What She Needs (40 page)

“Yeah. Why, sunshine? What’s wrong?”

Jenna’s heart rose to her throat. “I just came from my massage,” she informed him.

“Ah,” he said, suddenly sounding playful, amused. “Did you enjoy it?”

Her chest tightened until she could barely speak. “I . . . thought I did.”

“Uh . . . what does
that
mean?” He suddenly sounded as confused as she felt.

“It means I assumed . . . you were there. Somewhere. Or watching through a hidden camera or something. Are you telling me you weren’t?”

He stayed silent for a moment and Jenna’s chest hurt so much she feared it would burst. “No, honey, I wasn’t.”

“I see.”

“It’s not customary for your guide to be at or observing
all
your fantasies.”

“You always have before. Even at the Grotto,” she reminded him.

“I was at the Grotto to see how things went, to gauge your progress. I never actually meant for you to know I was there—I just fucked up and didn’t stay out of sight well enough.”

“Hmm,” she said. Because it was all she
could
say. Other words completely eluded her, trapped in her throat by the anger beginning to spread all through her. He’d done this on purpose. He’d just reminded her last night, after all, that she’d only agreed to all of this on the condition that he would be part of her fantasies—it was very clear to them both that she wanted,
needed
, him there. He’d done this to remind her she was only a job to him, a project.

“Jenna, are you okay?”

She suddenly found her voice. “Other than the fact that I feel completely betrayed and abandoned? Sure—I’m just fine.”

She heard him blow out his breath on the other end of the line. “Jenna, please don’t feel that way. This was the same as any other fantasy—meant to bring you pleasure and expand your horizons in a new direction. Nothing more, nothing less. If it brought you the intended pleasure, then mission accomplished and you should be happy about that.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” she snapped. Then, as the full measure of his betrayal hit her, she simply pushed the disconnect button.

She couldn’t bear to talk to him any longer if he was going to argue with her about it, tell her she was wrong to have the emotions she did. She’d done something sexual with Courtney that she
wouldn’t
have—plain and simple—if she’d known Brent really wasn’t involved in any way. It made the experience feel . . . empty. No, worse. She almost even found it a little repulsive.

Because she just wasn’t like the other people here. Try as she might, she hadn’t come here for the sole purpose of getting off. After
all
of this, sex, to her, still meant more. At the very least, it meant sharing something intimate with someone she trusted. And she’d trusted Brent so, so much. She’d trusted him with . . . everything, with all of her—her emotions, her thoughts, her past, her body, her pleasure. She’d trusted him and he’d just . . . abandoned her.

No, that was a lie—she
wanted
to hate him, but she couldn’t, because she
loved
him.

Yet she hated what he’d done to her, and she was going to make damn sure it didn’t happen again. She was done with
this
, done with
him
! And she was getting the hell out of the Hotel Erotique, once and for all.

J
enna marched up the sunny beach. Because the moment she’d decided to end her experience here at the resort, she knew she needed to see Brent one more time. To finish this.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she trudged through the hot sand toward his house. When she reached the bungalow, she didn’t bother knocking; instead, she yanked open the door and barged right in.

She found him standing in his living room, cell phone pressed to his ear. He looked fairly frantic. “I’ve been trying to call you back—why did you hang up on me?”

She didn’t answer, though. Instead, she said, “Susan B. Anthony! Marie Antoinette! Cleopatra!”

“What?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.

“Oprah Winfrey!” she continued. “Amelia Earhart!”

Then he stood up a bit straighter, his expression telling her he suddenly understood.

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “I want out of this—now!”

He simply met her gaze for a moment, and she kind of wanted to cry—because seeing him again made her chest contract, because she was so crazy about him and only wished he hadn’t misled her. “Tell me why,” he finally said, his voice gentle.

“You
know
why. I just engaged in a sexual act under false pretenses.”

“How false could it have been if you came?” he protested.

“I only came because I thought you were watching me. If I’d known you weren’t, I would have declined everything beyond the regular massage. I was only into it because . . . I thought I was sharing it with
you
.”

Brent pulled in his breath, let it back out. She couldn’t read his face. “It’s my responsibility, at this point, Jenna, to . . . prepare you for sex without me. Surely you can see the logic in that.”

Jenna blinked, sighed, feeling sad. Sure, she could see the logic. But what she
mainly
saw was that nothing had really changed for her here, after all—she still couldn’t have casual sex. Somehow Brent had made everything feel intimate, like a connection, something deep and emotional as well as physical.

When she didn’t reply, he went on. “You’ve had sex with
lots
of people here. Why is what happened today so different?”

But Jenna simply shook her head in response. “No, I haven’t,” she explained. “I haven’t
really
had sex with anyone but you.”

“What?” He didn’t get it.

And she was determined to make him understand. “I’ve had sex
you’ve
ordained. I’ve had sex
you’ve
orchestrated and demanded and urged and encouraged. I’ve had sex with you
physically
, and sex with you
mentally
when you were there watching. It all felt like having sex with
you
. All of it. But today was the first time I really had sex here
without
you.”

Brent sat down on the leather sofa, ran his hands back through his hair. It was small comfort that his reply came out sounding guilty. “Jenna, I thought you needed today’s fantasy. I’m sorry, but it’s what seemed best to me.”

“I’m so tired of hearing what you think I need,” she told him, not so much angry now as exasperated, weary. “The fact is,
you
needed this fantasy—not me. You needed to . . . start erecting walls between us. So you wouldn’t care so much about me. So you won’t miss me when I’m gone.”

“I just did what I thought made sense,” he replied calmly.

The non-response sliced through Jenna’s chest like a knife. “Well, screw you,” she said, full-blown anger returning. “I don’t want any more of your stupid fantasies! I’m done with this place—I’m going home!”

