[English] Stranded With A Billionaire

Stranded With a Billionaire
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Part of her hoped they would be rescued very quickly, and part of her hoped that rescuers took their sweet, sweet time so she’d be forced to be around this delicious, half-naked man for quite a little while.

Something sparkled in one of the windows, and Brontë wandered over, her curiosity getting the better of her. One of the glass cases had jewelry in it—she supposed it was for the kind of tourist who wouldn’t be satisfied with a T-shirt or a postcard. The necklaces in the window were pretty enough, but one in particular caught her eye. It was a string of diamonds that, when worn, would spill delicately over the wearer’s neck as if on an invisible chain. It had a dark gemstone in the center that she couldn’t make out and matching earrings.

“Pretty stuff,” Brontë commented as Logan moved to her side with the torch.

“You like that?” he asked.

She grinned up at him. “What woman wouldn’t? It’s really gorgeous, but it probably costs an arm and a leg.”

“Want me to loot it for you?”

Her stomach dropped. She shook her head, taking a step backward. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“It’s expensive, Logan. Don’t be ridiculous.”

He snorted. “The diamonds probably aren’t quality and I doubt that it’s worth the markup, but if you want it, I’ll get it for you.”

“No. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Brontë, there’s no one here. And I’m the . . . manager.” He seemed to pause on the word, as if it were unfamiliar.

“I don’t want it, Logan,” she warned him, feeling anxious. “Looting it is wrong, and you’d be crazy to risk being fired over something like that.”

He laughed. “They can’t fire me, but suit yourself.”

To her relief, he let it drop, and Brontë moved carefully away from the jewelry counter. In her experience, expensive gifts were inevitably the result of lies and betrayal. It made her think of her childhood, and the long weeks during which her father—a traveling salesman—had been gone, and her mother’s anxious waiting for him to return. He’d roll back into town after weeks away, with quickly waved-away excuses and a shower of presents for his wife and daughter. Her dreamy mother had always been flattered by the gifts of jewelry and excited to see her husband return home.

Now, as an adult, Brontë knew better. She knew that her father’s absences hadn’t been due to business as much as they’d been to see another woman, a girlfriend on the side. The presents he’d brought home were apologies more than gifts. She’d learned not to trust impulsive presents, because in Brontë’s eyes they were a way of hiding the truth, a distraction. And for some reason she didn’t want to put Logan into the same category as her smiling, lying father.

They hauled a bag of candy, the cooler of water, and a few other bags of miscellaneous supplies back to the stairwell that they’d established as their base of operations, since it was currently the only place they’d found that was above water. Once back at the stairwell, Brontë grabbed a water bottle, climbed a few steps, and sat drinking her fill. When Logan sat next to her, she passed the water bottle to him, holding the torch while he drank.

It sputtered and dropped sparks as she watched it. “How long do you think this will last?”

“Not long. We need to find something better.”

“We should check the rest of the resort, too. I’d hate to think of someone else trapped in the elevators, waiting for rescue.” She chewed her lip, thinking. She felt weak and tired, but someone still stuck in an elevator would feel much, much worse, and she didn’t want anyone dying while she sat a short distance away.

He nodded, finishing off the water bottle.

“Should we check the upper floors?”

“I’m not sure it’s wise,” Logan told her. “You saw how badly the roof was destroyed in the lobby. We don’t know that the other floors aren’t on the verge of collapse. We can take a look from outside tomorrow and decide then.”

“All right,” she agreed, then winced as her stomach growled. “I guess we should crack open those chocolate bars?”

“Or we could head to the kitchens,” he told her with a sideways glance. “See if there’s anything worth saving now that the power’s been off for a while.”

“Real food? Sign me up.” She got to her feet, feeling a burst of energy at the thought.

There were two kitchens in the hotel, one attached to each restaurant. The first one smelled strongly of dead fish and the roof looked as if it had fallen in, so they went to check the other instead. The second restaurant wasn’t nearly as destroyed, but the kitchen had slim pickings. The enormous refrigerators were full of marinating meat that would probably spoil fast. There was a walk-in freezer, and they opened it, both groaning with pleasure as the cool air puffed out and brushed over their heated skin.

“Still cold,” Logan told her, and gestured for Brontë to follow him in. “Might be cold for a bit longer if we keep the door closed.”

The freezer was full of dinner items—frozen chicken, frozen fish, and myriad packages of sides and desserts waiting to be prepared.

“We should eat some of this,” she told him. “Can we build a fire somewhere and cook some?”

“If the stove doesn’t work, yeah. Pick what you want to eat.”

They grabbed a few packages of chicken from the freezer and a large can of peaches from the pantry, and set about making dinner. Logan tested the stoves, and one of the gas ranges was working. They grabbed a skillet and began to cook the chicken, not talking. While they waited, Brontë found a can opener, opened the peaches, and offered Logan a fork.

He took it from her and speared a peach, and then quickly lifted it to his mouth and popped the dripping slice in.

Her stomach growled at the sight, and she quickly stuck her fork into a peach slice, lifting it to her mouth, her hand cupped underneath to catch the juices. The first bite was heaven—a sweet, sugary rush flooded her mouth, and the taste of peaches was overwhelming to her starved senses. She licked her fingers and leaned back against the counter. “I think that was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”

“We’ve had our minds on other things.”

They savored the can of peaches while waiting on the chicken. Though Logan’s movements were precise, Brontë found herself ravenously wolfing them down. She didn’t care that her hands were sticky or that they were a little too sugary-sweet. It was food, and it was delicious.

Once they got to the bottom of the can, she sighed sadly. “I guess it’d be bad manners to lick it, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m sure there are other cans.”

“Yes, but this one is right here,” she pointed out with a grin.

He watched her for a moment and then leaned forward. His fingers reached for her cheek. “You have some juice in the corner of your mouth.”

Automatically, she leaned forward.

Logan’s fingers brushed against the corner of her lips. At the light contact, Brontë immediately froze. Her gaze went to his face, and she watched him with a vibrating tension that had suddenly filled her body. She was intensely aware of him all of a sudden, his large presence next to her on the floor, their shoulders barely touching, their legs only inches apart. She was still in her bra and panties.

And he was leaning in.

As she sat there, frozen, his thumb caressed her lower lip. His gaze was on her mouth, and she sucked in a breath at the electric tension that filled the room. He seemed . . . fascinated by her.

Too soon, Logan pulled his thumb away and then licked it, as if tasting her . . . or the peaches.

She could feel the flush cross her face even as her heart sped up. Brontë wasn’t quite sure what to make of that tender, intimate action. He’d tasted her.

***

While she watched the cooking food, Logan searched the other elevators and floors for people. No dice – they were the only two that had been trapped.

He’d also found flashlights in a storage closet, which helped immensely in exploring the dark hotel.

Soon enough, they were seated back in the small kitchen. Dinner was ready, and the ***ual tension over the peaches was forgotten as they devoured the chicken. Silence fell over the kitchen as they ate their fill. Logan glanced at Brontë from time to time as he ate. There was something so open and trusting about her wide eyes that he found himself instantly responding every time she turned to him with that trusting look. Most women who ran in his circles seemed to be sly and conniving, quietly pricing jewelry in their heads or commenting on the designer labels another woman was wearing. Everything seemed to be a competition, right down to who could snare the richest man.

It was that sort of attitude that turned his stomach, especially after he’d been burned by it. He’d trusted Danica, and she had tried to play him for a fool. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since. No woman could be trusted not to be coldly calculating when it came to his bank account. They...

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And yet he found himself responding to Brontë’s cheerful smiles. To the way her hand seemed to automatically reach for his now. The way she’d curled up against him. Her outrageous—yet apropos—quotes she seemed to pull from out of nowhere.

And she thought he was a manager. A white-collar worker making a menial salary—well, menial to him. She hadn’t cared. Her demeanor hadn’t changed when he’d told her what he did for a living, and she trusted him. Liked him, even. He’d noticed the slight tremble of her body when he’d been unable to resist reaching out and brushing his thumb over her soft lower lip.

Her eyes had gone soft; her breathing had sped up. She hadn’t turned away, either.

She liked Logan the manager. She couldn’t be grubbing for his fortune, because she didn’t realize he had one. He could flirt with her like any normal man.

Except he wasn’t much of a flirt. When your bank account was as big as his, you didn’t have to try. All you had to do was look at a woman and suggest she take her clothes off, and she’d be naked at your feet.

It wasn’t in his nature to be coy and teasing. Lean over and kiss the hell out of her? Yes. Stage a ruthless takeover? Absolutely. But flirt and tease? Not in his repertoire.

Logan frowned to himself, considering this as he finished off the last bite of chicken. He hadn’t come to the island to find a woman. If it hadn’t been for the hurricane, this would have been the last thought on his mind. But with Brontë here, warm and pleasant next to him, the two of them completely isolated from the rest of mankind? He wanted to touch her. To feel her melt beneath his touch.

Brontë was definitely attractive. Not his normal type—he went for the more polished, poised sort. Models, ballerinas, and the occasional actress. Women who were aggressive and knew what they wanted. Brontë was a waitress who hadn’t found a permanent job since college. But her cheerful demeanor and openness had won him over at once.

