What She Needs (3 page)

After that, she would embark on two full weeks of sun and relaxation. She was already looking forward to some of the spa treatments, and she’d packed a few books she’d been wanting to read. All this would turn out . . . okay. Better than okay, in fact. It was a free vacation, after all. In a tropical paradise. What more could a girl ask for?

 

 

Four hours later, Jenna actually felt relaxed.

Of course, maybe that had to do with the numerous “erotic rum punches” she’d consumed throughout the afternoon. But better to be a tiny bit intoxicated and relaxed than strung out and nervous.

She’d found that, in keeping with the pictures on the Internet, the hotel and grounds were immaculate—luxurious with just a hint of casual island flair that meshed nicely with the tall palm trees swaying in the breeze. After landing on a private airstrip, Gabe had loaded her baggage into a lavish golf-cart-for-the-rich-and-famous, complete with a polished wood dashboard and leather seats. Then he’d driven her up a meandering stone pathway lined with lush tropical foliage to the open-air lobby, where checking in had been surprisingly . . . normal, like at any other hotel.

Her deluxe suite, she soon discovered, came with an enormous bathroom and balcony, along with a spacious sitting area. And after unpacking, she’d put on a new bikini—leopard print, and a bit more scant than what she wore at home—and nervously made her way down to the pool. Because even if the lobby and room seemed normal, she’d decided that surely there’d be some heavy sexual vibes at the pool.

Yet as she stretched out on a lounge chair beneath the sun and started reading some more literature the desk clerk had given her, she learned that the main pool was a sex-free zone, one of many areas at the resort where guests could retreat during their stay to have an experience like they’d find at any ordinary beach destination.

She couldn’t have imagined more welcome news. And
that
was when she finally quit being nervous—delighted to learn she could indeed bask in the sun here every day without worrying about sexual . . .
creepiness
invading her space.

And to celebrate, she started indulging in more of the same drink she’d been served on the plane, even if it embarrassed her just slightly at first to order “erotic rum punch.” But her handsome poolside waiter, Josh, quickly put her at ease with his friendly manner, soon explaining that the punch was a trademark Hotel Erotique concoction.

Josh kept the rum flowing all afternoon, until Jenna was
so
relaxed she even napped a bit. Then went for a dip. When, for the first time, she grew brave enough to look around her at the other people at the pool—some couples, other singles—and had that same odd feeling as when she’d met Gabe:
They think I’m here for sex
. But then she remembered
they
were here for sex, and that suddenly seemed a more interesting thought. Walking up the steps out of the lagoon-type pool in her leopard print bikini, water sluicing from her body, she found herself wondering if anyone saw her and wanted to have sex with her.

That was when she realized she’d had too much rum punch—and she quickly tried to banish the thought. But it stayed with her—and was suddenly a lot easier to ponder under the influence of rum. It was easier to look at the attractive couple a few chairs away and wonder what
their
fantasies were. Easier to surreptitiously spy a hot blond surfer-looking guy stretched out under a small palm tree and wonder if he’d noticed her bikini, if anything about
her
meshed with the reasons he’d come here.

And when Josh delivered another drink, she couldn’t bring herself to turn it down. “But this is the last one,” she told him with a smile—maybe even a
flirty
one. Unintentionally, of course, because unlike everyone else at the Hotel Erotique, she wasn’t here for sex. And she didn’t want to send Josh the wrong message. Yet at the same time, she wondered if he might be admiring her body at all. Because, according to Shannon and past lovers, it was a
good
body. And one not normally this much on display.

“I mean it,” she added when Josh cast a doubtful grin.

“If you say so,” he’d replied teasingly. “But you know where I am if you change your mind.” The cute waiter had pointed to a thatch-covered tiki hut bar on the opposite side of the pool before departing with a wink that—just like talking with Gabe earlier—had made her a little wet.

Now, she’d just showered in the luxurious marble bathroom in her suite and was off to dinner with her guide. Following the map she’d been given upon her arrival, she took in the beach to her right, the sky turning blush-colored as the sun began its descent. And as she started across a long wooden boardwalk, sea oats sprouting up from the sand beneath, she spied a gazebo in the distance—which her trusty map marked as the spot for her orientation dinner.

