What She Needs (8 page)

She found herself hoping desperately that it had all somehow been a dream. A really big, long, drawn-out, amazingly detailed dream. Maybe she’d just returned to her room after an awkward dinner with her decidedly very
male
guide and fallen asleep in a rum-punch-and-wine stupor, inventing the whole thing in her subconscious mind.

Of course, the dress tossed unceremoniously on the floor in a heap near the bed wasn’t a good sign—she was normally neater than that. And . . . ugh, she was a little sore.
There
. Which meant she hadn’t just fabricated wild sex with Brent Powers. Uh-oh.

And this also meant she’d agreed to something absolutely . . .
insane and unthinkable
in the afterglow of what had clearly been mind-altering sex.

Well, too bad. She’d just have to call Mr. Powers and tell him she’d come to her senses, that she’d been drunk last night, and that the deal was off, so if he was busy mapping out sexual adventures for her, he could stop, or use them for some
other
guest. One who’d actually come here for sex.

Just then, a soft knock echoed through the door, and before Jenna could even react, a male voice said, “I’m leaving your breakfast outside, Ms. Banks.”

Breakfast? Was room service every morning part of the deal? She didn’t recall reading that anywhere. Still, giving the server time to walk back down the hall, she pushed back the covers, tried to move slowly to keep her head from hurting any worse, and eased out of bed. Quietly opening the door in just a cami and panties, she peeked outside to make sure she was alone, then pulled a bamboo breakfast cart inside.

Atop it, a covered plate sat next to a vase of fresh-cut tropical flowers with a crisp white envelope tucked amid the blooms. First, she lifted the lid to find pancakes—which, again, she didn’t remember placing an order for, but they were exactly what she was in the mood to eat. Recovering the plate to keep it warm, she turned her attention to the envelope, plucking it up from the flowers. Her first name was written on the outside—and ripping into it, she discovered a handwritten letter on Hotel Erotique stationery.

Huh. Jenna just stared at the piece of paper, the breakfast practically forgotten.

He was proud of her. He’d said that last night, too, and she’d liked it. She still did—even without quite understanding why. Maybe she liked the idea of being a bolder sort of woman, more like Shannon. Although she didn’t think even Shannon would ever have done anything like what Brent Powers was suggesting.

Or was that
demanding
?

She knew he couldn’t make her, of course. Yet he’d very firmly taken the lead she’d given him in that weak moment when she’d admitted she wanted the decision removed from her hands. Meaning—
I want to have sex with you, but I can’t
bear
to want it or to
admit
I want it, so I want you to take over and make it happen
—which he’d definitely read loud and clear. What a hell of a thing to confess.

And so he thought that confession stretched into today, too, and the rest of the trip, did he? The truth was, something about the way he took charge—both last night and now—turned her on a little. She’d never liked bossy or controlling men, but . . . somehow this appealed.

Because it does exactly what you need it to? Because it takes the accountability away from you?
At least in a technical sense. And last night that seemed to have been good enough.

But today . . . well, to begin with, she wasn’t intoxicated.

And her body wasn’t humming with lust.

Well, not much anyway. Now that she was forced to think back on last night, and on Brent Powers and everything so hot and seductive about him, it was making her a little warm in the panties again. “Sheesh,” she scolded herself, “knock it off already.”

 

 

Brent walked along the shoreline in the morning sun, berating himself. He ran the place—he should know the damn rules. And the biggest? Never fuck your own guest.
Never
. Guides just couldn’t. It threatened to fracture the whole system.

And in all his years, he’d never broken that rule. Until now.

Of course, it helped that until now, he’d never been guide to a female guest. One he was attracted to at that. And one whose need he’d felt in an almost tangible way. Somehow, over the course of dinner, he’d begun to feel responsible for fixing everything that was less than perfect inside her when it came to her sexual self.

And he was pretty sure her sexual issues ran deeper than even her questionnaires implied. He strongly suspected she’d absorbed every bit of negative sexual reinforcement more profoundly than some people might, just because that’s the kind of person she was; she felt things intensely.

Not that seducing her had been part of his grand plan. Turned out it worked well enough in convincing her to go through with the fantasies, but nothing had pulled him up out of his chair and over to that railing other than pure desire. The entire time he’d sat across from her, he’d been admiring the way her dress hugged her breasts, the lush inner curves on display, her nipples jutting provocatively against the fabric. He’d found her blue eyes bright, pretty, expressive—and her lips had looked downright kissable. Not that he’d actually gotten around to that, kissing her—he’d been too busy touching her, persuading her, fucking her. He got a little hard again now, just remembering.

And now he’d agreed to take part in her fantasies. Shit.

Unfortunately, he really cared about giving the girl what she needed. And since she’d come here under false pretenses, not even knowing she needed anything . . . well, that still complicated things immensely. That was why, despite all these rules he was breaking and should probably
quit
breaking, he’d sent her that little breakfast greeting. Checking his watch, he suspected she’d gotten it a few minutes ago.

How was she reacting? Was he winning her over, convincing her not to go back on the agreement? Or was she packing her bags and heading toward the airstrip at this very moment?

And why the hell did he care so damn much?