The way she filled out those panties helped, too.

He’d have to proceed carefully. Not too aggressively, or she might be frightened away by his interest. But strongly and surely enough that she could not mistake his intent.

“You’re frowning,” she said quietly. “Everything okay?”

“Just thinking.”

When he offered no more than that, she delicately licked her thumb in a movement that fascinated him and made his **** hard. “Thinking that we need more chicken?”

Logan shook his head. “Thinking about rescue,” he lied. They had food, they had shelter, and he had an ironclad insurance policy on this place that would cover repairs. Rescue could wait a bit longer. “It might be days before anyone finds us.”

She nodded and gave him a small shrug before reaching for a water bottle, not distressed by this news. “I’m thinking we’ll just be really close friends by the end of this.”

Friends, or more if he had his way. But he gave a quick nod of agreement. “We don’t know enough about each other to be friends,” he said, letting the statement hang in the air to see if she’d take the bait.

Brontë pulled her knees up, exposing the backs of her creamy thighs to his gaze. “I guess we could learn, then, couldn’t we?”

“We could.”

She tilted her head and regarded him. “So how long have you lived here on the island?”

Ah. Damn. One of many lies. “A year,” he told her tersely.

“What made you decide to take a job here? Did you live on the island?”

“No. A friend . . . referred me to the owner.” Not a lie, not really. “I came here when I got the job.”

“Where did you move from?”

“New York City.” Seemed a harmless enough truth. Even though he was a billionaire, it wasn’t as if his name was splashed all over entertainment magazines, and he was in the news only when he made a sizable charity donation. She’d have no idea who he was. “Where are you from?”

“The Midwest. Kansas City. Have you ever been there?”

“Once or twice. For business.”

“You’ve got one up on me, then. I’ve never been to New York City.”

“You should go sometime. I’ll show you around.” Direct and to the point, and there would be no mistaking his interest.

She smiled softly. “I’d like that. Have you been to many shows? Visited the Statue of Liberty?”

“No and no.” He avoided the shows because he didn’t like singing. And he saw the Statue when he looked out the window every day. No need to go visit it.

“That’s a shame,” she told him, hugging her legs and rocking a little. “If I went to New York, I’d want to visit it. Go get my picture taken and do all the touristy things.”

“You and a million other tourists.”

“True. I guess it’s different when you’re there. In Kansas City, those tourists just end up here at Seaturtle Cay,” she joked. “Courtesy of 99.9 Pop Fever.”

“Pop Fever?”

“Radio station. I won a trip. It’s a little out of my price range to go anywhere normally. Too busy making ends meet and all that.”

For this trip? He’d thought Seaturtle Cay was a budget hotel. That was one reason he’d taken over the place—to turn it into a luxury Bahamian resort. “Out of your price range?”

She sighed in disappointment, as if she were disgusted with herself. “Remember that I’m a waitress. Pretty much everything is out of my price range.”

“You’re smart. You can do something other than waitressing.”

She laughed. “Actually, I like the waitressing. I like working with people. But the pay stinks. It covers the bills, but just barely. That’s why I’d been really hoping to enjoy this trip. It’s the first vacation I’ve had in two years, since I graduated.”

“I don’t get away for vacation much, either,” he told her, trying to level the playing field. “Isn’t every day here like a vacation, though? Sun and sand and palm trees—”

“And hurricanes.”

She laughed again. “True. Is this your first one?”

He blanked out. Was it the first one Seaturtle Cay had been hit by? Or simply the latest in a long string of storms? “Every one of them feels like the first one,” he said, avoiding the question.

“I suppose that’s true enough.” She grimaced. “I still can’t believe Sharon left without me. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”

“Your roommate?”

She nodded. “She sent me up to her room to go look for her passport that she’d lost. That was how I got stuck in the elevator. I never found it, so I assume she still had it and was able to get off the island.” Brontë looked a bit glum at the thought. “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“Then I’ll have to thank her,” he said, laying his cards on the table. “If I had to be stranded in a hurricane, I’m glad it’s with you.”

Her lips parted in surprise at his bold statement, and she flushed in the firelight, ducking her head a little. “I . . . thank you. That’s very sweet.”

“I’m not a sweet man.” Most people referred to him as a cold bastard, especially when it came to business dealings. Danica had called him a ruthless jerk the last time she’d seen him, and he hadn’t disagreed with her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brontë said in a soft voice. “You’ve been nice to me.”

“That’s because I like you. Most aren’t so lucky. I barely tolerate almost everyone.”

She laughed as if he’d said something truly funny. “Then I’m glad you like me.” She nudged him with her shoulder again in that friendly way. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck here with me.”

“No, I’m saying it because you’re smart, and funny, and beautiful. Being stranded with you has nothing to do with it.”

She laughed again, but the sound was nervous, and she glanced away. “I imagine work keeps you busy,” she said after a moment. “This place is enormous.”

He nodded, not adding anything to that.

She yawned, hiding it behind her hand, and then pulled her legs close again. “Do you have a big family, Logan?”

“No,” he said in a curt voice. He most definitely did not want to talk about family. “Are you tired?”

“Drained, really.” She stifled another yawn and then grinned. “Okay, maybe a bit tired. Not looking forward to getting back to that stairwell, though. It’s not exactly the height of comfort.”

“I have some ideas of how we can fix that,” he told her, and got to his feet. He extended a hand toward her again.

She placed hers in his and then glanced at the stack of dirty dishes and garbage. “Shouldn’t we do something about that?”

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He reached over and raked the mess into a nearby sink with one arm. “Taken care of.”

She laughed, and he felt the sudden urge to kiss her. Her joyfulness was so pleasant. She was the happiest person he’d ever met, which both disturbed and captivated him.

But he didn’t give in to his urge to kiss her. He didn’t know whether she’d misinterpret his actions if he kissed her right before they went to bed. Though, hell, it wouldn’t be misinterpretation: He planned on getting Brontë into his bed. But he wanted her to join him there because she wanted to be with him, not because he was pressuring her. He’d made his interest clear at this point—it was time for her to take the lead.

They headed back to the stairwell, Brontë’s steps dragging with fatigue. He was tired, too, but not as much as she seemed to be. He made her wait while he climbed the stairs to the second floor and darted into the first room. It seemed to be untouched, though the room next to it had been hit hard. He didn’t trust the stability of the second floor, though, so this would be his first and last venture there. But he was able to haul a mattress and two pillows down to the stairway and slide them down to the landing that he and Brontë called home.

With a bed and more pillows, she sighed happily and curled up in the bed, fast asleep before he’d even sat down. He lay down on the mattress and was pleased when she immediately rolled over and nestled against him, making a content sound in her throat as she rested her hand on his chest.

Chapter Four

Logan awoke with a raging hard-on and with Brontë’s tangled hair across his chest. Her legs were twined with his, and she made soft little noises in her throat as she slept. It would have been so easy to roll her over and show her just how ***y and desirable he found her. To kiss her and persuade her into doing what he wanted.

But he remembered her nervous laugh when he’d told her she was beautiful, and he paused. Was she just humoring him? Maybe Brontë didn’t appreciate the attentions of a manager after all. Damn it. His **** was just going to have to wait.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, willing his body to relax. It took a few minutes before he was back under control. It was time for them to get up and face the day. They’d slept long enough, and lying in bed next to her made him want to do things that didn’t involve sleeping. He gently shook Brontë. “Wake up.”

She jerked away, her hair falling in her face as she bolted upright. “Huh? What?”

“Calm down,” he told her. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Brontë rubbed a hand over her eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

“My phone’s dead. Water must have gotten into it.”

She folded her legs under her and pulled out her phone. It lit up for a minute, highlighting her face in the darkness, and then winked out. “Damn it. There goes my battery. It said it’s eleven a.m., though.”

“We should head down to the kitchens and grab lunch, then.”

They headed down to a quick meal of fresh fruit left on the countertop and some wrapped crackers. It wasn’t glamorous, but the fridge was starting to smell and even the interior of the freezer was getting too close to room temperature for comfort. Neither of them wanted to risk getting sick from bad food.

Brontë suggested they check the store for any other food items, and then they headed back in that direction since there was nothing else to do with the day. As they walked,though, Brontë stopped in her tracks and stared out through the broken glass of the lobby windows.

Logan followed her gaze. The sun was shining; the sky was blue. A breeze rippled into the building.

“This is the first day it hasn’t rained since I got here,” Brontë exclaimed, moving forward. Her aqua shoes crunched on the broken glass at their feet, and he noticed that the standing water in the lobby had receded, too. She peered outside and then looked back at him. “Should we check out the beach?”

He shrugged. He’d just as soon go back to the stairwell and wait for rescue, but she seemed to want to explore. “If you like.”

Her face brightened. “I would. Do you think the beach is trashed, too?”

“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?” And he stepped forward through the broken glass, gesturing for her to follow him.

She did, and they made their way out into the front of the resort, squinting at the bright sun after days of low light. He studied Brontë as she picked her way across the sand-covered sidewalk toward him. In daylight, she was even more beautiful—not in a tra***ional way. Her hair was wild with tangles and blew around her head like a messy halo, and her face was round, without the well-defined cheekbones of the models he normally dated. But her eyes were sparkling and her skin was lovely and she smiled up at the sunlight as if it were the best thing ever, and he thought she was stunning.

