"An excuse to turn me over your knee." She licks her lips. "You're welcome."
"I don't need an excuse," I growl. She won't stop squirming, and I can't wait any more. "Get on your knees and finish what you started. If I feel you're properly grateful, I'll devour you until you scream. If I'm not convinced, you get a spanking and nothing else."
She pouts. "Can't I have both?"
I glare at her. "No."
I'm a terrible liar.
***
So that's how I end up on a beach in Hawaii with my once and former secretary, and I do not buy an engagement ring before we leave, because that would be insane.
I think about it, though. I think about it when she thanks me that night I tell her about the trip, so perfectly with her mouth and tongue, and then actually thanks me later, sincerely, with love shining in her eyes. I think about it when she says she's sorry for being such a brat and strokes my hair and tells me how excited she is, and how wonderful I am.
Then, I have to eat her out until my jaw aches to keep myself from proposing on the spot.
When it comes time to leave, we hold hands in the airport. I'll say that again: we hold hands. In the airport.
And I'm grinning like an idiot the whole time.
But I'm fine, really, I'm keeping it together, until we get to the beach and she steps out of the coverup and I quickly realize I should have made her model that swimsuit when we were in private. What the hell is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me, in fact, is that I had a feeling we'd never make it to the beach if I did. And I was right.
It's been a long journey, getting here. Last summer she must have bought ten different suits. From those cutesy swimsuits with the built-in skirt, to a normal one-piece, to a tankini, to one of those vintage high-waisted bikinis that covers almost as much. All beautiful, and all desperately sexy, but this one signifies something else. Something important.
I picked it out for her. I've imagined her in it, but never actually seen it, not until now. And aside from mentally reciting the periodic table of the elements to stave off a very inconvenient erection, I'm consumed with the realization that I'm the only person in the world whose opinion really matters to her.
And if that's not love, what is?
The reality of the situation is this. Some people on the beach are going to be attracted to her. I want to kill every single one of them. Other people, they're going to look and judge. I want to kill them, too. Slowly.
But she doesn't care.
The confidence that shines from her is something I have cultivated so carefully over the last six months. I can't actually take credit for it, because I know what it really means. That she's chosen to believe me. To value my opinion over the ugly judgment of strangers. That she's chosen to love me.
Halfway to the water, she turns and looks at me. "Are you coming?"
With the breeze picking up her fiery hair and shifting it across her shoulder, her eyes sparkling, and the deep blue of the skimpy suit setting off her skin, it's sort of a crime that the only thing I can look at is the little dimples just above her ass.
You know the ones I'm talking about. If you've ever admired a woman with curves in a bikini, you know exactly the ones I'm talking about.
I go to her and grab her hand, pulling her against me. "This was a mistake," I mutter into her hair, glaring at everyone in the vague proximity.
She giggles. "It's too hot out here, anyway. Let's go back to the hotel."
This request is accompanied by her fingers dipping just slightly under the waistband of my swimming trunks. Between our bodies, it would be hard for anyone to notice, but I grab her wrist anyway.
"Stop that."
Meg is still giggling.
"You wanted this to happen, didn't you?" I ask her, accusingly, though I can hardly hold back my smile.
She bites her lower lip. "I hoped it would," she confesses. "You're at your most handsome when you get that look on your face. You know, like you're trying very hard not to picture your cock sliding into me."
I growl. My hand is gripping her half-naked ass and I've got a feeling someone's about to tap me on the shoulder and remind me that this is a family beach. "When we get back, I'm going to make you bend over and spread your legs for me," I murmur in her hear. "You're not to move until I get tired of looking at you. Then you'll hold those perfect tits together for me to fuck. I need to see your pretty neck marked with my come."
"And?" she whispers, staring at me.
"And?" I echo. "What makes you think you get to come? You've been a bad girl. Teasing me in public."
"You gave me this suit," she reminds me, with a grin. "If you can't handle the heat, get out of the designer bikini."
"Oh, that'll come later." I smile indulgently. "After it's been properly christened."
There's something wild and desperate in her eyes. "Come on," she whispers, tugging my hand. I follow her, not knowing exactly where she's going until I realize we're headed towards the changing tents on the far end of the beach. The area's mostly deserted, but I still give her a look.
"Come on, Ryn," she whispers. She licks her lips, quickly. "Baby - I swear to God - this is not the time to get shy."
I glance over my shoulder, laughing a little, although I know the battle's already lost. I'm hard as a fucking rock and I'm not going anywhere unless it's directly into one of these tents, and subsequently, hopefully, into her mouth.
"Everyone's going to know." I don't even think anyone's watching, but my heart's beating so loud, I can hardly hear my own thoughts.
"Good." Her eyes blaze as she pulls me towards the zippered door. "I want them to. I want those runway-ready bitches who purse their lips at me for daring to show skin - I want them to know. I want them to hate me for getting to suck your cock."
I groan softly as she pulls me into the tent, into her arms, into the most wonderful circle of hell.
And that's when I know she has to be my wife. Sooner, rather than later.
***
It's four A.M., and I still can't sleep.
Meg snores softly beside me. She claims she doesn't, and I don't argue with her, because apparently that's the person I've become. But I love the sound. I honestly do.
Just one more sign that this is the beginning of the fucking end.
I stare at the ceiling. If we go home, if we leave this island - if I get on that plane without making her my wife first -
I can't.
Quietly, I get up and pull my clothes on. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do, but I know what I have to find.
I'm out on the street, hailing a cab, before I realize that I've managed to leave my phone and my hotel key behind.
Great. Perfect. At least I have my wallet.
The cab driver squints at me as I climb in. "Is there a jewelry store around here?" I ask him.
He gives me the appropriate look. "It's the middle of the night, man."
"I know that," I grumble. "Come on - help me out."
The driver shrugs. "I mean, my brother owns a pawn shop across town. I can wake him up, but he's not going to be happy."
"He'll be happy." I pull out my wallet. "I promise."
***
It's occurring to me, as I look through the selection, that Meg might not appreciate a pawned engagement ring.
I could propose without one, of course, but that's not the same. At this point I think I know her pretty well. I don't think she'll actually care. In fact, she'll probably appreciate that I didn't really contribute to the blood diamond industry. But if you have even a hint of the superstitious about you, there is something odd about starting a relationship with an edge of desperation, failure, and revenge.
Then again, this is us.
The cab driver's brother looks tired but alert, his eyes glittering at my expensive look. No matter how I dress it down, I still stink of money, and it actually comes in handy in situations like this.
At first.
"How much for that one?" I'm pointing to something delicate and vintage in white gold, and I know next to nothing about jewelry, but I have a feeling Meg will like it. It looks like it'll fit on her finger. It's not too ostentatious, not by a long shot, but it sort of reminds me of a necklace I know she likes.
The driver - whose name, it turns out, is Peter - looks at his brother, and his brother looks at him.
"Uh … two thousand," the shop owner says, finally.
I frown at him. "It has to be worth more than that."
I'm normally a very good negotiator, but I don't actually enjoy ripping people off. Not when it comes to something like this.
He laughs. "Nobody else is gonna pay me that much for it. But if you want to peel off a few extra bills, I won't cry myself to sleep."
I do end up overpaying for it, mostly because I got the man out of bed, and he wraps it up in tissue paper for me.
"No box?" I don't know why that surprises me.
"Drop it in a glass of champagne," he suggests. "Chicks love that shit."