of your outfits now I know what’s hidden underneath. All you have to do is come and come and come…’
My current underwear goes up in flames at the very idea of him being impatient enough to get to me that he goes all caveman. He’s sufficiently evolved that he sought my consent first. I hold in a smile and offer a droll, ‘I get the picture.’
I’m woman enough, secure enough, to concede a little control to this man. After all, I hold the advantage in terms of age and life experience, and it’s not as if we’re entering into a relationship—this is about pleasure, and he’s proved he can deliver. And, while I’m not used to relinquishing control over my life—it’s why I’m successful—do I really care if he wants to pick up the travel tab?
‘Okay, but I want it known I’m happy with more…frugal methods of transportation than supercars and private jets.’ It’s not as if I need his money or run any risk of becoming a kept woman—I almost splutter a laugh at the absurdity of that thought. My days of trying to play wife ended in disaster.
He shakes his head. ‘Noted, but it’s my call. You can be frugal on your own time.’ He winks and I capitulate. For his own reasons, reasons he’s already hinted at, his generosity and extravagance are motivated by more than altruism, but is his request any more outlandish than my proposition?
‘And two?’
‘Two—you won’t like this one.’ He pauses.
My pulse hammers in my neck.
‘You have to loosen up a bit more. If this is about us having a good time, I’m going to want to see a whole lot more of last night’s Orla.’
My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean? It’s eleven a.m. I’m at a superyacht party. How loose do I have to be?’
His head drops back and he looks at the sky as if seeking inspiration. ‘Ah, Orla, you have so much to learn…’ He smiles, perfectly pleasant, his tone teasing. But then he turns serious. ‘You’re at a party, checking your phone and thinking about work, probably biding your time until you can get back to it.’
My shoulders tense in defence. I heard similar criticism a hundred times from my ex.
‘Actually, I was checking the time. I have other places I need to be, so let’s wrap this up. Are you joining me in Zurich or not?’ My patience is stretched to the limit.
Instead of answering, he sidles up close to my side and stretches his arm along the rail at my back. He leans in close, his mouth inches from mine, and my irritation evaporates in anticipation of being kissed.
‘No need to get defensive,’ he says, his voice low, seductive. ‘Last night was fun. Fun that could have continued into this morning.’
I watch his lips move, reminded that I had the best sex of my life.
His hand slides between my shoulder blades and he urges me closer. ‘Instead I woke up in an empty bed to find you working in the dark.’
My head spins, confused by the contradiction in the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s touching me, and the censure of his words. ‘I’m not going to apologise for working—’
‘Of course not, but when you’re not working hard, where’s the harm in playing hard?’ He looks over his shoulder to where the most enthusiastic partygoers are climbing from the pool or hot tub and diving into the sea from a diving platform. ‘Now, they look like they’re really letting loose, wouldn’t you say?’
I hear his subtext loud and clear, even as my body sways closer to his. He thinks I’m too straitlaced to let down my hair to that degree. He thinks because I work long hours, I don’t know how to enjoy myself. Adrenaline floods my blood, my pulse leaping with defiance.
He turns back to face me and I touch my lips to his in a barely-there caress as I say, ‘You’re right, that does look fun.’ I’m not wearing a bikini, but what better way to show Cam that not only can I be as outgoing as the next person, but also that I’m up for any challenge—in or out of the bedroom?
I hold his stare for one beat, two, my belly tight with anticipation, but I don’t kiss him as I want. Instead I step away and slip off my sandals.
His eyes grow wide and then wider still as I slide my Capri pants over my hips. I’m wearing a black cotton thong and a strapless bra—no more revealing than half the bikinis here.
‘What are you doing?’ Excitement and awe war in Cam’s eyes and I roll my shoulders back, the fact that I can impress him spurring me on to exhibit my best assets.
I scoop up my pants and drape them over his arm and then add my camisole top.
‘I’m letting loose.’ I press a kiss to his startled mouth, ignore the stares I’m attracting, stride to the swimming deck slowly and confidently and dive into the cool Mediterranean.
The water is warm after the initial shock. I break the surface and look up, expecting to see Cam’s impressed face looking down at me, but he too is on the deck, stripping off his T-shirt and shorts and then following my lead by executing a perfect dive.
I have a split second to register the jealousy that heats my blood at the way some of the women ogled his spectacular physique, but then he surfaces not far from me and swims my way with long, confident strokes.
We tread water face to face, both grinning.
‘Is that loose enough for you?’ I ask, splashing him in the face.
He grips my waist and presses a kiss to my mouth with a growl that promises retribution. ‘You’re fucking irresistible, Orla Hendricks. There are a couple of guys up there I thought I might have to resuscitate—this gorgeous body is much too hot for general consumption. I can see I’m going to have to be on hand to protect the male population from your hotness.’
The air leaves my lungs in an excited rush, the familiar taste of triumph. ‘Does that mean you’ll be joining me in Zurich?’ I mentally tsk at the flare of euphoria—a stupid, girlish reaction for which my libido is totally to blame.
He grins wider and then drags my body against his so I feel his hard cock pressed against my stomach. ‘As long as you accept my conditions and you’re happy to travel in style.’
‘My first-class ticket was style,’ I say, rubbing my lips against his, tasting salt and Cam.
‘You’ll like my style better; now let’s get going before I change my mind and buy the Abella just so I can watch you do that again.’ We break apart, laughing, and swim to the yacht’s stern, where a crew member is helpfully waiting with two fluffy white monogrammed towels and our neatly folded clothes.
I dress quickly, driven by the heat in Cam’s eyes, as if he’s already mentally undressing me, almost promising the minute we’re on board his private plane I’ll be crying out his name.
By the time we reach the marina, my pulse pounds with excitement. ‘What about your luggage, and what will you do with your car?’ I slip into the leather passenger seat, eager to get in the air before he can change his mind.
He dons his sunglasses, guns the engine and pulls out of the parking spot. ‘I have everything I need.’ He indicates the leather messenger bag on the back seat. ‘And I’m shipping the car to Sydney—I bought it for my cousin.’
I gape, my mind reasoning that we have sports cars in Australia. But by the time we get to Monaco’s private airfield and I see the cute little Cessna on the tarmac, I’m grinning—there is something to be said for Cam’s travel-in-style sense of hedonism.
Cam
MY EYES STING with the trickle of sweat, but I can do nothing about it while I’m braced on both hands over Orla, who is close to