“It really did a number on this place, didn’t it?” She raised a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun and glanced back at the resort. More than half of the windows were blown out, and it looked like one wing of the building had collapsed. He didn’t want to think about how much that would cost in repairs. Palm trees that had lined the driveway had been uprooted and fallen over. One had toppled into one of the windows on the second floor. A car lay on its side in the distance, and junk from inside the hotel was strewn across the lawn. A fine layer of sand covered the concrete, gritty under their shoes.

“Come on,” he told Brontë. “Let’s see what the beach looks like.”

They crested a dune, and there was the ocean spread out before them. Rippling and blue and endless, the thin white line of the beach the only thing separating them from it. Birds flew overhead. There was driftwood everywhere, floating in the water, lining the edge of the surf, and piled up on the sand, but nothing could ruin the sight of that beautiful blue water.

At his side, Brontë gasped, her hand going to his upper arm. “It’s gorgeous.”

It was, though the same could’ve been said for his companion. He enjoyed her unbridled enthusiasm, too. They slid down the dune and moved toward the lapping waves. At his side, Brontë sighed wistfully.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking that it figures that we have nice beach weather after my vacation has already been ruined. I would have loved to spend a few days just enjoying the sun and sand.”

He waved a hand at the empty beach. “What’s stopping you?”

Her face lit up, then fell again. “Shouldn’t we be working on making shelter or some other survival sorts of things?”

“We have food. We have shelter. All we need to do is wait to be rescued. If it’ll make you feel better, we can make an SOS on the sand.”

She stepped forward into the surf, letting it wash over her ankles, and her eyes closed in pure bliss. She tilted her head back, letting her tangled hair whip in the breeze.

He didn’t feel the same urge to step into the surf that she did, but his gaze followed her intently as she soaked up the sunshine and enjoyed the water.

Her eyes opened after a minute. “Should we go back and get swimsuits?”

“Why?”

Brontë grinned at him. “To swim?”

Logan picked up a piece of driftwood heading in her direction and tossed it away. He didn’t see the point in going back to the hotel just for a change of clothing. “There’s no one here but me, Brontë.”

She bit her lip, studying him for a moment. “You’re right.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for courage, and then pulled off her bra. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

Damn. He’d just been suggesting that she could swim in her underwear, not that they should skinny-dip. Of course, now that she was taking the initiative, would he correct her on that?

Hell, no. Carpe diem, he told himself, and then grinned. Brontë would have approved of the thought.

***

This was the bravest, stupidest thing Brontë had ever done. She tossed her bra onto the sand, her heart pounding in her breast, and didn’t look at Logan as she shucked her panties and kicked off her water shoes. Instead, she concentrated on the water, as if standing naked on the beach were something she did every single flipping day.

The truth was, this was an experiment. And it would either go really well or really badly.

But she’d seen him looking at her. And he wasn’t giving her the looks that an uninterested man would give her. The looks he gave her were hot, scorching with interest. As if he were waiting for something to happen before making his move. What that would be, she had no idea.

And she was getting tired of waiting for him. After he’d caressed her lip the night before as they ate, she’d been unable to think about anything but kissing Logan. Sleeping with Logan. Sharing this remote, tropical paradise with Logan and having no one around but the two of them. Granted, a building destroyed by a hurricane wasn’t the most romantic setting, but Logan was gorgeous and attentive, and it had been a while since she’d been seeing anyone seriously, so why not grab the bull by the horns?

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Standing on the beach, totally naked, she put her hands on her hips and tried to look at this in a positive way. Even if he thought she was a crazy woman, the sun felt warm on her skin, and she was going to enjoy the ocean for today at least. She headed into the surf up to her knees and reached down for a handful of water. It felt colder than she’d thought it would be, and she shivered a little, rubbing her arms.

Something splashed past her. Brontë froze in place, then glanced over just in time to see a pair of white buttocks disappear into the water as Logan made a shallow dive into the surf in a short distance away.

Damn it! He’d been naked, and she’d missed it? She resisted the urge to slap the water in frustration, moving deeper and then sinking into the water to cover her own nu***y. He’d accepted her challenge, though. That was a good thing, though she had no idea what to do now that he had. Flirting really should not be this hard, Brontë, she told herself.

Logan surfaced a short distance away, flung his wet hair back, and then stood in the water. She noticed the surf went only to his waist. Correction—more like his hips. Low, low on his hips, his privates barely covered by the ripples of the waves.

Her cheeks heated as she couldn’t help but look over at him. Okay, the man definitely had a good body. He was toned and fit all over, his body slightly tanned as if he enjoyed the sun, but not too much. There was a tattoo of something on his biceps that she couldn’t make out from this distance. He didn’t seem like the type to get inked. He was a serious, almost stern sort of man, not a party boy who would get a tat when he was out with his buddies.

Intriguing. That didn’t fit the picture she had in her mind of Logan Hawkings, responsible manager. He’d seemed a little stuffier in her mind, but that tattoo added a new angle. She wasn’t quite sure who he was, and she liked that.

Brontë moved out a bit farther in the water, feeling extremely exposed without even a swimsuit on. The water brushed against her skin with gentle, silky caresses, and the sunlight touched her everywhere. It was a unique experience, this skinny-dipping thing. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it, though she’d gotten to see Logan’s ass, so that was a plus.

His gaze swung to her, and he began to move slowly toward her through the water. Brontë forced herself to hold her ground, instead of shying away like a nervous virgin. “Well, you’re definitely not a man who can resist a challenge,” she told him.

Logan grinned in her direction, and she sucked in a breath. The man was ***y when he was stern, but when he smiled? God. She could have sworn her girl parts had just given a squeal of delight in response.

He didn’t stop until he was right next to her. It was still only waist-deep, and if she stayed crouched down, she’d be more or less at eye level with his ****. Not exactly a power position. Of course, standing meant she’d show him her breasts, but hadn’t he already seen them when she’d stripped down on the beach?

Brontë steeled her courage and got to her feet, water cascading off of her body. She gave him a challenging look as if daring him to say something.

But he didn’t. He only stepped closer, his somber gaze intent on her face. He reached out to her, cupped the side of her neck, and she felt him subtly draw her toward him. She was helpless to pull away, fascinated by those dark eyes, and when the tips of her breasts brushed against his bare, wet chest, she gasped.

“For what it’s worth,” he said in a low, husky voice, “My suggestion was going to be that we swim in our underwear.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, her gaze dropping to the mouth that was mere inches away from her own. “I wasn’t sure—”

His mouth lowered on hers. She hadn’t expected to be kissed with such blatant intensity. He pulled her against him, his wet flesh brushing against hers, and she felt the long heat of his **** against her belly even as they kissed, letting her know exactly what he thought of the situation. Logan’s mouth was firm against her own, and he tasted sweet, like fruit. His tongue flicked against the seam of her mouth, urging her to open for him, and she was helpless to resist.

A low mew escaped her when his tongue plunged into her mouth, turning the kiss from an exploration into decadent conquering. It stroked against her own, confident, assertive, and bold.

Each thrust of his tongue told her what he’d be like in a relationship, in bed. He’d take control of her body and make her hum with desire. If she encouraged him even a little, he’d rise to the occasion. He wasn’t the type that would take no for an answer.

And she really didn’t want to say no at the moment.

He tasted so good. Even more than that, he felt good against her, sun-warmed and wet and hard. The waves caressed at their waists while Logan continued to kiss her as if nothing else in the world mattered, and her toes curled in response, desire surging deep inside her.

All he’d done was kiss her, but she felt keenly aware of every bit of his skin pressing against her own: her nipples brushing against the fine hairs of his chest, the press of his **** at her belly, his fingers on her neck as he held her close, his thumb stroking her jaw. His lips caressing her own. His tongue thrusting wickedly, as if suggesting much more than just a kiss.

After what seemed like an eternity, Logan pulled away, and Brontë staggered, her knees suddenly weak and useless. His hand went to her elbow to steady her, and he pulled her body against his.

She gazed down at his biceps, at the mysterious tattoo. It was . . . well, it was rather hideous. The circular blob turned out to be a skull with a twisted two-dollar bill sticking out of the eye sockets. That was not what she’d expected to see on someone like Logan.

He leaned in for one more soft kiss, his tongue grazing her lips and distracting her from her study of his tattoo. “Was that what you wanted?”

That was a rather arrogant question. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her mind. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted until just now, actually.”

“And now?”

“Now I think I’m rather glad we’re alone on the beach,” she told him breathlessly.

He grinned, his expression confident and self-assured, and leaned in for another kiss.

Just then, a wave rose up. It slapped the two of them sideways, splashing them in the face and covering them with tendrils of seaweed.

They sputtered, breaking apart, and Brontë was hit with a fit of giggles as Logan pulled a handful of seaweed off his shoulder and flung it away from him in disgust. Logan looked over at her with a sour expression. “More nervous laughter?”

“No, this time I’m totally laughing at you,” she said, and yelped when he leapt to dunk her.

