Hotel Indigo (16 page)

My eyes dart around. The woman is still in the pool, but I’ll bet her eyes are closed.
 

I squeeze my legs together. It feels a bit better, but I’m going to need a little more stimulation to diffuse this particular bomb, and that means doing something a bit more overt.

Which would be really,
really
out of character.
 

I take a final glimpse at Marco’s cabana as I seriously consider sending my hand where it shouldn’t want to go, but at that exact moment a gust of wind catches the flap and lifts it high enough for me to see that it’s empty.
 

I look around — furtive, like I’m hiding a secret.
 

I’m not really thinking of going in there alone to … to
do stuff
… am I? I’m a professional woman. I practically run one of the world’s biggest and best known companies. I’m responsible for taking care of people and tending to things. I wear suits to work. I don’t come to resorts and lay around all day getting seaweed wraps and facials, lounging by the pool in bikinis. And I definitely don’t consider what I’m mulling over now.
 

“I’m on vacation,” I say aloud.

With another final peek around, I gather my bag and tiptoe toward the cabana.
 

I find the inside surprisingly cool, and scented with a medley of massage oils. An iPod on a shelf plays rainforest sounds through the attached speakers. In the middle of the room is a massage table, its sheets clean and crisp as if waiting for a guest who has yet to arrive. I spy a small fridge on the floor, with a half-finished bottle of water atop it.
 

I turn around.
 

I hop up onto the massage table.
 

My eyes scan the room, and I bite my lower lip.
 

I can barely think, and nothing is even happening.
 

Who am I right now?
 

I don’t know the answer, but it’s sure nice not to be Caspian White’s sister or Evelyn White’s daughter for a while.

My hand, innocently and over the fabric, brushes my crotch.
 

It’s like a bolt of lightning.
 

I close my eyes, exhaling. And when I open them again, Marco is standing in front of me.
 

I snatch my hand away. He notices, but says nothing.

“You’re late.” His voice is authoritative. Deep and without any welcome.

“I was right outside. I thought you might have someone in here.”

He looks at me. There’s something unreadable in his eyes. “Late is late.”
 

I’m sure, right then and there, that he’s going to demand that I leave. Instead, he pulls out his massage stool and sits across from me. He picks up the bottle of water, opens it, and takes a drink.
 

I’m still on the table. I feel stupid up here. Exposed.
 

I shift my weight to hop down, but Marco shakes his head to stop me.
 

I settle back.

“There’s still the matter of your punishment. For being late.”
 

I blink, unsure where this is going.
 

“Take it off and spread your legs,” he says, “then show me how you make yourself come.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

L
UCY

M
ARCO
’
S
FACE
IS
IMPASSIVE
. H
E
’
S
sitting on his stool like a lord, bare-chested, big arms crossed. His dark eyes are watching my body, making no attempt to hide his blatant staring at my chest.

“What did you say?” I ask.
 

“You heard me.
 

“Your note just said to be here. You told me to bring my swimsuit.”

“I did. Now take it off.”
 

I’m trying to summon anger. I don’t know why, but I can’t. Embarrassment is the closest I can come. The way we’re arranged is familiar: I’m like a patient up on one of those paper-lined exam tables and Marco is like a judgmental doctor.
 

Got yourself into a sticky situation, have you?
I imagine him saying.
That’s what you get for taking a strange guy in your mouth
.
 

“Do it, Lucy. I won’t ask again.”
 

I need to storm out of here. This guy is bipolar or something. The first time I saw him, he was shouting and raising a scene. Then we had that botched massage, where he decided to psychoanalyze and presume to know me. I had to make him leave. Then he wants me, and I let him take me. After that, breakfast on a silver platter, accented with a fresh lily. And now this—these demands.
 

I’m Lucy White. Nobody tells me what to do.
 

But I don’t hop down or storm out.
 

Marco doesn’t flinch. His hard, dark eyes keep boring into me. I want to be angry, but can’t be. My mind is on last night, when Marco told me I couldn’t relax, then said I was doing better, before promising that he’d teach me how to relax even more.
 

The pressure inside me. The way every little movement brushes my clit’s hood against my suit bottoms. I’ve never felt so hot. All I can think of is rushing back to my room to take care of myself.
 

But instead, swallowing and looking away, I move my hands down and hook my thumbs under the strings at my hips. I glance up at Marco, see him watching intently and perhaps a bit impatiently.

