing. Thomas had closed his eyes in distinct pain while bracing her with a hand spread wide on her warm, silk-covered back. Other than those coughs, the short ride to the hotel had been very silent. But that silence had been thick. Stifling. And he hadn’t been able to force himself to move his hand, not for the whole ride. She hadn’t shifted away from him, either.
Instead, she’d pressed back against the seat, as if trapping his hand. Increasing the intensity of the contact.
So he should have comprehended the disastrous nature of the situation then. Or if not then, when the crew had arrived too, and he and Callie strode into the hotel lobby on camera, the boom mic overhead, and saw the statuary.
Her cheeks had gone ruddy, but for the first time on their trip, she’d seemed to forget about the crew. No, she’d been too busy studying the various configurations of marble humans in congress with other marble humans—interspersed with a few marble satyrs and other similar creatures—to pay attention to Gladys or anyone else.
To be fair, filming had largely come to a halt, because HATV was meant to be a family-friendly network. But Callie hadn’t even appeared to notice the moment when the cameras lowered and the boom mic guy wandered off toward the lobby’s tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.
“I’d dislocate a hip,” he’d heard her mumble at one erotic display.
He hadn’t said a word. Even attempts to remember colonial tax policy couldn’t relieve this sort of strain. So in lieu of saying something he shouldn’t, he simply followed her without a word, like a lust-struck shadow.