The spell was broken, and they started splashing each other and riding the waves, or simply floating in the water. It was nice to just play and relax, and even when she dunked Logan, it didn’t turn ***ual again.

It was as if a question had been answered, and now Logan was content to wait for the right moment. Which made her feel a bit like prey being stalked by a predator. A very masculine, ***y predator that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to escape. She rather liked being his prey, and what did that say about her?

***

For the first time since going on vacation, Brontë spent a day in the sun and enjoyed every moment of it. She played in the waves, lay out on the sand, hunted for seashells, and laughed her ass off when Logan built the sorriest looking sand castle ever. They played like children all afternoon, right down to making sand angels and wrestling in the water.

Once out of the water, Brontë put her bra and boy shorts back on, not quite brave enough to run around stark naked. To her relief, Logan followed her lead, and they walked up and down the beach a few times examining debris floating in the water and talking. They were covered in sand and their underwear was more wet than dry, but they didn’t care.

Eventually, they grew tired of frolicking in the water, and Logan suggested they make the SOS signal.

“I suppose we should,” Brontë said mournfully, looking at the setting sun. She didn’t want the day to end.

He must have noticed her reluctance, because he regarded her for a long moment, then said, “There’s enough driftwood on the beach that we could build a fire and hang out here a few hours more.”

She brightened. “That sounds like a lovely idea.” Her stomach, however, ruined it by growling.

Logan’s lips twitched with amusement. “How about I work on the SOS and building a fire, and you go and get dry clothes and something to eat and drink?”

Brontë snapped her fingers at him. “Now that sounds like a plan. I’ll be right back.”

“Take the flashlight,” he told her, and picked up a heavy piece of driftwood, dragging it forward into the sand.

She did, and raced up the dune, spraying sand as she walked. She’d seen bottles of wine earlier and thought it might be pleasant to enjoy one on the beach. They had sticks of beef jerky taken from the gift shop, and she could probably find some cheese in the restaurant somewhere. Wine, cheese, and a quasi– beef product. Not bad. Of course, if they were going to have a fire, they should have...

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While she’d been inside, the sun had set even lower, turning the orange skies into a deep, smoky purple. On the beach, she could see that Logan had spelled out a SOS in driftwood, and set up a pyramid of wood on the far end of the beach. She headed there and made it to his side just as the fire caught.

He glanced up at her with satisfaction as he got to his feet and continued to feed small pieces of wood into the burning pyramid. “You look great.”

She laughed at that, glancing down at her bare, sandy legs, clad only in aqua shoes. She was now wearing a lemon-yellow Bahamas T-shirt that was two sizes too big and went down to her thighs, and she was pretty sure that her hair was one big snarl. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know. But you still look great.” The look he gave her was appreciative. “I’m glad you’re back.”

She hefted the wine bottle. “I brought drinks, food, and dessert.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“And a flirt,” she teased back, but she couldn’t help smiling. “But I think that’s a forgivable offense.”

They spread the blanket on the ground and set up the food, taking bites out of the jerky, crackers, and cheese and drinking straight from the wine bottle.

The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the sky grew dark. Soon, the only light glittering for miles was their small fire. It made Brontë feel very small and alone, and she moved closer to Logan.

He mistook her gesture and passed the wine bottle again, glancing over at her. “Thirsty?”

She took another sip of wine, grimacing at the strong taste of the red. She’d grabbed the most expensive bottle—because hey, why not?—and it was rather strong. She was more of a boxed wine kind of girl anyhow. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about?”

“How there’s no one around for miles.” She stared off into the dark skies and uncrossed her legs, stretching them out on the blanket. “And how that can sometimes be a little frightening.”

His hand went to her ankle, and he gave her a gentle squeeze before caressing her skin. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, and Brontë sucked in a breath. After a moment, Logan said, “Don’t be frightened. I’m right here next to you.”

“I’m glad,” she told him softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

“You’d probably still be in the elevator.”

She frowned. She didn’t like to think about that. If he hadn’t been here . . . she shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His hand remained on her ankle, his thumb lightly gliding over the skin in a way that made her feel nervous and restless and aroused all at once. He wasn’t doing anything else, though, just touching her. She stared down at that hand and then blurted, “Do you want s’mores? You know, chocolate and graham crackers and marshmallows? They’re the perfect camping treat.”

He glanced at the fire, then at her on the blanket. “I suppose this is a lot like camping, isn’t it?”

“Right down to the campfire,” she said with a grin. “Do you have a stick for my marshmallow?”

As he turned away, she blushed hard, because that sounded incredibly dirty to her own ears. Do you have a stick for my marshmallow? My God, why don’t I just ask him to throw me down on the beach and harpoon me like he’s Ahab and I’m a ***y, ***y whale?

They speared two marshmallows on the same stick, and Logan thrust them into the flames of the fire. “So you’re one of those men, are you?” Brontë teased.

He glanced back at her. “One of what men?”

She gestured at the now-flaming marshmallows. “You’re willing to eat a little charcoal as long as it gets done faster.”

“Collateral damage,” he told her. “One expects that sort of thing when making a bold decision.”

“Very bold,” she said with a nod. “Could you blow out one of those bold decisions and put it on my cracker so I can eat?”

He did, and she smooshed it with the chocolate, licking her fingers as she nibbled at the treat. He pushed his together and then popped the entire thing in his mouth, eating it in one large bite. The man didn’t do anything by halves, did he? She shook her head at him, grinning, and continued to nibble away at hers.

A large dollop of melted chocolate landed on her thumb. She regarded it for a moment and then lifted her hand, intent on licking it clean.

Logan’s hand caught hers before she could, and he moved her hand to his mouth and very gently sucked the chocolate off of her thumb. A low flutter started in her belly, and her pulse began to pound as his dark gaze shifted to her face.

“Speaking of bold decisions,” he murmured, and then ran his tongue along the pad of her thumb again. “Have you decided?”

“Decided?” she echoed, hating the quaver in her voice.

“You and I keep dancing around our attraction without ever really coming out and saying exactly what we’re thinking. I’m not like that, Brontë. I’m the kind of guy that wants to let you know exactly how I feel, but you keep running away.”

“I’m not running,” she protested, feeling breathless. “Tell me.”

“I’ll show you, then.” His gaze was intense as he watched her, and then it slid to her mouth, and she knew he was thinking about their kiss.

And now she was thinking about that kiss, too.

He leaned in and ever-so-lightly brushed his lips against hers. The movement was delicate but intense, a mere hint at what she could expect from him. And she wanted more, but he moved away and looked down at her, studying her face.

Logan spoke again. “It’s your move, Brontë.”

She stared at her hand captured in his. Shadows caressed his face, the breeze causing his hair to ruffle over his forehead, and she noticed the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. It had rasped against her skin as they’d kissed, but not hard enough to make her pull away. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted. Claim him. Or she could walk away from all of this and they’d just be friends. Camping companions. He was leaving it up to her.

She had no illusions as to what this was—they were alone on the beach. They were spending copious amounts of naked time together. He was handsome, and he must have thought her attractive. They could have wild, passionate *** for a night or two, or however long it took for them to be rescued. Then they’d part ways and she’d go back to work in Kansas City and he’d go back to work managing the hotel and their paths would never cross again.

It was the perfect situation for a no-strings fling. Except Brontë wasn’t good at the no-strings thing. That was for strangers, for people she would run into and never see after that night. Logan was different. She already knew a lot more about him than she did a lot of people. She liked him. Not that she normally didn’t like guys, but most of her relationships seemed to end on an ugly note, and she didn’t want that to happen with Logan. But if she turned him down, she’d never get the chance to experience just how wonderful making love to Logan might be.

“I want this,” she admitted in a soft voice, “but I don’t know how good I am at casual relationships.”

“We can worry about that once we’re rescued,” he told her, and leaned in to close the distance between them.

***

She was going to do this. They were going to do this. She was going to have a ridiculous, exciting, passionate fling with a man. Not just any man. Gorgeous, serious, totally alpha Logan Hawkings, who made her toes curl every time she looked at him. Who kissed like he’d invented it.

And here she was, in an ugly tourist T-shirt, with wild beach hair and not a touch of makeup. Maybe it wasn’t Brontë as much as it was that she was the only woman on the island? That was a sobering thought.

He touched his fingertips to her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Should I not have asked?”

“No, asking is good,” she said, and gave him a shy smile. “I’m just not exactly at my hottest at the moment.”

“Quote me something.”

She gave him an odd look and then laughed, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “‘Happiness depends upon ourselves.’ Aristotle.”

“See?” He whispered, leaning in to kiss at her neck. “Hearing you say that is so incredibly hot.”

She laughed again. “You’re a strange man.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all day.”

And that was enough to bolster her deflated ego. She leaned close to him, her gaze moving to his mouth. “Then kiss me?”

“You have to ask?” He leaned in closer.

“Asking’s good,” she murmured again, just as his lips met hers.

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For the second time that day, she was swept away by his kiss. He had such an amazing mouth. She’d kissed plenty of men, but none of them had ever kissed her with such . . . blatant ownership. Logan’s mouth slanted over her own, his lips taking control first, followed by his tongue. She was helpless to resist, and parted her lips when his tongue brushed against her mouth. Then she was lost as his tongue thrust and rubbed against her own, the kiss moving from one of simple pleasure to something deeper. His fingertips played along her jawline as he kissed her, as if ready to hold her steady if they needed to.

