Humiliation engulfed the need.
She was so going to unpack the vibrator Ruby had bought her for the trip, and test-drive it in her room tonight. Deciding she wasn’t highly sexed enough to need artificial stimulation had obviously been way off the mark. And Ruby had once sworn by hers—before she’d found her husband, Callum.
‘That should keep you from getting barbecued again, at any rate.’ The rough comment intruded on her frantic debate about the merits of vibrators. And the blush went haywire.
She stretched her lips into what she hoped looked like a grateful smile—instead of the first stages of nymphomania. ‘I really appreciate it.’
She watched as he snapped the cap onto the lotion bottle. Only to become momentarily transfixed by the sight of those long, blunt, capable fingers glistening in the sunlight from the oily residue.
‘There you go.’ He held out the lotion bottle as another inappropriate jolt of arousal pulsed into her sex.
Locating her backpack, she spent several additional seconds shoving the bottle back into it, pathetically grateful when her hands finally stopped trembling. Maybe if she drew this out long enough the blush might have retreated out of the forbidden zone too.
‘Thank you, that was...’ She groped for the right word—awesome being definitely the wrong word, even if it was the one sitting on the tip of her tongue.
‘You’re welcome.’
Her lungs seized at the glow of amusement in the deep green depths of his eyes. The blip of panic returned as she got lost in the rugged male beauty of his face—the chiselled cheekbones, the shadow of stubble on the strong line of his jaw, the tantalising dimple in his chin.
How could any man be this gorgeous? This potently male? It just wasn’t fair on the female of the species.
The sensual lips twitched, as if he were valiantly suppressing a grin.
Get a flipping grip. The man offered to be your snorkel buddy, not your bonk buddy.
‘So we’re all set?’ The rough question echoed in her sex.
‘Unless you need me to return the favour?’ She coughed, when the offer came out on an unladylike squeak. ‘With the sun lotion, I mean. So you don’t burn.’
The suggestion trailed off as his eyebrows lifted a fraction and the edge of his mouth kicked up in one of those sensual, secret smiles that had been making her breathing quicken all morning. It stopped altogether now.
Shut up. You did not just say that? You sad, sad, sex-deprived nymphomaniac.
‘Forget it, that was a silly thing to say.’ She raced to cover the gaff. ‘I don’t know why I suggested it.’ Cooper Delaney’s sun-kissed skin had the healthy glow of a year-round tan weathered by sea air. He’d probably never had to use lotion in his entire life. ‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry about sunburn. Perhaps we should just—’
‘That sounds like a great idea.’ The easy comment cut through her manic babble.
‘It does?’
His lips kicked up another notch. ‘Sure, you can never have enough protection, right?’
Was he mocking her? And could she summon the will to care while she was barely able to breathe?
‘Um, right. I’ll get the lotion, then.’ She dived back into her bag, rummaging around for what felt like several decades as she tried to locate the lotion before he changed his mind. She found it just in time to see him lift the hem of his T-shirt over his head and throw it over the console.
All the blood rushed out of her brain as she stood, poised like the Statue of Liberty, clutching the lotion like Liberty’s torch.
Oh. My. God. His chest is a work of art.
Sun-bleached hair curled around flat copper nipples as if to accentuate the mounds of his exceptionally well-defined pecs. She followed the trail down between the ridged muscles of his six-pack, then swallowed convulsively as the thin strip of hair tapered beneath the waistband of his cut-offs, drawing her attention to the roped sinews that stood out in bold relief against the line of his hip bones.
No wonder it’s called a happy trail. I feel euphoric.
‘Thanks, honey. I appreciate it.’ His gruff words interrupted her reverie as he presented her with an equally breathtaking view of his back.
His spine bisected the slabs of packed muscle, sloping down to the tattoo of a Celtic Cross, inked across the base of his back, which peeked out above his shorts. Her gaze dipped lower, to absorb the sight of a perfectly toned male ass framed in battered denim.
She cleared her throat loudly, before she choked to death on her own drool. ‘Is, um, is factor fifty okay?’
He lifted one muscular shoulder, let it drop. ‘Whatever you’ve got is good.’
The low words seemed to rumble through her torso, making her pulse points vibrate.
She squeezed a lake of the viscous white liquid into unsteady palms. Taking a deep breath, she flattened her palms onto the hot, smooth skin of his back, while her lungs clogged with the tempting scent of cocoa butter and man.
The muscles tensed as she spread the thick lotion, and absorbed the heat of his skin, the steely strength beneath.
Moisture gathered in the secret spot between her thighs, which now felt as if it was swollen to twice its normal size.
As she spread the white liquid over the wide expanse of his back, and massaged it into his skin, she timed her breathing to the beat of the timpani drum in her ear, in a desperate attempt to stop herself from hyperventilating.
And passing out before the job was done.
* * *
Cooper touched Ella’s arm, signalling with his index finger to draw her attention to the blue angel fish darting beneath the shelf of fiery orange coral. Her eyes popped wide behind the mask and her expressive mouth spread into a delighted grin around her mouthpiece.
As they hovered above the reef he watched her admire the brilliant aquamarine of the fish’s scales, the white-tipped fins, and the pretty golden edging on the tail, while he admired the open excitement on her face and the buoyant breasts barely contained by purple spandex.
His groin twitched, the blood pumping south despite the chill of the seawater. The sudden flashback, of her stretching under his hands, her breathing coming out on a strangled groan as he caressed the firm skin, didn’t do much to deter the growing erection.
He adjusted his junk, grateful for the wet denim of his shorts. Which had been holding him in check ever since he’d dived into the ocean, leaving Dwayne to fit Ella’s flippers and snorkelling gear, before she spotted the telltale ridge in his pants.
They’d been out on the reef for over half an hour now, and he’d mostly got himself under control. But the sight of that shy, excited smile, every time he showed her some new species of fish, or the barnacled wreck of the Montana, had been almost as mesmerising as the feel of her fingers fluttering over his bicep whenever she wanted to point something out to him, or the sight of all those lush curves bobbing in the waves.
The woman was killing him. So much so that his golden rule about hooking up with single lady tourists was in danger of being blown right out of the water.
As she pointed delightedly to a shoal of parrot fish flicking past he recalled why he’d made his golden rule in the first place.
Single ladies on holiday generally fell into one of two categories: those on the hunt for no-strings thrills, or those on the look-out for an exotic island romance. As both scenarios invariably involved lots of sex, he’d been more than happy to indulge in hook-ups with the clients when he’d first arrived on the island a decade ago. But back then he’d been eighteen going on thirty with a chip