Lost Without You: Book 2 in the Chasing Olivia Series (11 page)

“Fuck,” I scream, everything inside me constricting.

“I want you sore,” he hisses. “I want you to remember who was here.”

“Chase,” I cry out, ready to combust.

“You. Are. Mine.” Accentuating every word in rhythm with his thrusts, Chase pounds into me harder, faster. My body reaching its high, my climax crashes through me, causing Chase to find his own release. With two quick thrusts, his body tenses and jerks as he pours himself into me.

Releasing my legs, he falls on top of me, burying his head in the crook of my neck. We’re both breathing hard, our chests rising and falling in tandem.

“Geez, I should tell you I’m going out more often,” I joke. Looking down at me, he smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Hey,” I breathe, “I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Now that I finally have you, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Where am I going to go?” I say, caressing his cheek.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispers, his hands cupping the side of my face. “You are it for me.” Still inside me, his cock twitches.

“You really do love me?”

“I have since you walked into me at Davis. I didn’t want to admit it, but
you
are my happily ever after.”

”Chase—”

“I know. It’s too soon and you’re not ready. I can wait—forever, if I have to. I just need you to understand the depth of my feelings for you.”

My heart wants to burst,. If it weren’t for Evan, I would have said it right back, but I need to repair my damaged heart before I can give it away again. “Thank you,” I breathe, looking into those blue eyes—eyes that stare directly into my soul. “I’m so lucky you came into my life,” I say, reaching for his face, pulling him down to me. “Now, you said something about making me sore?”

His eyes are full of mischief as he starts to move. “Yes. Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

An hour later, we make our way next door to Amanda and Nathan’s villa where everyone is gathered in the large living area.

“Olivia, it’s about time you got here,” Miranda says, walking toward us. “Come, our dresses are in here.” She grabs my arm and drags me toward a bedroom.

I look back at Chase, but he just shrugs his shoulders, smiling. “You owe me,” I mouth, causing him to chuckle.

“Olivia, here. Put this on.” Amanda thrusts a garment bag at me.

“I already tried mine on,” Miranda says. “Fit like a glove.”

“We’ll be in the living room, come out when you’re dressed,” Amanda orders as they leave.

Unzipping the garment bag, I find a beautiful light blue dress. It isn’t a typical bridesmaid’s dress. It has mesh and crochet insets, giving it an edgy harness. I slide it on and it hugs my hips in exactly the right way, showing off my curves. The material has stretchy, dense knit panels, which makes the dress really comfortable. Miranda’s right; it fits like a glove.

Walking out to the living room, all conversation stops.

“It’s perfect!” Amanda squeals.

Chase gapes at me, his mouth open and eyes wide. Standing, he walks over to me. “Wow,” he murmurs under his breath.

“You like it?” I ask.

“Like it? You look amazing,” Chase answers. “Although, you would look amazing in a paper bag.”

“She looks hot,” Justin interjects, which causes Chase to punch him in the shoulder. “Hey, that hurt,” he whines.

“Can I take this off now?”

“It fits okay?” Amanda asks.

“Like a glove,” I respond.

“Yes, we need to do the walk through anyway.”

Shifting on my heel, I head back to the bedroom to change. When I come back, a couple in their mid-fifties, if that, is sitting on couch, sipping their drinks. The woman is a spitting image of Amanda, just older.

“Mom, Dad, this is Olivia, Chase’s girlfriend. Olivia, these are my parents, Amelia and Charles St. Claire.”

“Hello,” they say in unison.

“Nice to meet you,” I smile.

“We’re just waiting on Nathan’s parents,” Amanda says.

“Yes, they are taking forever,” Amelia mumbles before sipping her champagne.

“We’re right here,” a woman in her late fifties calls out as she walks out of a bedroom, her husband following behind.

“Can we get this over with?” Charles mumbles into his dark drink.

“Olivia, these are Justin’s parents. Meet Charlotte and Carter Berkeley.”

“Chase, sweetie! How are you,” Charlotte coos, enveloping him in an embrace. Releasing him, she extends her hand to me. “Pleasure to meet anyone who has captured Chase’s heart.” Smiling, I shake her hand as Chase shakes Carter’s.

Sliding next to me, Chase puts his arm around my waist, pulling me close. “So, are we going or what?” Carter calls out to no one in particular.

“Yes,” Amanda answers quickly. “The wedding director is waiting for us down by the beach.”

All of us exit the villa, making our way to the beach, Amanda’s parents trying to stay away from Nathan’s. I wonder what Christmas would look like.

As soon as we arrive, the wedding coordinator makes her way over to Amanda. After a quick round of introductions, Sheila, the coordinator, starts giving out instructions. The men are on one side and the women are at the back with the bride. Both sets of parents look bored, though I’m not really sure why they both needed to come. Rehearsal goes through without a hitch and once finished, Nathan’s parents disappear without a word while Amanda’s announce they are going for drinks at the restaurant.

“Okay, let’s talk about where we’re going tonight,” Miranda says to Amanda and me.

“Oooh, we can go to the Havana club,” Amanda squeals.

“You boys are going gambling, right?” Miranda asks Justin.

“Yeah, I think so,” he replies, looking over at Chase and Nathan. “What do you guys think, Casablanca Casino?”