His mouth continued to slant over hers, his tongue stroking deep until the world narrowed to Logan’s mouth on hers and Brontë was lost in the sensation. She’d barely noticed that she was now leaning heavily against him, his body supporting her weight. When he shifted, she nearly toppled and began to giggle.

“Careful,” he warned her. His voice was stern, but there was a crinkling around his eyes that told her he was amused. “It seems my kiss is rather dangerous.”

“Extremely,” she said breathlessly, resisting the urge to reach up and touch her lips. They felt swollen and soft and wet from his kiss. With her eyes on him, Brontë leaned back on their beach blanket. “In fact, I might need to lie down to get my bearings.”

Logan’s big body loomed over hers for a long moment, and then he lay down beside her, turning and propping up on one elbow to face her. “Better?”

She glanced over at him. His face was cast in shadow at this angle, but he was still delicious. From the big shoulders to the large hand that lay on the blanket, she loved the look of him. The beach itself made her feel a bit exposed, though. She stared up at the night sky and then turned her head, listening to the gentle sound of the waves as they hit the beach. “Should we go inside?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Part of her wanted to stay out here in the open, by the beach. And part of her was totally panicked at the thought of making love out in the open. “I want to stay out here but it feels . . .”

“Wrong?”

“I was going to say naughty.”

One corner of his mouth curved up into a half smile. “And naughty is bad?”

She reached over to him and trailed a hand down his chest, feeling the light sprinkling of chest hair across his pectorals. “Actually, no. Now that I think about it, I rather like naughty. What about you?”

“I don’t have condoms out here. Unless you brought them.”

She was an idiot. A total, freaking idiot. She should have grabbed them when she was inside. She had her birth control pills . . . somewhere. But she was pretty sure she’d missed a few days and didn’t want to chance it. Condoms it was. “No, I didn’t bring any.”

“Then I can pull out.” He lifted her hand from his chest and began to nibble on her fingertips. “If you’re okay with that.”

His lips danced along her thumb and sent shivers up and down her spine. “I’m good with that. I’m clean, by the way.”

“So am I,” he said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go inside?”

“No, I like it out here.”

“Where it’s naughty?”

She grinned. “Precisely.”

Well, they’d gotten everything out of the way except the actual act itself. He was simply watching her, lightly kissing her fingertips. What had she expected? For him to maul her as soon as she gave the okay? She suspected he was holding back, making sure she was just as interested in this as he was. She had to show him that she wanted him, too, and that she wasn’t just saying yes for the hell of it.

So she wiggled a bit closer to him on the blanket and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. His tongue flicked against hers encouragingly, and so she grew a bit bolder, taking more liberties with the kiss and twirling her tongue around his. Her hand slid down his chest, and she twined her fingers into his chest hair, tugging at it.

“Touch me,” Brontë told him softly. “Please.”

Logan’s hand went to her side, and he gently pushed until she rolled onto her back. He immediately followed, flipping over to cover her, his weight braced on his elbows. She could feel his long body settle between her slightly parted legs, and then she was suddenly wide-open to him in a move that felt both shocking and right. She was wearing just her panties under the long t-shirt, and Logan’s boxers felt scorching—and far too thin—against her thighs.

Logan leaned in a little closer. “Maybe I want to keep kissing you for a bit longer.”

“That’s okay, too,” she said breathlessly, acutely aware of him.

He lightly ran his fingers over her face, as if memorizing her features by touch. Then he leaned in and kissed her mouth, his lips featherlight against her own. He then kissed her cheek, his lips skimming her skin until he reached her jaw, where he pressed another kiss. Her chin was next, then her nose, and Brontë closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of his mouth on her skin, his weight over her. She could feel the heavy heat of him cradled against her *****, and was half tempted to wrap her legs around him. Would that be too much too fast? She wanted to keep enjoying him and his touch. If he wanted to go slow, that was fine with her.

Logan’s mouth moved along her jaw, and then she felt him take her earlobe in his teeth and gently tongue it. A gasp escaped her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Like that?” he asked softly, and repeated the motion.

She bit back the moan rising in her throat and gave a small, jerky nod.

He nibbled on it for a moment longer and then slid his tongue down into the hollow underneath her ear and down her neck, causing shivers to move over her skin. His weight shifted, and she felt his **** press hard against her *****, then rub up and down against it through her boy shorts. A whimper escaped her throat and she automatically lifted her hips, slipping her panties down and locking her legs around him.

“Like that?” he asked again.

“Just like that,” she breathed, rocking her hips against him. He felt so good, and she hadn’t had *** in so long. Dear God, if casual *** felt this nice, why wasn’t she having it more often?

His hand slid between their bodies, and she felt him tug at her Bahamas T-shirt. “Let’s take this off.”

She nodded, and he pulled it up to her neck. Then she began some creative wiggling to tug it over her head while still lying on the ground. All the while, she felt him slide farther down her body, and then his mouth latched on to her nipple, tonguing it.

Brontë moaned, a jolt of pleasure moving through her at the touch. Her hands went to his shoulders, rubbing, then digging her nails in as he flicked at her nipple with his tongue before moving over to her other breast and beginning to nuzzle it. A hot ache bloomed between her legs, and she moaned again, unable to bite back her pleasure. His mouth was so skilled. She raked her nails across his shoulders, encouraging him.

He sucked hard on her other nipple and then released it with an audible pop. Dazed, she stared down at him in time to see him lightly flick his tongue over the wet tip, then look up at her. “Your breasts are beautiful. I’ve been wanting to play with them all afternoon.” His hand gripped her breast, thumb grazing her nipple even as he leaned over the other one again. “Watching them naked and glistening with water was driving me mad.”

She drove him crazy? He was driving her mad. At his words, she arched underneath him, thrusting her breasts in the air so he could have full access to them, and was not disappointed when he pinched the tip of one at the same time that he licked the other. A bolt of pleasure shot straight to her ***, and her legs tightened around his torso. Her voice was breathy. “Logan.”

“Love it when you say my name,” he murmured, his lips moving against her nipple.

“Oh, Logan,” she moaned when he nibbled at the tip again. “God, you feel so incredibly good.”

“Let’s see,” he murmured, pressing a kiss between her breasts. His hand left her breast and skated down her belly, then lower, to her mound. A hot, thick finger slid between her folds. “Definitely wet.”

She was. She was wetter than she ever remembered being with a man. And she was so turned on that she ached inside, her *** clenching as if she needed something—or someone—buried deep within her. “Oh, God.”

“Logan,” he murmured, and nipped her breast even as he slid that finger in and out of her *****. “I want you to say my name again while I’m touching you.”

“Logan,” she breathed, the word turning into a whimper when his slick finger moved to her clit and began to rub it. Her hips rocked involuntarily, and she clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into the tattoo on his biceps. His touch felt so amazing that her entire body seemed one big bundle of nerve endings, and they were all connected to the clitoris that he was rubbing and rolling under his fingers. Hot tension began to climb through her body, and she moaned low in her throat, her legs tightening around him. “I—I’m going...

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“Come.” He made it sound like a command more than a question, and as he spoke, his fingers worked over her clit even faster, circling quickly.

She cried out as her entire body stiffened in her orgasm, then bit her lip to hold back as he continued to rub at her clit in slow, teasing circles that made her orgasm seem to last forever. Her entire body was quivering when she finally came down, and she noticed her nails had made half-moons into his shoulder. “Oh,” she breathed, removing her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

He leaned in and kissed her, hard and possessive. “About what?”

“Y-your shoulder,” she said, bewildered. “I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not hurting me, Brontë,” he said, and kissed her hungrily again, making the flames lick through her belly once more. With his hand, he dragged her arms back around his neck and then flexed his hips, surging forward until his **** rested against her naked *****, and rubbed there. He was incredibly hard and thick, and she made a low whimper at the feel of him through his boxers. “I want you to keep touching me. I don’t care if you claw up my back.” He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth and then whispered against her mouth, “I like your reactions. They feel real to me.”

Another laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck again. “I’m not very good at faking these things. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not disappointed,” he said, rocking his hips against hers in a slow, circular motion that made her entire body follow the movement, her legs sliding back around his hips again. “And I know you weren’t faking.”

That masculine smugness in his voice made her curious. “Exactly how do you know that?”

He pressed a thumb to her clit, and she cried out, her nails cutting in to his shoulders again. “Because of that.” He slid a finger lower and circled around her opening, then ever so slowly pushed into her, causing her to gasp in reaction. “And that,” he murmured. “If I had a finger sunk deep inside you when you came, you’d clenched all around me, wouldn’t you? Milk my finger like you would my ****.”

She bit her lip and wiggled her hips a bit, too shy to answer.

“You’re sweet, and you’re smart, and ***y, and so very real, Brontë. That’s what I like about you.” He leaned in and gave her another light kiss, his fingers leaving her *****, and she nearly cried out with disappointment.

“I like you too, Logan,” she said softly, her hands moving over his arms and chest, caressing his skin. “I want to touch you.”