I look away again, lift up just enough to slip my suit bottoms underneath me, then slide it down with my knees clamped together. After dropping my suit to the floor, I sit with my hands in my lap, cold and exposed.
 

“Now spread your legs.”
 

My joints don’t want to move. I insist, and my knees finally part a fraction of an inch. I force things to keep moving until I’m sitting there normally, legs neither open nor pinched closed, hands still in my lap. Marco is lower than me, looking up. Unless I reach between my legs to cover myself, he can see the lips of my pussy, and probably the wetness beading my skin.
 

“You’re not doing as I asked, Lucy.”
 

“Maybe if you said it nicely.”
 

He looks annoyed. “I don’t want to be nice to you right now. Just do it.”
 

I don’t know why, but I follow my orders. My legs open wider, and I watch him take me in, hungrily.
 

“Touch it for me.”
 

So I do. Because my hands want to go there, they do so easily.
 

The first touch is electric. It’s all I can do not to gasp.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says. “Your pussy is so beautiful.”
 

Should I say thanks to that? I close my eyes, try to forget this is happening, wondering how big of a mistake I might be making.
 

“Close your eyes. Let go and
feel it
.”
 

I do. And it doesn’t take long. Once the sensations start to steamroll, I can’t hold myself back. My ass is clenching. My pussy is gripping the tips of my fingers, so I plunge them inside and work my clit with my thumb.
 

I come with a gasp, juices gushing.
 

When I open my eyes, Marco is standing in front of me. He’s taken out his cock. Its tip is less than an inch from my quivering pussy. I can feel its heat melting into my own.

“Do you have a condom?” I ask.
 

“No.”

“Then don’t.”
 

“You want me to stop?”
 

I look down. I see a drop forming on the tip of his cock. He’s so close, I can imagine what he’d feel like inside.

 
Like I’ve been imagining since last night.
 

Since my massage.
 

Since the first time I saw him.
 

I grip his cock and pull him forward until he’s inside me. He fills me completely—but the sensation is too much all at once. I gasp.
 

Marco groans. His breath purrs against my neck. He nibbles at my ear, hungry.
 

“You feel so good,” Marco growls, his lips brushing mine.
“My cock feels so good inside you.”
 

I close my eyes. I wrap my arms around him, but find I can’t reach. He’s too big. Too broad.
 

As he thrusts into my pussy, I feel the flex and swell of every muscle on his back.
 

“Tell me you want me to fuck you harder.”

My head tips back. My mouth opens. I’m lost in ecstasy. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to, but even if I could, there’s no way I’m saying that.
 

“Tell me.
Tell me you want me to fuck your pussy harder.”
 

I’m all panting, all spasming, gripping sensation. I can barely think as I come again.
 

“Say it, Lucy!”

But I’m crying out, too loud, sure to be overheard. This is a cabana, not a room. The walls are canvas, not drywall or concrete. It’s one long, delightfully torturous orgasm and it goes on forever. And ever.
 

Finally, he grips me tight and slams into me with force, tipping me further than I knew I could go. I fly up to a new level, barely able to breathe. Marco is coming inside me and I feel our rhythm change, the thrusts wetter, a warm sensation leaking down the crack of my ass.
 

I feel warm as I return to my body, and my eyes find Marco’s face. I want to smile, but he looks disappointed.
 

“You failed that lesson,” he says. “So we’ll have to do it again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

L
UCY

B
UT
APPARENTLY
NOT
RIGHT
AWAY
.
 

Because after an awkward post-coital moment involving tissues and cleanup, I decide that the man I just had sex with isn’t the kind of man I want to sit around bare-assed in front of, so I retrieve my swimsuit bottoms. My head was in the clouds, but now it’s back. Now that my itch has been scratched, it’s obvious just how ill-advised that all was.
 

“You’re embarrassed,” Marco says from behind me.
 

“I’m not embarrassed. I just …” I exhale, then face him, my back against the massage table. “I just want to know what that was, with you ordering me around.”
 

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it in the moment.”
 

“I did it. That doesn’t mean it was okay.”
 

Marco has fully composed himself. It was easy, seeing as all he had to do was to pull up his shorts. He’s back on the stool, his body language more open. “So what’s the problem?”
 

“I don’t like being told what to do.”