Key West (31 page)

“I hope you like Italian,” he said.

“I love it.”

“Good. I know the hostess, so hopefully we can get in without reservations.”

A few minutes later, a leggy redhead who instantly stirred Carrie’s jealous instincts seated them at a quiet table beneath a dark, dramatic Michelangelo print. Everything about the setting induced a sense of privacy that Carrie suddenly cherished. She’d loved everything that she and Chris had done with other people, but after the lengths they’d gone to today, she wanted to retreat a little and be alone with him.

Over pasta and a bottle of wine, Chris told her more about his family, consisting of his parents, the grandpa he’d mentioned before, and two sisters, both married with kids and living what he called, “happy but uneventful suburban lives. Which is great for them,” he went on, “but it wasn’t enough for me, and they have a hard time getting that.”

Even so, hearing about their history together, and how much he enjoyed going home for the holidays and seeing his nieces and nephews, she came away with the idea that, despite his move south, they all still loved and treasured him.

“Always strange going back, though. It’s so different there. It’s like stepping into another universe.”

Carrie took a sip of Merlot, absorbing his words. “I have a feeling that’s how it’s going to feel for me, too. I know I’ve only been here a week, but it seems longer. And it’s given me a sense of freedom I’ve never had before.”

Across from her, he looked unsettled. “I’d rather not think about you leaving.”

She sighed, wondering if it were remotely possible he could feel the same sort of attachment she felt toward him—this quickly.

“But on a brighter note,” he said, flashing a sudden smile, “tomorrow I have some special plans for you, some things you need to do in Key West before you go.”

She blinked, surprised. “Like what? I thought I’d done it all.”

Chris shook his head. “Believe or not, you’ve skipped a few key things—no pun intended. I’ll give you the grand tour of what you’ve missed.”

After dinner, Chris insisted they share a helping of tiramisu, despite her claims of being full. By the time they took to the street again, night had fallen. Music and raucous cheers blared from bars, and groups of girls and guys scoped each other out as they sought the easy-to-find action of Duval Street.

She parted ways with Chris at the entrance to the Lazy Lizard. He held her hands in his, giving her a long, slow kiss that turned her inside out. “Sure you don’t want to come in for a few drinks? We can grope each other in the phone booth on my breaks,” he added with a wink.

“Tempting, but…” The truth was, at the moment, if she couldn’t have him all to herself, she wanted to call it an evening. Their private dinner had been too short. So despite his tantalizing kiss, she said, “You wore me out today. I need some rest.”

He tilted his head, his eyes smoky with the memory. “You were so incredible, angel. So…generous.”

She found a small smile for him. “I wanted to make you feel good.”

He kissed her again. “Mission accomplished.”

* * * * *

As Chris headed up the street toward home, Duval was littered with late night drinkers and other bar staff who had just closed down for the night. He was exhausted—the long bartending shift, added to his whirlwind, round-the-clock affair with Carrie, was beginning to take its toll. It would be good to get some sleep.

And yet, as his feet took the necessary steps toward the apartment he shared with Scott, his heart ached. Maybe before the last few days, he hadn’t believed a heart could truly ache, but his body was proving him wrong. He wanted Carrie.

It was after four in the morning, and even as weary as he felt, he still wanted to be with her.

S
he’s gonna think you’re out of your mind
,
he told himself as he pivoted on the street to head in the direction of her hotel. But he didn’t stop himself, because walking
toward
her instead of
away
from her made a whole lot more sense to him.

A few minutes later, he found himself knocking on the door of her honeymoon suite. Two knocks and a short wait later, the door finally opened and…damn, even in the middle of the night, she looked gorgeous. Her strawberry-blonde curls fell in messy disarray around her face and softly tanned shoulders. A slinky red chemise hung to the tops of her pretty thighs, clinging lightly to her curves on the way down. Her luscious nipples made two prominent peaks in the fabric and, despite his exhaustion, one look made him hard.

“Sorry it’s so late. I should have gone home, but I missed you.”

Wordlessly, she reached out, clamping her hand around his wrist to pull him in and toward the bed. She snuggled up to him there, and despite his hard-on, falling asleep had never been sweeter.

* * * * *

By ten the next morning, they were setting out from the hotel. Carrie couldn’t wait to see what special things Chris had planned for her, having no idea what might be on the agenda. She only hoped they’d be alone for the day, since being alone with him was seeming more and more crucial to her happiness. Knowing he had eyes only for her. Having him take her hand in his and, despite the innocence of the touch, feeling it send shoots of warmth all through her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He only grinned. “Well, let’s just say it’s a place I can’t believe you haven’t already gone.”

She glanced down at her denim shorts and the yellow sleeveless blouse tied at her waist. “Am I dressed appropriately?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“Of course. Haven’t you figured out yet that we don’t
do
dressy here—no matter what the occasion?”

Eventually, he led her down a quiet street where lush palms and banyan trees became a more prominent part of the landscape. And just when she was thinking they’d never reach their destination, she saw the sign telling her they’d arrived at the
Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum
.
“A must for any book person, I would think,” Chris said.

She gasped her surprise. “My God, I totally forgot. This was the first thing on my agenda back when Jon and I planned the trip—I can’t believe it slipped my mind.”

Chris delivered a confident grin as they approached the home. “Well, you’ve been busy—constant orgasms can drain your brain.”

“Apparently,” she laughed.

Carrie couldn’t have been more touched that Chris would bring her here—that he’d realize seeing Hemingway’s house would be important to her, and that even as he’d gotten to know the hotter, dirtier side of her, he realized the thoughtful bookstore owner still resided inside her, as well.