God knew he’d fucked a lot of women here, taken part in a lot of fantasies. It was almost all he knew. His whole adult life had been spent helping people find sexual fulfillment, and through that, finding his own—along with professional fulfillment as well.

He’d never set out to be a sex expert, as Jenna had called him last night. No, he’d set out to be a garden-variety psychologist. But somewhere during his last year of undergrad, he’d realized his goals weren’t focused enough. He’d been unsure whom he even wanted to help—mainly just fascinated by learning about the human mind, behavior, and how it all worked together.

And then, as graduation approached, he’d lost what little focus he’d had to begin with. That’s when another psych major, his buddy Chris, had told him he knew where they could both get what he’d called “a dream job.” Brent had soon become a facilitator at the Hotel Erotique, which was what they called the employees who weren’t qualified to be guides but took part in the fantasies. Some facilitators actually had acting aspirations and enjoyed that facet of it, but
all
were required to have some sort of background or education in psychology and were carefully screened to ensure they possessed healthy, mature attitudes about sex. At the time, it had been a good distraction from some recent pain—and he’d discovered that finding people who shared viewpoints on sex similar to his had felt kind of like . . . coming home in a weird way.

As it turned out, Chris had worked here for only six months before meeting a girl on a weekend trip to Miami whom he’d soon married, and now he was a respected psychiatrist and happy father of three. Brent, on the other hand, had never left.

Sure, he’d gone home to his family in Pittsburgh on holidays, but that had lasted just a few years. Now he only sent gifts and actually spent Thanksgiving and Christmas here with friends who, again, had come to feel more like family to him over time.

A weird lifestyle? Sure, he supposed it probably seemed that way. But he knew his work here truly helped people lead more fulfilling lives, and he took pride in it—enough that after three years as a facilitator he’d taken an extended leave of absence to get his PhD, allowing him to return as a guide. And he’d become so enmeshed in the resort that when the older couple who’d originally opened the place—Charlie and Madge—were ready to retire, they’d kept twenty-five percent of the business for themselves, selling other equal shares to Brent and two of the other longtime guides, Mariel and Dave.

So what did Jenna Banks think of him—a guy who chose this as a way of life?

And . . . hell, why did he give a crap? He’d met literally thousands of women here and seldom thought about their views of him. He could only attribute this to the oddity of having to perform the more personal guide duties to a female guest.

The peculiar part was—designing a plan for her should have been harder than usual, but it was easier. Guys were more difficult to analyze, because they often had a hard time being open, even on a questionnaire. With his usual guests—who could be cocky jock types, forty-year-old virgins, newly divorced men, guys having midlife crises, you name it—it was always a challenge digging into their psyches and figuring out what was missing in their sex lives, why it was missing, how it affected them beyond sex, and many other questions. With Jenna, she’d kindly put it all out there on the forms she’d completed, making it startlingly clear-cut—and then she’d simplified matters further by showing him last night that she was in denial about it all.

And while it had been tricky to get her to agree to the fantasies while being in denial, now that she had, the rest seemed . . . incredibly simple. So simple that as he walked along the water’s edge, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, he devised her fantasies, one after the other, all in about twenty minutes. There’d be more details to work out as they went along, and as he saw how she responded to each—but his job here was plain: Take her from being a woman who desired sex but inside feared it was dirty and wrong . . . to being a woman fully in touch with her sexual self, fully at ease expressing her sexuality; a woman no one would ever call Little Mary Sunshine between the sheets.

“Get ready, Jenna,” he whispered to himself as the surf rushed up over his feet, “because the first thing we need to teach you is how to follow my instructions.” She’d already let him know last night that putting him in a position of control worked for her—so that was a central tool he’d use to get her through this process. Once she grew accustomed to obeying his commands, half the battle would be over—she’d soon be rising above her past and accepting her true sexual nature.

 

 

Jenna had found a quiet, secluded spot on the beach not far from her building where a few umbrellas stood lodged in the sand—padded lounge chairs dotted the area as well. She’d taken a book, a Civil War memoir that would normally hold her interest, but she found it hard to concentrate. God, she wished she could call Shannon and tell her all that had happened—but Shannon worked in a busy office where she couldn’t take personal calls, even one about the most freaky occurrence of her best friend’s life.

So she stretched out on the beach chair and struggled to stop replaying the unbelievable memories of last night over and over in her mind. She enjoyed the sun and sea air and peaceful views and tried to quit stressing over the unexpected turn her trip had so quickly taken. She attempted to focus on the pleasant sensation that her skin was beginning to tan beneath her coconut-scented sunscreen. But all she really kept thinking was,
I
still
can’t believe I had sex with that guy last night. Really
hot
sex.

When a waiter who introduced himself as Ryan arrived out of nowhere, descending the dunes behind her to ask if she wanted a drink, she nearly fainted. Since this expanse of beach lay nowhere near the pools, restaurants, or main public buildings, she’d thought she’d found an isolated area to be alone—and that had been the idea, to get away from the Hotel Erotique for a while.

“How did you even know I was here?” she asked, dumbfounded.

The waiter, a good-looking, muscular guy in his early twenties who had surely been a jock in high school, just smiled. “Any place you find an umbrella on the beach is an area where we provide service. As a guest here, your pleasure is our business.”