The Bikini Diaries (30 page)

feel how completely he penetrated her very core. She suffered the sensation that he was

so deep inside her that he was becoming a part of her in those slow, intense moments.

They traded sweet kisses, and she held to him tight—and though neither spoke a word,

there was no denying that this was a different sort of sex than they'd ever shared. And she tried not to feel that, but it was impossible not to.

A heavy moan from her lover told her he was nearing the brink, and she found herself

running her hands through his hair, kissing him more, suddenly aware, frightened,

terrified, that she'd never kiss him again. It was strange—a desperation she hadn't

anticipated and couldn't fight.

But thankfully she pushed it aside as he murmured in her ear, "Coming in you now.

Coming in you." And he thrust hard, again, again, and they held tight that way for a long moment, until he finally stilled.

Small waves continued to ripple around them as he lifted his head from her shoulder,

where it had come to rest after his climax, and he whispered in her ear, his voice raspy.

"Tell me you've never done the things you've done with
me.
Tell me you've never been this way with another guy."

She tensed within his embrace and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She knew it had been

clear that she'd never been fucked in the ass before, or been with two guys before—but

she also felt his question going deeper than that, deeper in a way she didn't want to talk about. Because she was... Black Bikini Babe. She
had
to be. She
had
to hold on to that.

She didn't want to ruin what little may remain of her mystique.

"Tell me," he said.

She let out a breath. He remained inside her. "Fine. No, I haven't. But I don't know why you care. I mean, you've done these things with
millions
of girls."

He pulled back slightly to look at her. "First of all, millions is a big number."

She rolled her eyes. "Dozens then."

'And second... no, I haven't."

"Liar," she said.

He hesitated, his eyes seeming far away for a second, but then coming back to her, back

to the moment. "Yes, I've done these things. But not like this. What I mean is"—he shook his head as if in disbelief—"you're the first woman since college that I've spent more than one night with."

She blinked, rather disbelieving herself. "Why?"

"I don't like attachments. Obligation. One night just always kept that part simple."

Something in her stomach curled as she asked the next question. "Then why did
I
get more than the standard one night?"

Again, he shook his head, looked down for a moment, but then met her gaze anew. "I've been asking myself the same thing. But you're just... special, bunny." He paused, and her chest tightened from the emotion brimming in his blue, blue eyes. "I guess I just wanted to tell you that before you go."

Wendy weighed the situation, the moment. She felt trapped in a way. A way that touched

her soul. She couldn't help but respond in kind—with the truth. "You've been... really special to me, too, Brandon. You've made me feel... free. And liberated. And beautiful."

She knew this completed the ruination of the image she'd tried to build with him of the

aloof, purely sexual animal. But maybe, just maybe, even White Bikini Babe had

moments of weakness, moments of romance, moments that tugged at her heart and soul.

His expression softened—a gentle smile playing about his mouth. "I've got some bad

news for you, bunny. You're
not
really a bad girl."

"Yes, I am," she insisted. "You
know
the things I've done with you. I'm very bad."

Yet he simply shook his head. "You're ... adventurous and hot and sexy as hell. But you're also smart and sweet and fun, too."

His voice had softened along with his look, turning downright tender—and she couldn't

let herself feel that, respond to that. She couldn't. Or she'd be lost. "Brandon, I'm leaving tomorrow after our meeting. We can't suddenly be saying things that—"

"Shhh."
He cut her off, lifting one wet finger to her lips to quiet her. "Don't. Just take me back to your room. I want to sleep next to you again."

Mission complete. So. complete. Amazingly complete. I have lived the dream. I have

fucked a man, over and over, without letting emotions get in the way
—well,
not tS3.

much. There for a few minutes tonight, yeah, they were there—no point in saying they

weren't. But they're gone now. Because they have to be.

He is sleeping in my bed and I can look over at him and feel strong, knowing that I

have taken what I wanted here. I have followed my every whim and desire. I have

become that girl on the beach, that one you always see and envy, that one who draws

the stares because she's beautiful and confident and sexually open in a way that

radiates from her. She is no longer a mystery to me. I am her.

The only question now is—will I continue to be her when I leave this place

Chapter 13

She'd told him to shower first, so now he sat, dressed and waiting for her. He'd actually brought a suit and tie in a garment bag to the pool with him, because he'd had every

intention of whisking her up to her room for more sex after they fucked in the pool, and that was exactly what he'd done. Fucked her again. Then slept with her again. And got

that warm, cozy feeling again. The one that should be scaring the shit out of him but

wasn't. Ever since he met her. She made it shockingly easy to care for someone. Whether

or not she advised Carlisle to invest with them... well, he hoped to hell she would, but this was about way more than money and business.

He stared at the rumpled sheets, letting a small smile steal over his face—but it faded

when his gaze drifted beyond the bed to the table where her suitcase sat open, in the

process of being filled for the trip home. His chest tightened when he caught glimpses of things he recognized: those killer shoes she'd been wearing the night they met, those

sexy-as-sin pink panties she'd worn the night he'd shared her with Pete. The fact was, he didn't like that she was leaving. He was afraid she was going to be right about the bed

feeling empty.

Letting out a sigh, he dropped his gaze to the coffee table in front of him, littered with a pad of paper and pen, a half-full glass of soda apparently left from a previous day, her cell phone, and a small hardcover book with vintage hula girls decorating it in lieu of any words. Amused by the hula babes, he absently picked it up and thumbed through it—

surprised to see it was filled with handwriting. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but not that.

And he knew he should probably put it down in case it was something personal—and

hell, even if it was professional, it was none of his business. But the truth was, he could tell this was some kind of diary or journal. And the further truth was, he instantly wanted to know if maybe she'd written about him. If maybe, just maybe, she didn't want to go

home, either.