She’d worn a pretty pink sundress with a low-cut halter neck—like the bathing suit, sexier than what she’d choose at home. Because she didn’t want Mariel to think turning down the sex part of her prize meant she was prim, or repressed, or anything else. She wanted Mariel to see her as a confident woman who had made the right decision for herself.

She walked slowly to ensure not losing her balance on her sexy, strappy cork wedges—and again couldn’t stop herself from thinking about sex. How many people were having sex right now somewhere on this island? She felt warm in her panties, imagining, wondering, as vague, shadowy images of sweaty bodies moving together wafted through her mind.

Damn—she’d finished her last rum punch nearly an hour ago, but she still felt it. Otherwise, she surely wouldn’t be thinking about sex so much—or suffering the response between her thighs.

But don’t worry—this really
will
be okay.
Eating would help sober her. And after dinner, she could turn in early, then get up tomorrow and enjoy a lazy day on the beach.

The setting sun cast shadows over the interior of the gazebo as she approached, but she stepped boldly inside, ready to show Mariel how self-assured she was. Until she saw a completely scorching-hot guy sitting at a table for two—and flinched, halting in place on her wedge heels. “Um, sorry—wrong gazebo.”

His dark hair was thick but well kempt, contrasting slightly with the sexy stubble on his chin—and a slight smile made him even more handsome. Everything about him looked strong, confident, powerful—like she wished
she
really felt right now. “No—right gazebo, Jenna.”

Oh, shit—he knew her name. She stood up straighter, her spine going rigid. “I’m supposed to meet Mariel. And you’re . . . not her.”

His smile deepened—he looked amused at how flustered she appeared—and she couldn’t help noticing, even in the dim light, that he possessed deep gray eyes, sexy and captivating. He stood and walked around the small table—set for dinner, complete with ensconced candles and wineglasses—to pull out the chair on the other side. “Sit down,” he said, “and I’ll explain over some pinot grigio.” Her favorite wine. Had that been on a questionnaire somewhere?

She couldn’t figure out a graceful way to
not
sit down, even though her impulses immediately told her to run, to extract herself from this situation.
But for heaven’s sake, calm down—he’s only an incredibly hot guy, not a demon from hell or anything.

Although she feared she was probably looking at him as if he were indeed Satan himself. Because she’d had a plan, and whatever it was he had to explain, this changed it. And suddenly everything felt different. Despite how calm she’d been through the afternoon, now she sensed sex all around her, in a pervasive way.

But then, wait, no—maybe it was only . . . him. His eyes. His body. He dripped sex. He made her tingle between her legs even amid her unaccountable fear. He looked like a guy who could steal a woman’s soul.

“Sit,” he urged her again. “I won’t bite. Promise.” Then he winked.

And there it was again, that undeniable pulse at the juncture of her thighs.

Jenna sat, but only because she didn’t know what else to do. And since she’d already acted totally weird in front of Mr. Soul-Stealing Hottie, she now experienced the urge to make him see what she’d wanted Mariel to see—a confident, in-control woman. With Mariel, it had been to prove she didn’t need the sexual offerings here—yet with this guy, it was simply to redeem herself.

After pushing in her chair, he returned to his own—which meant they were face-to-face again and it was time to meet his gaze. Her chest tightened as she forced herself to do so. She simply wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a man so attractive. In a world designed for sex. Where had her pleasant sense of intoxication gone? Its departure left her feeling vulnerable, for reasons she couldn’t understand.

“First,” he said, still smiling that sexy smile, “congratulations on winning our grand prize, and welcome to the Hotel Erotique. I hope you’re enjoying your stay so far.”

“Thank you, and yes, it’s lovely.”
Get to the point already.

Before continuing, though, he paused to lift an open bottle from an ice bucket to pour two glasses of wine. “Second,” he finally went on, “I have some unfortunate news. Your guide, Mariel, has just been called away on a family emergency.”