“I want to **** you,” he murmured against her mouth, and she gasped at his directness. “I promise I’ll pull out.”

She nodded, and gasped with surprise when his tongue thrust into her mouth, even as he shifted and she felt the head of his **** fit up against the slick opening of her ***.

Logan Hawkings definitely wasn’t one to mince words. He told her what he wanted and went after it. Brontë realized this an instant before he thrust deep, and she whimpered at the sting of unused muscles as he seated himself deep inside her.

He tensed over her. “Virgin?”

She shook her head. “Just been a while, that’s all. Give me a moment.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, his tongue dancing over hers in a way that felt incredibly decadent with his *** buried in her own. When she nudged her hips slightly, he swung his, rocking the two of them in a slow, circular motion that made Brontë instantly aware of every muscle in his body—and hers.

“Oh . . . do that again,” she breathed, holding on to him tightly.

Logan did, repeating the motion and exaggerating it for her benefit. It was a subtle roll of his hips, but he pressed forward and pushed enough that it rocked her body with his, and the slow roll of their hips brushed him against her clit, sending sensations pinging through her. She moaned again, her heels digging into his buttocks, encouraging him.

He was not a man who needed much encouragement. This time, when he thrust, he surged deep inside her, rocking her entire body on the blanket and causing her to cry out with pleasure. She clung to him as he began a hard, steady thrusting, pushing deep and hard inside her with every muscle, every sinew in his body. Her world narrowed down to his hips, pushing against hers, the grit of sand on the blanket at her back, the smack of his flesh against hers as he thrust deep again, the bounce of her breasts with every jolt of their bodies. She lost herself in the sensations, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. He was breathing hard over her, every breath a satisfied rasp, as she began to make soft, pleased noises in her throat with each thrust he made.

The elusive orgasmic feeling was rising again, and she focused in on it, moving her hips in time with his to ensure that each thrust was deeper, harder, stronger, and with each push of his **** into her, she got a little closer to coming.

He shifted his weight, adjusting her hips, and with his next thrust, her eyes flew open. That had been . . . different. The almost-but-not-quite orgasm feeling hovering at the edges of her consciousness flared to the forefront, and when his next thrust pushed forward, it happened again. Her ***** clenched around him in response, and he groaned even as he sucked in a breath.

“Wh-what was that?”

Logan’s hands moved to her hips, angling her just so, and then he thrust again. When she keened in response, he grinned down at her, the look wicked and triumphant all at once. “G-spot.”

Oh, God. She didn’t think anyone had ever hit it before. And oh, God, she really liked it. Her nails clawed his back again. “I need more.”

He gave another brutal surge, shoving their bodies across the blankets with his next push, and she cried out as the orgasm danced so close. Her feet left his hips, and she planted them on the ground so she could better lift her hips when he pushed in again, and thrust just as hard against him, her hips working furiously in time with his. That spot was back, and his short, quick pumps were rubbing up against it in the most incredible way that made her entire body arch with pleasure. She was so close and then—

She cried out as the orgasm rushed through her with force. Her *** clenched tight around him, and she heard him utter a muffled curse before he pulled out. She dropped her hips back to the ground as he stroked his **** with his hand, once, twice, and then he was coming on her belly, hot jets of come splashing over her skin.

Once done, he exhaled heavily and lay down on the blanket next to her, where she was staring up at the sky, dazed and dreamy.

That was incredible. Mind-blowing. She’d totally forgot about being on the beach, though she suspected the sand that had gotten on the blanket would remind her soon enough. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank you?” He was still panting. “For pulling out?”

“No,” she said dreamily, though that was nice of him, too. “For showing me where the G-spot was. I had no idea. I think I’m ruined for non-G-spot *** now.”

He laughed, the sound short and forceful. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Well, okay, it’d have to be really great *** to make up for the lack of the G-spot attention.” She sat up and grimaced at her sticky belly, still covered with his seed. “I think I’m going to go take a quick dunk.”

“It’s probably cold.”

“‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” she quoted at him.

“Is that a challenge?” He asked, grinning. He got to his feet and curled his hands into mock claws, looking as if he were a predator about to pounce on his prey. “Are you saying I’m not brave enough for cold water?”

“Not at all,” she said, turning toward the ocean.

When he took a step forward, she ran for it, a high-pitched squeal of alarm escaping her. Moments later, he had an arm around her stomach and was dunking her in the chilly surf. Brontë screamed and clung to him, dragging him under with her until they were both sputtering and laughing.

“There’s your courage,” Logan told her between chuckles.

She laughed too, delighted by his mood.

They rinsed off quickly, dumped sand on the fire, and then headed back to the hotel in the darkness. Their stairwell was just as they’d left it, complete with mattress, pillows, and blankets. Before when they’d crawled into the bed, they’d been clothed. When Brontë crawled into bed this time, she was naked and slightly damp, and so was the man who crawled in after her. As soon as she pulled the blanket over her body, he tugged her close and spooned her, his hand sliding possessively over her waist and resting on her breast.

As if he cherished her.

And she thought that maybe, just maybe, Logan was going to ruin after-*** cuddling for her, too. Because being pressed up against his big, strong body as she drifted off to sleep, his hand possessively cupping her breast, felt a little too good to be true.

Chapter Five

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Logan awoke before Brontë did. His body’s internal clock was set to 6 a.m. New York time, no matter where he was. He’d also awoken with a stiff **** and pleasant memories of the previous night’s *** on the beach with Brontë. Tousled, sweet Brontë, who’d been so responsive in his arms, and absolutely startled when he’d found her G-spot. That look of pleased surprise on her face? That had made him feel like a king in bed.

She hadn’t been the most skilled of his lovers—he suspected the Ukrainian ballet dancer would forever hold that spot—but she’d been the most open and honest one. Her expression, totally unable to hide anything, had pointed him to exactly where to please her, and her wide-eyed responses and gasping moans had been an incredible turn-on. She’d been enthusiastic and genuine and pleased to be with him.

Him. Logan the “manager.” She didn’t know if he had two nickels to rub together, and hadn’t cared. She’d just wanted to have *** with him. And he couldn’t say that with certainty about any of his former lovers. Had they wanted him? The man? Or just been attracted to the power of his bank account and what he could do for them? It was never easy to tell, and it ruined pretty much every relationship.

And the one woman he’d thought he loved in the past—Danica—had proven herself to be shallow and interested in nothing but money.

A line of sunlight streamed in under the stairwell door below them, giving him just enough light to make out Brontë’s sleeping form next to him. She shifted in bed, rolling over and tucking her cheek close to his shoulder. Her hand automatically went to his ****, and his morning wood had turned painful fast. Did she realize how often she reached for him in her sleep? Or was this a calculated move? He remained utterly still, listening to Brontë’s evenly spaced breaths.

A light snore escaped her.

He exhaled in relief. That was real. She was real. He was a ****ing paranoid son of a bitch, wasn’t he? A sleeping girl reaches for his ****, and he automatically thought she had an ulterior motive. It was a good thing she couldn’t read minds. Someone as guileless as Brontë would have probably been disgusted. His father and the way he’d treated Logan’s mother had polluted his brain.

Logan pulled the blanket off of her inch by inch. She slept on, though she moved a little closer to him as if seeking heat. Carefully, he traced his fingers over her shoulder and down her side, resting his hand on her hip. Her skin was soft and smooth, her hips plump, and her full backside made his mouth water.

She made a soft, breathy moan in the back of her throat and shifted onto her back. Perfect. He could part her legs, slide deep inside of her before she even woke up, and rid his **** of this ache—

****. And then what? Pull out again? That had been sheer torture the night before. They needed condoms. Logan edged out of the bed and down the stairs, slipping on his water shoes and then quietly opening the door. He headed into the lobby, ignoring his nu***y. He doubted any rescuer would be here this early. The water on the floor of the hotel had receded, leaving muddy trails on the tile and leftover debris. Rescue would be here soon, he guessed. He and Brontë likely had been lost in the shuffle for a day or two, but it wouldn’t be much longer. Someone would notice a missing billionaire, if not a missing waitress.

Logan got a package of condoms from the store, drank a bottle of water and downed a candy bar, and returned to the stairwell. Brontë was still asleep, so he abandoned his shoes at the base of the stairs, kept a condom in hand, and slid back into bed with her.

She was soft and warm against his side, giving a little absent sound of pleasure when he returned as if she’d missed him. He liked that. Logan leaned in and kissed her neck and then her shoulder. They were light, trailing nibbles that teased the skin. A soft giggle escaped her throat, the sound still too sleepy for his taste. Kissing along her arm, he reached over her and cupped her breast, thumbing over the tip and with a touch causing the peak to harden.

The sound she made in response was a low moan.

His **** felt as hard as granite, and it rubbed against her limbs when she shifted in the bed. He wanted to pull her full against him, feel the press of her flesh against his ****, but he was enjoying her unconscious reactions a bit too much at the moment. His thumb skimmed over the hard nub of her breast again, rolling it back and forth as he continued to kiss Brontë’s neck.

The woman was definitely a heavy sleeper, Logan thought with amusement. He nipped lightly at her shoulder, and when she rolled onto her back, he leaned down to take the stiff tip of her breast into his mouth.