So, even though he felt like a jerk to be doing it, he let his gaze skim across the page it was open to.

Maybe on some level I wanted to find out that sex meant more to me than just the

physical pleasure of it. I wanted, deep down, to discover it was about the connection, the
emotion. But that's not what happened
—
that's not what happened at all.

Whoa.

Despite himself, his stomach churned. Was that about
him?
Or... could this be something old? The entries weren't dated, and they looked sort of randomly placed, so it was hard to tell. Maybe she used this book to write about everything she
ever
did with guys. Maybe she'd written that about someone else.

But he flipped around a little more and saw notes about the resort, notes to herself about the way things were run.
So...
no, every word she'd written, it appeared, was about this week.

He couldn't help it—he flipped around some more, just letting his eyes grab on to

snippets of feminine handwriting.

Hard to believe it was just over twenty-four hours ago that I began this hedonistic little
game.

I want some hot man to make me feel like the white bikini girl, like the personification of
sex, like nothing else matters, like sensible Wendy Carnes doesn't even exist. I want to be
the hunter, the one who takes, the one who feels nothing but pleasure and walks away
satisfied in
the
end.

I began this game in pursuit of pleasure, power, control Don't I need to grab as much of
those things as possible before the sand empties and the game comes to an end.

He is sleeping in my bed and I can look over at him and feel strong, knowing that I have
taken what I wanted here.

It didn't take long before he didn't want to see any more. He closed the book, aching

inside, despite himself.

Clearly, what had happened between them was only some... grand experiment, only sex.

She'd just wanted to snag some guy she thought was hot, and it had been him. The journal also made it clear she was quite pleased that it had all meant
nothing
to her.

He sighed, ran a hand back through his hair. The fact was— he couldn't be mad at her.

She'd done nothing wrong. They'd indulged in casual sex together—and that was what it

had been:
casual.

He was the only idiot here who'd started to care, started to get attached. It wasn't her fault she didn't feel the same way. He was only some weird sort of game to her.

And that was okay—he was just glad he knew now.

So that he could disattach, starting now. Hell, what did it matter? She was leaving in a couple of hours anyway. Maybe it was just as well.

Still, his heart physically plummeted. It didn't make sense. When they were together—

talking, playing, fucking, whatever— didn't they have a good time?
More
than a good time? He'd held her while they'd slept. He'd helped her experience things she never had

before. Deep down inside, he'd been sure—
sure—
that she felt at least a little something for him. Some of the moments between them had seemed downright
profound.

Well, at least to him.

Apparently not to her.

This
is what you get, buddy, for letting your guard down, letting yourself care for

someone.

Obviously, it had been smarter to play his life the way he had before she'd come along.

One-night stands. Nothing meaningful. No one to worry about hurting—and no one who

could hurt
him.

He swallowed back the emotions assaulting him even though his whole body tightened

with the effort. Maybe this was what people meant about it being bad to keep stuff

bottled up inside. He'd just never honestly experienced that before. But he'd have to

experience it now, at least for the next couple of hours until she was gone. And maybe

then he'd feel better.

Hell, maybe he'd get Pete and some of the guys to go back to the village with him

tonight—maybe he'd find some
other
willing chick to take his mind off Ms. Gwendolyn Carnes. And this time, he'd be smart enough to keep it to one night—and smart enough

not to give a fuck

They'd gotten up late and didn't have time for breakfast before heading to their meeting with Charles. Where Wendy would sit on the opposite side of the table from Brandon and

bargain with them about Emerald Shores' future. That was the only reason she could

come up with as to why Brandon suddenly seemed so... chilly, despite the heat.

As they walked together toward the Emerald Shores offices, he was perfectly cordial,

but... something had changed. And it was actually hard to believe he'd just suddenly

popped into business mode, because when they had shared that business call yesterday,

he'd seemed perfectly able to discuss business without his entire personality changing.

He'd seemed irritated, but it hadn't lasted this long.

Was it... because she was leaving, because their affair was over? Last night, after all, things between them had gotten... intense. And she'd tried to pretend to herself later that it hadn't happened, or hadn't mattered, but it
had
happened.

"Is something wrong?" she asked as they wended their way past a small palm tree that arced over their path.

"No. Why?" He didn't even look at her as he answered.

"I don't know. You just seem... in a hurry."

"Because we're late." Not a playful 'Because we're late, bunny,' but just a stiff, cold

'Because we're late.'

She tried to lighten the mood with a smile. "You're the CEO. And I'm the person you're meeting. I think it'll all work out okay."

He simply shrugged. "Charles is meeting with us, too—his time is valuable and I respect that. And I'm never late—just a rule I live by. I take my work seriously, Wendy."

She felt affronted by his tone. "I know you do. I wasn't implying otherwise. You just seem... not yourself this morning."

"Maybe it's because I'm hungry. Hopefully Joanna will have some pastries. Or maybe it's because the future of my resort could ride on this meeting."

She didn't know what to say, how to answer. She trudged along beside him in another

summer suit and a pair of wedge heels that made it hard to keep up with him—and she

remained dumbfounded by his attitude.

When they reached the building, Brandon put on his usual, friendly smile for the

receptionist in the lobby, transforming instantly as he said good morning. "Do me a favor, will you, Anita? Call up and ask Joanna to let Charles know that Ms. Carnes and I are on the way. And tell her if she can make some donuts or pastries magically appear that I'll give her a huge raise," he added with a wink. Back to his old self. It left Wendy all the more confused. When had she become the enemy?