Oh God.
I know I should feel bad for Mariel, but right now, I’m more worried about
me
.
“I’m . . . sorry to hear that. Nothing too serious, I hope,” she managed to add.

“Her father had a heart attack, and he’s expected to have a complete recovery, but she still needs to be with him.”

“Of course,” Jenna replied, nodding.

“And as luck would have it, the only other female guide on-site this week is already very overbooked. We have two more, but both are on vacation.”

“I see,” was all she could say. So what did that mean? Well, maybe she should simply go ahead and tell him her decision and this wouldn’t even matter since she didn’t actually
need
a guide. But before she could figure out how to broach the topic of sex, he went on.

“I know our literature promises a same-gender guide for each guest, but these are unusual circumstances, so I apologize and hope you won’t mind being stuck with
me
.” His enticing grin widened, making her thighs melt even as her jaw went slack.

“You,” she repeated numbly.

“Brent Powers,” he said, extending a hand across the table.

She forced herself to shake it. It was big. Strong.

“And I can assure you that, despite this being unusual, I’m committed to ensuring your stay with us exceeds your expectations,” Brent went on. “I’ve been with the Hotel Erotique for fifteen years and have spent ten of those as a guide. I have a BS in social psychology and a PhD in clinical sexology. I’m also part owner of the resort, so I hope all that will convince you you’re in safe hands.”

Clinical sexology, huh? And he even had a doctorate in it—which she supposed made him an official doctor of sex. It was strange to know she sat across from a man who was not only hot as hell but who also knew more about sex than she could possibly fathom.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was . . . “Actually, I was planning to tell Mariel that . . . I’d like to decline the, uh, sex portion of my prize. So I don’t really need a guide. I’d just like to enjoy the rest of what the resort has to offer.”

Across from her, Brent Powers blinked, looking truly surprised. “May I ask why?”

She sucked in her breath. This part would have been easier with a woman. Or even with a less-attractive man. She found she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she spoke. “Well, I simply decided I’m not comfortable having sex with strangers. No offense—I’m sure it brings many people a lot of, um, pleasure—but I just don’t think it’s right for
me
.”

Only when he didn’t answer right away did she manage to lift her gaze from his white button-down shirt to his face—to see him appearing unduly concerned. So she rushed on. “Maybe I should have given the prize back—I’m sorry if that’s what you would have preferred. But I really could use a vacation, and when I discussed this with some friends, they suggested I simply enjoy the other aspects of the prize—like the pool, and the spa.” She decided to blame at least part of it on Shannon and Kevin since this was actually
all
their fault. “Is that okay? Or should I leave?”

At this, Brent Powers reached out to touch her hand where it rested on the table near her untouched glass of wine, and—yikes, the simple connection sizzled through her like electricity, skittering all the way up her arm. “Jenna, we would never ask you to leave. But I’d like to talk more about your decision.”

Oh boy. She finally took a drink of her wine. A big one. She needed it. “What’s to discuss?” she asked, trying for an easy, confident expression.

Brent lifted his wine for a sip, too—then smiled that killer smile again. “Well, to begin with, what we do here is more than ‘sex with strangers.’ ”

Oh? Could have fooled
her
.

He went on. “People come here for a lot of different reasons, and we welcome them all, but by and large, I see what we do here as being therapeutic.”

Hah!
Was he serious? It was truly hard to hold in a sarcastic laugh, but she contained it somehow.

“There are many reasons people seek out new sexual experiences, and I’m sure you know we design a series of individualized fantasies based on what we’ve learned about each guest from our questionnaires. And we usually fine-tune it a bit after the guest arrives. If we saw our job as nothing more than supplying ‘sex with strangers,’ we wouldn’t go to so much trouble, nor would we have a full staff educated and trained to give our guests the optimal sexual encounters while helping them attain their sexual needs and, in some cases—like yours—resolve their sexual issues.”

She hadn’t thought about that, she supposed—they truly did seem to take great care in creating each person’s fantasies. Except . . .
wait
. Sexual issues? What was he talking about?