Brontë moaned again, and her hands went to his hair, digging into his scalp. “Mmm, Logan.”

He flicked her nipple with his tongue. “I was wondering what it’d take to wake you up.”

“That’s a good way,” she said dreamily. Her fingers played with his hair.

“It’s a shame you woke up before I had to resort to more insistent tactics.”

“Oh?” She slid a hand down his stomach and played her fingers over his ****. It twitched in response to the light touch. “What did you have in mind?”

“Burying my face between your legs and licking your ***** until you came.”

The breath shuddered from her lungs.

He nipped at her breast again. Too quiet. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I should have slept a bit longer,” she said, and then laughed at herself. “I miss all the good stuff.”

Logan kissed down her belly, licking at her belly button. “I can be persuaded.”

“Oh?”

He dropped his mouth lower, to the curve of her hips, and placed a hand on her inner thigh. He felt her quiver of response, as if his touch simply drove her wild with anticipation. “You could . . . ask.”

“Is that all it takes?” She gave another breathy laugh, and then her fingers dug in his hair again. “Please, Logan. I’ll be so good to you.”

Her breathy, ***y voice made his balls tighten and his **** throb with need. Damn. She was good at that. He lowered his head and, as promised, buried his face in her soft flesh. He felt her entire body stiffen in surprise, and she gave a startled cry when his tongue swiped between her plump labia.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” she said, and her voice sounded nervous.

Too intimate for her, perhaps? He wanted to please her, though. Logan nuzzled her softly. “You taste amazing.” She did, too. Like *** and Brontë and a hint of sea salt. He wanted more of her on his tongue, so he parted her ***** lips with one finger and lowered his mouth to lap at her clit.

“Oh.” Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling a little. “Logan, I don’t know. I . . .” Her protests trailed off as he continued to lick her clit, hardening the tip of his tongue into a point and circling it around the little bud.

“Do you want me to stop?” He let the words play over her skin. “Are you uncomfortable?” At the end of the last word, he let his hot breath fan over her flesh.

She moaned in response, and he felt her thighs quiver. “Never mind,” she told him breathlessly. “Keep going.”

Good. She was letting herself relax and enjoy this. It was a shame it wasn’t brighter in the stairwell—he wanted to see her expression. He’d just have to go by the sounds she made, and the feel of her body against his.

He continued tonguing at her clit and brushed a finger over the opening of her ***. It was slick and wet, a sign that she was enjoying his attentions. Logan slid a finger in deep and thrust it in time with his tongue strokes.

He could feel her squeeze around his finger, heard the half-sobbed whimper that escaped her throat. His **** throbbed in response, painfully hard and acutely in need. But he wanted her to be ready.

Logan thrust a second finger in with his first, circling them inside her. She was tight, and he remembered that she’d needed a moment the night before. Today, he wasn’t going to pull out of her. He’d sink in deep and let her clench around him as she came, because nothing felt better than that.

He tongued her again, faster, and she stiffened. “Logan,” she cried out. “I’m so close.”

He pulled away, then, ignoring her cry of protest, and tore open the condom. Her hands reached for him, caressing his **** and his chest, stroking him with greedy, desperate motions.

And then it was on, and he adjusted himself between her widespread legs and thrust home.

Brontë gave a keening cry in response, her nails digging into his shoulders in that mix of pleasure and pain he was starting to associate with her. She felt so much that she had to take it out on him, and he’d gladly receive the punishment she doled out.

He began to drive into her, not caring that he was being rough or that his motions weren’t fluid. They were brutal and primal, and she clung to him with each forceful push, crying out his name. He concentrated on her responses, waiting for the right moment for his release, because he was so damn close that he ached.

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And there it was. Brontë’s ***** clenched, and her voice broke on a wild gasp, and then her muscles tightened around him even more. It felt amazing, and he surged again, feeling his own body respond. He came inside her, thrusting hard until he felt drained from his response, and then collapsed onto the bed next to her.

She immediately rolled over and clung to him, her own breathing shallow and ragged. To his surprise, she leaned over and kissed his mouth. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said back.

“Do you wake up all your lovers like that?”

He didn’t, but he also didn’t feel like sharing that. “Do you always sleep through foreplay?”

“Only if it’s not any good,” she said, and then broke off into a fit of laughter when he reached out and tickled her sides. “Okay, okay, you win. It was pretty decent.”

“Do I need to prove my skills to you?” He found himself teasing back and smiling.

“I might need a little convincing,” she said, and trailed a finger down his chest.

“I should get to work, then,” he said, moving in to kiss her again.

***

Stark naked, Brontë flipped through the sundresses in the gift shop, looking for one that hadn’t been totally ruined in the hurricane. There were a few that had gotten wet and dried into wrinkled messes but that looked clean otherwise, and she picked through searching for something in her size.

Her gaze strayed to the glittering diamond necklace, and she shook her head. Logan was crazy to think about giving it to her. Thoughtful, sweet, but crazy. It was way too much money to spend on someone who was more or less a one-night stand. That’s what this was, after all, wasn’t it?

On the flight to the Bahamas, Sharon had talked nonstop about ***y island flings and how she couldn’t wait to have one. And it had made Brontë think, however briefly, that maybe she wouldn’t mind having one, too. Just a little fun to spice up her life before heading back to Kansas City. She hadn’t expected anything to happen, though.

She sure hadn’t expected to meet anyone like Logan. Much less have the whole resort left to the two of them, alone. Logan was different from the guys she was normally attracted to. For one, he seemed to have a stable job. Brontë always seemed to find herself with men who were “between careers” or “making a transition,” which was code for “unemployed.” Logan was also a bit more . . . dominant, if she had to put a word on it. She was used to laid-back guys who let things run their course. And she was pretty sure “laid-back” wasn’t a word that appeared in Logan’s dictionary.

But she had to admit, that was part of his appeal. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it. He didn’t sit around and wait for someone else to take action—he made things happen. It had been he who got them out of the elevator, he who had gotten them supplies, and he who’d made the SOS.

Brontë picked a dress and tossed the others aside, glancing into the lobby. Logan had gone to see if he could find breakfast, and he’d left her in the gift shop. For some reason, she was anxious to see his broad shoulders again. She felt safe with him around. If she had to be stranded with anyone, she’d take a protective alpha male like Logan any day.

Of course, she hadn’t really expected to sleep with her protector. But now that they had? She didn’t regret it in the slightest. The *** was incredible.

No, she amended as she put on one of the floral sundresses and ripped the tags off. Better than incredible. Ruined her for other men was more like it. She’d orgasmed more with him than any man she’d dated. Normally they’d be pushing on her head, demanding a blow job before they’d reciprocate, but he’d already gone down on her . . . and had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed pleasuring her.

Not that she wouldn’t enjoy going down on him. She paused at the mental image of taking Logan by surprise and knocking him backward into a chair, unzipping his pants . . . then grinned as she slipped on a pair of mismatched flip-flops. Going down on Logan seemed rather appealing at the moment. And turnabout was fair play. Stretching sensuously, she headed out of the broken window and back to the main lobby of the hotel, glancing around.

“Logan?”

No sign of him. That was odd. Maybe he’d gone exploring without her. She wandered through the destroyed lobby.

“Logan?”

Anxiety began to twinge in her stomach . . . and then it rumbled. She was starving. She glanced back at the gift shop, but the thought of eating more candy bars made her sick. It was a bit sad that she was getting tired of chocolate—even MM’s. She headed toward the far end of the first floor, near one of the restaurants, and called Logan’s name again.

“In here.” Logan’s voice sounded distant.

She headed into the restaurant, and paused in surprise. One of the tables in the center of the room had been righted and a water-stained tablecloth spread over it. Place settings had been set down and two chairs slid under the table. As she watched, Logan leaned over a pair of candles and lit them with his lighter.

A slow smile spread over her face as she approached, and a silly, nervous giggle escaped her throat. “What’s this?”

Besides the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, of course.

Logan looked back at her and smiled, his expression confident. “I thought I’d like to take my date out to dinner. Or breakfast, as the case may be.” He reached for her hand and led her to one of the chairs, pulling it out for her with a flourish.

She sat, unable to stop grinning like a fool, especially when he leaned in and kissed the back of her hand. “I hope it’s not chocolate.”

“It’s not. First, we have a fine vintage that I think you’ll appreciate.” He laid a bottle over his arm and held it out to her as if it were wine.

It was a bottle of water.

She laughed, clapping her hands. “It looks delicious.”

“Indeed.” He set down a wineglass and began to pour with effortless grace. “The flavor is peerless. I think you’ll enjoy the bouquet.”

Brontë lifted her glass when he finished pouring and pretended to sniff it. “Very nice.” She gave him an appraising look. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“Waiting tables? Should I be insulted?”

She snorted, ignoring that jab at her job. “I meant with the wine thing.” She wiggled her fingers at it. “They teach you how to be classy at manager school?”

He gave her an odd look. “Something like that. Should I bring out the next course?”

She gestured grandly. “Please do.”

To her surprise, he pulled out a covered silver dish and placed it in the center of the table, then lifted the lid with a flourish.