She turned to go, only to hear him say, “Wait.”

Looking back, she saw that he’d pushed to his feet and moved toward her.

“You have the power now,” he said gently.

“What?”

“No more submission for you—now you’re the powerful woman in control.”

“Damn right I am—and I choose to go home.”

“No, Jenna,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t you want more mind-opening experiences here? What happened just now was only one fantasy—I wasn’t planning on backing out of your fantasies for good. Don’t you want to know what else I’ve got planned for you?”

Oh God, did he think it was that easy? That he could lure her back under his spell with offers of more sex? “No,” she answered simply.

“I wanted to make you into a powerful Tudor noblewoman,” he went on, “who chooses which of her peasants must pleasure her. I wanted to take you to the Wild West and make you a powerful, in-demand saloon girl who can choose any man she wants. I wanted to take you back to the dungeon, Jenna, but this time you’d be the dominatrix, calling the shots.” He offered up a weak, pleading smile. “
You
can punish
me
this time, and I’m guessing right about now that sounds good to you.”

“
No,
” she said again, adding some bite to the word.

“Then what about a beach fantasy?” he asked, speaking more softly. “Something sexy, simple, like you put on your questionnaire. I’d love to give that to you, Jenna.”

Oh, hell. But . . . “No,” she said once more, even if that one held an enormous amount of appeal.

And yet he still didn’t give up. “Jenna,” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand, “why don’t you tell me about the massage fantasy—tell me everything that happened. Then it’ll be like I
was
there with you. I would
love
for you to tell me.”

Wow, part of Jenna was tempted. She knew it would excite him to hear about her encounter with Courtney. And they would start kissing, and touching—and she’d get to have him inside her again, the most glorious feeling she could imagine.

Maybe he’d finally admit he had feelings for her.

Maybe she’d find a way to feel good about letting this continue.

Maybe he’d promise to be with her every step of the way from now on, and she’d believe him.

But conservative Jenna tended to protect herself. She’d always been a once-bitten-twice-shy kind of girl—once someone hurt her, let her down, she never gave them a chance to do it again. She just wasn’t capable of feeling the same level of trust once it was breached.

So no matter how nice it sounded to let Brent fuck her on the beach or how hot it sounded to turn him on by telling him about the massage, Jenna knew it would never feel the same to her, never feel right to her, again.

Taking a deep breath, she drew her hand away from his. “No, Brent, I can’t. It’s time for me to go.”

Then she turned around to walk out of his house, and out of his life, heading up the beach feeling stalwart and strong. She even managed to get halfway back to the resort before she started to cry.

 

 

Within an hour, Jenna had booked a flight home from Miami and called the front desk to arrange for her transport there—Gabe would pick her up from the open-air lobby at noon tomorrow.

Every time she thought of Brent, her stomach hurt. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her here. Was she truly stronger, freer, more in charge of her sexuality? Or was having fallen in love with her guide going to leave her weaker than ever?

As she sat on her balcony trying to read—clearly, she’d have to immerse herself in the Civil War memoir somewhere else, since it just wasn’t working for her at the Hotel Erotique—she felt almost . . . conquered somehow. And she didn’t like it one bit. In fact, she had no intention of leaving here feeling worse off than when she’d arrived.

So she needed to perk herself up. And she decided a pretty sundress and a late dinner at the Paradise Grill—one of the few
normal
things she’d done here—would be a good start.

As she tied a yellow and orange multiprint halter dress behind her neck, she hoped like hell Brent wouldn’t show up there as he had the last time, but if so, she could always leave. And it was far past most people’s normal dinnertime, so maybe he’d already be in for the evening.

Since she hadn’t heard from him in the hours since she’d left his house, maybe that meant he’d accepted her decision to go. Or—hell, for all she knew, he was deeply immersed in some
other
guest’s sex fantasy right now, fucking someone else the same way he’d fucked her, and she was the last thing on his mind.

Upon being shown to a table not far from the stage, she looked up to see her calypso singer just about to break into song—but he gave her a smile, punctuated with a sexy wink, before he began.

As usual, she enjoyed the island music, the warm night air, and the tiki torches burning in the darkness. Heartbreak kept her appetite light—she ordered only a salad and fruit cup—but the meal and everything around her provided a nice distraction from what had happened today. This was much better than moping in her room.

When the band took a break, her debonair Jamaican singer made his way to her table. “I was pleased to see the pretty lady had returned.”

“I . . . needed a pleasant evening with some good music,” she informed him with a slightly strained smile.

“I hope you’re getting what you came for, then,” he said, the sentiment somehow holding an air of sensuality.

“Very much so,” she assured him.

He gazed down at her, looking speculative, maybe hopeful—until finally he spoke. “I’m soon done for the night, so . . . I wonder if the pretty lady would consent to a walk on the beach with me.”

The request caught Jenna off guard. It was one thing for a singer to flirt with someone in the audience, another to suggest more. Her first impulse was to decline—but . . . why? He’d been so respectful of her each time they’d met, and he’d made her feel attractive, and special. Why not let him do it some more? And . . . well, if she couldn’t even take a walk with a handsome man when invited, she
definitely
hadn’t gained any freedom here. She needed to find out she was wrong about that—she needed to prove to herself she
could
be more carefree than when she’d arrived.

“That sounds lovely,” she finally replied, and he smiled.

 

 

“What’s your name?” he asked as they stepped down into the soft sand. Both carried their shoes, and he had rolled up the cuffs of his tan pants.

“Jenna,” she said.

“Ah, I should have known—a pretty name for the pretty lady.” He cast a gentle smile in her direction. “I’m Andre.”

As they reached the shoreline, the tide washing up over their toes as they walked, she returned the smile, then asked politely, “So, do you do this often, Andre? Invite women here for walks on the beach?”