“Probably. I think we’re going to play it by ear,” Chase answers. Nathan nods his head in approval.

“Well, it’s getting late. Ladies, I think we need to get ready,” Miranda says. “Say, catch the boat shuttle at seven? That gives us a little over an hour to get ready.”

“That’s perfect since we’re leaving in twenty minutes,” Justin says to Amanda. She looks at Nathan and he just shakes his head while shrugging his shoulders. It appears Justin is running the show. Maybe I should be worried.

“No strippers, Justin,” Amanda warns.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be good,” he answers with a wink.

“You better,” Miranda says. Justin gives her a huge smile.

“Alright, ladies, I’ll meet you at the dock at seven,” Amanda tells Miranda and me.

Chase takes my hand as we walk back to our villa. “Strippers?” I ask.

“No, Justin knows better. Amanda will cut his balls off if she finds out there were strippers.” I sigh, relieved.

“Good. I don’t want you thinking of anyone but me tonight.”

“Always,” he murmurs.

We get back to the villa and I search my suitcase for something suitable for tonight. Thank God I packed my little black dress. Laying it out on the bed, I go take a quick shower. As I come out, Chase is dressed and ready to walk out the door. He looks incredibly handsome, dressed in khaki shorts and a white, button-down linen shirt.

“Remember, you’re mine,” he says, pulling me into his arms.

“Will you just go have a good time with your friends,” I say, playfully pushing on his chest.

Before releasing me, his gives me a long, passionate kiss—the kind of kiss that makes me regret telling him to go—then walks toward the door. Turning, he reaches into his pocket and hands me a wad of cash. “Take this,” he murmurs.

“Chase—”

“No. You’re going to need money and I won’t be with you. Take it.”

“Fine. But I don’t plan on spending much.”

Kissing me on the forehead, he turns to the door once again. “Mine,” he calls out as he closes the door.

We arrive on Providenciales and try to flag down a cab, which is not an easy feat. After a few attempts, we are rewarded with a ride.

“The Windsong resort, please,” Miranda tells the driver. He nods and takes off. His driving is reminiscent of a New York taxi driver, speeding through red lights, weaving in between cars, and almost hitting a pedestrian while making a sharp right. I grab on to the holy-shit-bar atop the window and hold on tight.

“I wonder who’s performing tonight,” Amanda muses aloud as we slide across the seats from our daredevil cabby’s turns.

“Performing?” I ask. “I thought it was a club.”

“It is, but not the kind of club you’re thinking,” Miranda tells me. “Sometimes it’s a comedy act, others times it’s a band or orchestra.”

“I’m hoping for musical,” Amanda says.

“Either way, it’s home of the sixty ounce margarita and I can’t wait to get my hands on that,” Miranda says , bouncing up and down.

Our driver gets us to our destination quickly and in one piece. Miranda reaches over the seat to pay the driver as we exit the car.

The resort is gorgeous, but everything in Turks and Caicos is gorgeous. We follow Miranda behind the hotel reception entrance to The Havana Club.

“We’re early. The show doesn’t start until nine-thirty,” Amanda says.

“That gives us more time to drink,” Miranda counters.

“I don’t plan on drinking much. The last thing I need is a hangover in paradise.”

“Oh , Olivia! Let loose and have fun!” Miranda says, giving me a playful shove.

We walk inside the club to flickering wall sconces, richly finished wall moldings, and a dramatic, dark cypress ceiling. It’s all very authentic. A young gentleman escorts us to an informal reception area and invites us to enjoy a game of craps or Texas hold’em and drinks before the show.

“What’s tonight’s performance?” Miranda asks him.

“A comedy show, ma’am,” he responds.

“Really? I wanted to dance,” she says, a pout across her lips.

“Me, too,” Amanda concurs.

As the gentleman walks away, I mutter to myself, “We have almost two hours to kill.”

“Let’s get this party started,” Miranda says. “I need a drink.”

“Oooh, me, too,” Amanda agrees. Both girls rush toward the bar while I trail behind.

Not yet crowded, we find a large enough space at the bar to accommodate all of us. “Can we have one of those huge margaritas?” Miranda asks the gentleman behind the bar. He doesn’t look like your typical bartender, dressed in a light cotton golf shirt and straw fedora.

“Absolutely, madam,” the gentleman says, with a distinct Caribbean accent.

“I love your accent! Say something else,” Amanda squeals.

“How many do ya need?” he asks, purposely exaggerating his words.

“I don’t want—”

“Three,” Miranda says, cutting me off while holding up three fingers.

“Really, I’m fine,” I protest.

“No. You need to have one with us, to celebrate.” Amanda turns to the bartender. “Three.”

“Right away, madam. Salt, or no salt?”

“Salt,” Miranda answers. He turns to the back bar and starts preparing the massive drinks.

“I really don’t like tequila,” I say to them both, hoping to get out of this.

“Stop,” Miranda says. “All you taste is lime. It’ll be fine.”

“Besides,” Amanda adds, “they’re probably tourist trap drinks. Ya know, really weak.” The girls chat while I tune them out and watch him assemble our drinks. Speaking from experience, these are definitely not tourist drinks. As he pours half a bottle of Patron into a very large mixing cup, I see a hangover in my future.
I’m so screwed.
When he pulls out the fishbowl sized glasses, the nail is put in the proverbial coffin.