What She Needs (9 page)

She drew in her breath, slightly flustered. “Oh. Well then, how about one of your, um, erotic rum punches?”

“Coming up,” he said with a wink, then walked away.

And for the first time, Jenna wondered—did people who worked here in other capacities, such as waiters, ever take part in the fantasies? Like this guy? Or Josh, her waiter from yesterday? What about Gabe? She shivered a little, despite the heat of the Caribbean sun, just curious, just beginning to cautiously imagine what a Hotel Erotique fantasy might be like.

Of course, maybe a waiter here was only a waiter, and a . . . sexual partner was a sexual partner. But now, suddenly, she remembered the couple she’d seen on the beach last night—while Brent was inside her, touching her, making her come. Had the couple been living out a fantasy—of one, or the other, or both of them? Or were they just . . . fucking, as Brent would have called it, on their own, no fantasy attached?

And . . . what sorts of ways would Brent concoct to fix whatever problems he thought she had? What kinds of fantasies was he perhaps creating for her this very moment? To her distress, she got a little wet just thinking about
him
planning sex for
her.

Of course, it still irked her that he thought there was something
wrong
with her. Just because she wasn’t wild or kinky, he thought she’d been damaged by her parents’ prudish attitudes and those other negative incidents in her youth. But what was wrong with not being wild and kinky? She supposed in
his
world wild and kinky were normal, but in hers, normal was . . . in the eye of the beholder. And she thought she was normal.

Even if she tended to close her eyes through most of sex.

Even if she sometimes had a hard time admitting she
wanted
sex, even to a guy she wanted it
with
.

She was just . . . well, maybe a little more shy about sex than she’d been willing to confess to Shannon and Kevin—or even to herself, up to now.

She bit her lip, remembering an instance last night when Brent had been behind her, touching her, and she’d had the urge to reach back and touch him, too—his thigh, or his butt. But as soon as she’d thought about it, she couldn’t do it. Even though she’d been responding to his advances, she’d been unable to . . . advance things any further herself. She’d been unable to be bold—even when that simply meant reciprocating a little.

God, what if there
was
something wrong with her?

Well, even if there was, Brent Powers couldn’t fix it with a bunch of kinky sex in two short weeks.

So no matter how she looked at it, the smart thing was to write that note as planned. And she was going to do it early—she would return to the room by one, write and send the letter, then exit again quickly so that she’d be gone when his “further instructions” arrived. Even if she still remained curious about what exactly those instructions would be.

And then she gasped. Oh dear—what if they were instructions she might actually
like
? Maybe he’d plan some sort of softer, gentler sex—something romantic or beachy perhaps. Or even a little
wilder
and beachy, like the naked couple last night. Either way, what if it turned out to be a fantasy she might honestly concoct on her own, as he’d said was often the case?

She couldn’t deny having enjoyed last night—although
enjoyed
was a mild way to put it. She’d never had sex like that before, sex so utterly steamy and mind-numbing. And what she’d admitted afterward was true—the stark intimacy had made her comfortable with him. And he was undeniably a sex god in the flesh—the most gorgeous man to ever look her way. So . . . maybe the whole reason she’d begun entertaining the notion of going through with the fantasies was simply . . . because she wanted to be with him again. And that had seemed like the only way.

Well, if that was the case, all the more reason to write that note and put an end to this once and for all. She couldn’t have sex with God knew how many people just because she might have gotten a little attached to Brent Powers last night. The very idea sounded insanely . . . destructive. And this just proved her point anyway—she wasn’t cut out for casual sex; she couldn’t
take
it casually.

So even if she might risk losing out on some perfect beach fantasy with her perfect, hunky fantasy guy—too bad. No more sex for her at the Hotel Erotique.

She’d just reopened her book, finally ready to resume being normal Jenna, when her waiter returned, colorful umbrella drink in hand.

“Here you go,” he said with a grin.

Before she could take it from him, a large drop of moisture dripped from the glass to plop wetly on the exposed ridge of her breast, making her flinch from the cold.

“Oops, sorry.”

“No biggie,” she assured Ryan, taking the drink from him. “I was kind of hot anyway.”

“You can say that again,” he replied with another sexy wink. “Anything else you need? Just say the word and I’m your guy.”

She swallowed. At the compliment and that word again—
need
. It was everywhere lately, it seemed.
Was
there anything else she needed?

A strange, reckless part of her was almost tempted to ask him if he ever took part in guests’ fantasies—but then she came back to her senses, despite the wetness now also surging between her thighs. “I’m good for now, thanks,” she finally replied.

And as he walked away, she promised herself she’d
stay
good. She really
didn’t
need anything here, no matter what Brent Powers said.