Carrie was riveted throughout the entire tour of the home and grounds—most fascinated by the visit to Papa Hemingway’s writing studio in the carriage house, complete with his old Royal typewriter. She also became captivated with the many cats that lived on the grounds, sporting names like Emily Dickinson, Pablo Picasso, and Somerset Maugham. They learned that many of the cats had six toes on each paw and were descendants of a six-toed cat Hemingway had gotten as a gift from a sea captain.

By the time they left, Carrie was wrapped up in the literary history of the Nobel Prize-winning author, awash with the sort of joy that made her love books so much.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Chris asked with a smile as they made their way back up the quiet, shaded street.

She cast a sheepish grin in his direction. “I loved it. I’m such a dork.”

He laughed. “You’re not a dork. I like a woman who’s interested in at least a
few
things besides partying.”

“It was probably boring for you, though, wasn’t it? You’ve probably been here a dozen times.”

Now it was his turn to flash a sheepish expression. “Uh, not exactly. It was my first visit, too.”

Carrie couldn’t help raising her eyebrows in surprise.

He answered by saying, “I’m not really a book-loving kind of guy. But…” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Hemingway house. “Maybe I’ll give one of his novels a try now. He sounded like an interesting dude.”

Carrie smiled. “He
was
interesting. And I think, given your adventurous soul, you’d love some of his work.”

From there, Chris took her to lunch at Margaritaville, where they indulged in huge Mexican meals and big margaritas, because, Chris insisted, “You can’t come to Margaritaville without having a margarita.”

Following lunch, they hit a few classic Duval Street bars, including Sloppy Joe’s—a reincarnation of a Hemingway hangout; The Hog’s Breath Saloon—an outdoor bar that reminded her of Chris’s own Lazy Lizard; and Captain Tony’s—where a crusty old seadog kept his bar festooned with women’s bras and sold panties with his logo on them.

After having a drink at each place, Carrie felt more than slightly tipsy—not to mention amorous and ready to get in Chris’s pants for the first time in twenty-four whole hours—but he insisted they had one more important stop to make first. “The Blonde Giraffe,” he said, “home of the best key lime pie on the island. And you—”

“Let me guess,” she interrupted with a laugh. “You can’t come to Key West without having a slice of key lime pie.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

After sharing a piece of the tart, tangy pie that Chris explained was sort of an acquired taste for some people, he said, “And lastly, I want to show you my apartment.”

She grinned. “Convenient timing. Because if we don’t go someplace private soon, I’m going to rip your clothes off in broad daylight, right on Duval Street.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Probably not a first on Duval, but yeah—we’d better head back to my place.”

As they strolled in that direction, they passed the strip club they’d patronized a few nights ago, and Carrie couldn’t help remembering the forbidden pleasures she’d experienced there. The memories of the women baring everything so sensually, even inspiring her to let Chris bring her to orgasm with his hand, had her pussy tingling hotly. Indeed, while last night and this morning had allowed her to enjoy a soft, tender sort of companionship with him, she found herself ready to sink back into more decadence with her lover.

“This is it,” he said when they reached a friendly looking two-story clapboard home of pale yellow and white. “Scott and I share the second floor.”

After leading her up the flight of stairs connected to the home’s outer wall, he opened the door on what Carrie found to be a typical bachelor pad. The furniture was well-worn and the place slightly messy—a few clothes strewn about, an empty pizza box on the coffee table, a Playboy magazine tossed on the couch. “Blame the mess on Scott,” he said with a wink, “because I haven’t been here for more than five minutes at a time since I met you.”

“And when you
are
here, the place is neat as a pin?”

He shrugged. “Actually, yeah—I’m a pretty tidy guy. Comes from living with a houseful of women, I guess,” he added with a laugh.

As if to prove his point, he took her to his bedroom, which actually
was
fairly organized and orderly. “Although I’m thinking the bed’s about to get messed up,” he said, taking her hands in his and leaning in to deliver a kiss.

Carrie wasted no time pushing her hands up under his tank top, running her palms over his muscled stomach and broad chest, curling her fingernails lightly into his skin through the smattering of hair.

His kiss grew deeper, and he moaned softly into her mouth when she found his nipples, tweaking them lightly. He raised one hand to her breast, kneading her soft flesh through her clothes, and his hard-on pressed against her belly, growing more insistent by the second.

She lowered one hand to his tremendous erection through his shorts, exploring and massaging as he began to unbutton her blouse. He didn’t bother working the knot at her waist, just undid the buttons as far down as he could, then reached in to pull down one low demi-cup of her bra.

His hand molded to her bare breast, but she was feeling impatient. “Suck on it,” she whispered.

He sat back on the bed, pulling her with him until she straddled his lap, his hardness meeting her pussy through their shorts. She couldn’t resist rubbing her crotch against his cock, sliding up and down the lengthy bulge. Reaching inside her blouse, he cupped the underside of her bared breast and lowered his mouth to the taut nipple.

Carrie gasped at the first pull, feeling as though a rubber band stretched from her breast to her cunt.

It was then that they heard the front door open. They both looked up, but before they could even move, Scott said, “Hey Chris, are you here?” as he leaned in the bedroom door.

He smiled upon seeing them. “You are. Sorry to interrupt.”

Carrie pulled her top slightly closed, but didn’t bother buttoning it—it seemed silly since Scott had definitely seen her breasts before. She’d only met him one time, on the party boat, and she was struck again by his dark good looks.

“What’s up?” Chris asked, resting his hands at her hips.

“I just ran into Joe from the
Joie de Vivre
. He said business is slow the last few days and if we wanted to hang out at the pool a while today, no problem. Thought I’d head over, and if you two want to join me, the more the merrier.”

He left without awaiting a response, and Carrie asked, “What’s the
Joie de Vivre
?”