A basket of fruit—fruit that looked reasonably fresh, too. She gasped, pleased. “Where did you get this? I thought we picked through everything!”

“I found it in the concierge room while looking for batteries for the flashlights. I thought it’d make a nice breakfast.”

It did. Brontë hadn’t realized how pleasurable plain, simple fruit could be. They ate their fill of apples, oranges, and bananas, and split a pineapple and a mango. They licked juice from their fingers, sipped water from crystal wineglasses, and had a great time. Brontë couldn’t help but grin at Logan from across the table. This entire setup was just . . . perfect. He was perfect.

And she suddenly wanted to reward him.

With a devilish grin on her face, Brontë set down her wineglass full of water and tossed her napkin on the table. One of Logan’s dark brows went up, as if he were questioning her.

“Interested in dessert?” she asked in a low, purring voice. “I know just the thing.”

“How can I resist when it’s proposed to me like that?”

“You can’t,” she said lightly, and then slid out of her chair and under the table.

He stilled. She watched his legs shift in his chair as she crawled under the table toward him. “Brontë?”

When she got to him, she sat back on her heels and put her hands on his trousers. He was wearing them again today, which was a pity. He even had on his belt, though it was waterlogged and the leather ruined. She pulled at the buckle and began to tug it slowly free. “Just my way of saying thank you,” she said. “Thought I’d help myself to a little treat is all.”

He groaned, and she felt his knees shift, spreading a bit wider. His hand reached under the table, and he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb across her cheek.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured from above her.

“I don’t have to do anything,” she pointed out. “However, I want to do this. Now sit back and relax.”

He did, his hands moving to the arms of his chair and clenching them. Good.

“Aristotle once said, ‘Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’” She leaned in and finished unbuttoning his pants, then lowered his zipper slowly. No boxers underneath, just flesh. That was nice. Brontë grasped his already-hard **** and tugged him free of the clothing, enjoying...

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He was thick and hard, and the crown of his **** was large, the tip already wet with fluid. He felt good in her hands, too. Firm and heavy, his skin hot against her own. She measured her fingers around his girth and found that they just barely met on the other side. Nice.

“I like this,” she said in a low voice, running a finger along the length of his ****. He jerked under her touch, and she couldn’t contain the chuckle in her throat. It was fun to affect him so much. She leaned in and lightly swept her tongue over the head of his ****, tasting the salty beads of wetness on his skin. So delicious. So hot.

Above her, he groaned, and she felt him grip the edges of the table. “Brontë.”

It sounded like he was gritting her name out between his teeth. She smiled and grasped his **** in her hand, circling the base with her fingers before leaning forward and taking him deeper into her mouth. Again, he groaned, and she began to work his thick length with her mouth, rubbing her tongue along the underside as she sucked him deep, pumping with her fist at the base to increase the sensation.

Sucking on his **** was getting her excited, too. She could feel the slickness between her legs, felt the heat of her pulse throbbing through her body, centered low in her hips. She wanted to rock them with every motion she made. More than anything, she wanted to please him, to make him lose control and come.

“Your mouth is amazing,” he ground out. She felt one hand slide under the table, felt it tangle into her hair, and then he began to work her head. He was ****ing her face, she realized, a little scandalized by that—and a lot turned on. Moaning around his ****, she moved with the force of his thrusts, whimpering when he’d butt up against the back of her throat. He was in so deep, filling her mouth up. His motions were abandoned, as if he weren’t quite able to control himself, and she curled her fingers into his pants with excitement, feeling her own *** tingling with need.

“I’m going to come,” he warned her. “If you don’t—”

She leaned in, sucking harder, letting him know it was okay.

That was all it took. He breathed her name, and his fist tightened in her hair, his hand thumping on the table as he came in her mouth, his hot come wetting the back of her throat. She jerked involuntarily, swallowing and pulling back when he was done. She’d hit her head on the underside of the table, she was pretty sure. She was also pretty sure that neither of them had noticed.

“Brontë,” he groaned. “God, your mouth.” And he was still hitting the table with that light, rhythmic slap that sounded like a beat. Music?

She smiled to herself, pleased at his reaction.

His hands pulled her up from under the tablecloth, and she realized that the rhythmic sound was continuing. Puzzled, she looked up at him—he had a slightly dazed expression, his hair was mussed and tousled over his tanned forehead, and he was still a bit hazy from his passion. “What’s that noise?”

Logan focused, and then his eyes narrowed. A grin spread across his face. “Helicopter.”

“Rescue?” She stood, wobbly and leaning against him, her body still humming with need. Lousy timing, that rescue.

He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff and see who’s here.”

***

Their stairwell went all the way to the roof, and even though there was debris scattered up the stairs and she was pretty sure some of the steps were creaking more than they should, they made it to the top. Once up there, Brontë could see several things at once.

There was a helipad on the roof of the resort. That was handy. There was a helicopter coming in for a landing, too, close enough that her sundress was whipping around her legs and her tangled mess of hair was turning into a tumbleweed around her face.

She could see for miles around up here, too, and she gasped at the sight of the island. There were cars washed off the road in the distance, in ***ches. Trees were uprooted everywhere. Boats were overturned at a distant marina. On the far side of the hotel’s roof, it looked like the hotel had crumbled away. The east wing hadn’t fared nearly so well as where they’d been staying. She was thankful their elevator hadn’t been there.

“Come on,” Logan shouted over the deafening chop chop chop of the helicopter. He put an arm around her shoulders possessively, and she put her hands to her sides to keep her dress from flying up. He leaned over and yelled something at her that sounded like, “I think I recognize that chopper.”

They ran forward, and to her surprise, a man jumped out of the helicopter and ran across the helipad to meet them. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a khaki shirt and shorts, and laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He raised a friendly hand in greeting, and Brontë was surprised when Logan gave it a high five, clasped it, and then brought the man in for a hug.

That was rather . . . friendly.

The man in the sunglasses gave her a rather knowing up-and-down look and then turned back to Logan. “I should have guessed,” he shouted over the helicopter’s blades. “You looked entirely too happy for a man who’s been stranded for a few days, but I guess the company was good, right?”

“This is Brontë,” Logan told him. “She was stuck in the same elevator I was.”

“You picked a good elevator to get stuck in,” the man agreed amiably and then thrust his hand toward Brontë. “Nice to meet you.”

She shook his hand, noticing that it was very big and sturdy, and covered in calluses. Small scars crisscrossed his dark tan up and down his arms. The newcomer looked wild and just a bit dangerous. Handsome, she supposed, but Logan was more appealing to her. Still, it was odd that Logan would be such good buddies with the resort’s pilot. Maybe the manager of a resort had to fly around in a helicopter a lot? She had no idea what his job entailed.

“We’re so glad to see you,” she told the newcomer as they moved toward the helicopter. “I guess I picked the right hotel to be stranded at if it’s the one with the private helicopter.”

They got into the helicopter, and the men buckled her in. The seats were plush leather and incredibly nice. Not what she’d expected from a rescue copter. It seemed almost luxurious. Someone handed her a headset with a microphone, and she put it on. Thank goodness, no more shouting at each other. The thwack thwack thwack of the helicopter blades was so strong it vibrated in her belly, but at least it wasn’t making her eardrums want to burst anymore.

The new man was giving her a confused look, though, as he sat back down in the ****pit again. Next to . . . a pilot. Strange. “Does this dump of a resort have a helicopter, Logan?” the new guy asked.

Logan’s response was crisp over the headphones. “It does not.”

“Huh.” The newcomer grinned, then turned back to Brontë. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”

Something wasn’t adding up. “You don’t work for the hotel, Jonathan?” she asked.

He laughed as if she’d said something hilarious. “Hell, no. And if anybody asked, this is a Red Cross helicopter. Or Coast Guard. Or something.”

“It’s not?”

Logan fixed her with a meaningful look. “We’ll talk about this later, Brontë.”

That sounded like he was trying to quiet her down. She narrowed her eyes at him, her jaw set. “What’s going on?” She turned back to Jonathan. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Just an old friend,” he said, flashing her a white smile. “And somehow I’m thinking Logan’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

That depended on what exactly was going on. She studied Logan’s clenched jaw, his slacks. The shirt he’d casually pulled on, hiding his tattoo. The luxury helicopter they were currently sitting in that wasn’t Red Cross or Coast Guard. The laughing man who looked as if he were enjoying her confusion way too much.

It wasn’t adding up.

She gave Logan a curious look. “You’re not the manager of this place, are you?”

“I’m not.” His words were clipped and displeased.

“Then who are you?”

He said nothing.

Over his shoulder, Jonathan grinned. “He’s the owner, baby.”

He what? Brontë stared at Logan, betrayed. It didn’t make sense. And yet . . . it all made sense. The expensive necklace he’d offered her. His lack of knowledge of how the hotel worked. All of it. Logan wasn’t a manager. He was some rich asshole who’d decided to have a good laugh at her while lying about who he was.

And to think that she’d slept with him!

The entire thing was a lie. Just like her mother, she’d stupidly fallen for a man’s smooth words and let her heart get carried away. Just like her father, he’d turned around and betrayed her.

Chapter Six

Brontë didn’t speak during the entire helicopter ride back to the mainland. Instead, she seethed quietly.