 

 

After a light lunch on the beach—courtesy of cute jock waiter Ryan—Jenna made her way back to her lavish room ahead of her self-imposed one o’clock deadline. She spent the walk back composing her note to Brent in her head and keeping an eye out for any random sexual activity she might spot from the path along the way. She saw nothing, but as usual, her chest still tightened and something in her sizzled when she wondered what sorts of naughty activities might be taking place all around her.

She dug her room key from her straw beach bag, thinking:
All right, get in the room, find some paper, write the letter, then head back to the beach—dropping the note at the front desk on the way, with strict instructions that it must be delivered to Brent Powers immediately.

Then she pushed through the door and—oh, hell. Damn it. He’d already been here. Or
someone
had anyway—and not just the maid. A pink envelope sat atop the freshly made bed, and next to it rested a small pink shopping bag with pink tissue paper billowing up from inside.

Of course, she could just ignore that and write her letter as planned.

But curiosity quickly got the best of her. If the letter and bag contained information about the first fantasy he’d designed for her, how could she not at least look? Because how often did she end up at a sex resort, of all places? Even if she wasn’t into it, it still drew her attention in that morbid fashion, like a wreck on the highway: She expected to be horrified by what she saw, but still she had to peek. And
unlike
a wreck on the highway, this would actually serve a purpose, surely shoring up her decision not to ride the Hotel Erotique merry-go-round.

Sliding her finger under the pink envelope flap, she drew out a card of white vellum printed in formal black script, like a wedding invitation. Only this was a different sort of invitation altogether.

Jenna would have smiled about him choosing the topic of one of her books as her safeword if she hadn’t been so eager to reach into the bag and see exactly what kind of lingerie Brent had selected for her. And—oh my!—she couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised to find a sexy yet utterly classy white lace bra and thong set. It was exactly the sort of thing she would buy if planning a romantic evening that might lead to the bedroom.

So . . . wow. Did this change things? Her decision? Because if Brent had indeed designed some sort of simple, sexy, white-lace fantasy for her, then . . . hmm, that might be nice. She wouldn’t have thought so yesterday, but given that she’d already had sex with him and that it had been freaking
amazing
. . . would it be so awful to indulge once more?

Sure, it meant risking a deeper attachment to a guy with whom she had nothing in common and certainly no hope for a future, but . . . maybe this would be good for her. Maybe the whole experience
would
help her get better at casual sex. Not the kind he surely had planned for
later
in her stay, but . . . maybe the kind Kevin and Shannon had been pushing her toward. In one sense, it still sounded unappealing, but in another . . . well, last night had proven, if nothing else, that casual sex wouldn’t kill her. And in reality, it hadn’t even left her suffering any real regrets.

Still holding the lacy bra in her hand, she checked the tag: 34C. Yep, right size. Just like the right wine and the right chicken.

And, of course, if she went through with the sex tonight, Brent would surely be pissed when she announced it was the last time after all, and he’d try to cajole her into more—but the decision would remain hers. She could do what she wanted here—take none of her prize, or part of it. And if she desired one more—and only one more—night of hot, knee-weakening passion with the sex doctor himself, then that’s what she would have.

“Wow,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing with heat. Because apparently she was doing this—entering into one of the fantasies. She’d never imagined she could be so bold, and despite lingering fears, she found herself peering down at the lace in her hands with a mischievous smile.

Now, to get ready for her white-lace evening. Dropping the bra on the bed, she stripped off her bikini on the way to the spacious bathroom. Stepping inside, she reached to turn on the water in the marble shower—then spotted some items on the wide countertop. Again, not things the maid had left—she’d been so enraptured by the lingerie and her decision that she’d completely forgotten more instructions waited here.

She was unsettled
enough
to see a feminine-looking can of shaving cream and two pink disposable razors, but she nearly fainted when she picked up the card propped next to them and read the words printed in more fancy black script:

Oh boy. Feeling light-headed, she pressed a palm to the sink top for balance and tried to catch her breath. She knew guys liked that. She knew Shannon did it for Kevin—although she got the area waxed instead, making Jenna cringe every time she thought about such pain. But she’d certainly never done it herself. No guy she’d ever dated had asked her to. And why
else
would a woman do that?

She saw several choices before her. She could just ignore this part. Or she could change her mind altogether and refuse the fantasy.

Or she could shave.

She bit her lip, staring down at the words on the card again.

Then she drew in a deep breath. What would be the harm? It was hair removal, not amputation. It would grow back. And if Brent was into the bare look, well . . . what did she care? She
wanted
to excite him again, didn’t she?

And thus began the process, which, to her vast shock, succeeded in arousing her as she worked.

Then again, didn’t
everything
arouse her here? From the waiters to the rum punch, from the co-pilot to her bikini—so what did it matter if revealing a little more of her own skin turned her on?