Tension is building inside of me. My clit throbbing. I feel like I’m about to burst; I’m so turned on. “West, please,” I moan, needing him to touch me there. Make me come.
Sensing what I need, he slides the bottle out of me and then tips the gin on over my pussy. His head dips down between my legs, and he starts to lap at my clit.
And I start to come in naught-point-three seconds after the first touch of his tongue on me.
“West!” I cry. My back arches as I come hard against his mouth. The most explosive orgasm I’ve had with him so far.
I fall back against the lounger, panting. West kisses his way up my body. Lips grazing over my sensitive nipple, making my body twitch.
He presses his mouth to mine, slipping his tongue inside, kissing me. “So fucking hot,” he murmurs again.
“I can’t believe I just let you do that to me,” I whisper, reality washing over me.
I just got fucked by a gin bottle labeled Death’s Door. I’m not sure if that’s a bad omen or not. But considering I just came like a motherfucker, I’m gonna say, not. And I know I should probably feel shame or embarrassment, but I just don’t.
West ducks his head, looking into my eyes. “It was seriously fucking hot, babe. Easily the hottest sexual experience I’ve ever had.”
That lights me up inside because I figure West has had a lot of awesome sexual experiences in his life.
“Mine too,” I whisper.
His eyes smile at me, and his lips kiss me again. “Come on. Let’s shower this gin off us.” He pushes up to stand and holds his hand out to me to help me up, which I happily accept.
He reaches down and grabs his swim trunks.
“You need those in the shower?” I question him as we start to walk through my villa, in the direction of the bathroom.
“No. I need the condoms that are in the pocket because I plan on fucking you in the shower.”
Okay then.
As he tugs me along to the bathroom, I’m reminded of the day I arrived. How was that only a few days ago? I said to myself that this villa was a romance-free zone, and yet here I am with West.
But then, this thing I have going on with him definitely isn’t romance. It’s fucking. Raw, animalistic, I’ve never experienced anything like this in my life fucking.
And it’s bloody awesome.
sixteen
Dillon
“Has everyone placed their bets?” the host calls through his microphone.
A chorus of yeses rings out from the crowd around us.
“I can’t believe I’m betting on a crab. Or that I’m actually excited about it.”
West’s deep chuckle brushes over my ear. He’s standing behind me, his hands resting casually against my hips, the bottle of beer he’s holding in one of his hands pleasurably cool against me in this hot air, as we stand around a circle that’s been worked into the sand, near the beach bar. A black-and-white racing stripe encircles the outside of the racetrack, and in the middle waits our competition, covered by a big, clear bowl.
“Our sources of entertainment are limited here,” he says into my ear. “Aside from us fucking, of course.”
I glance back at him. It’s early evening. The sun has set, and the light is provided from the bar just behind us and the fire lanterns situated all around in the sand. I lightly brush my lips over his. And I really like the shiver I feel in his chest when I do it.
“We do have good sex,” I whisper.
“Correction: you and I have fucking amazing sex. Wanna ditch the crab race and go back to my place and fuck instead?”
My teeth dig into my lower lip. “You have no clue how tempting that offer is. But … I really wanna see if my crab wins.”
He arches a brow. “You’re choosing a crab over my cock?”
A laugh escapes me. “Well, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear. And, no, my competitive need is demanding that I stay here and find out if that little crab—the one I cannot currently see, but he’s over there somewhere with the number fourteen painted on his shell—is gonna win for me. We can go have all the amazing sex right after I’m done winning.”
“You know, it’s cute that you picked number fourteen because you thought it’s how big my dick is.”
I quirk a brow. “I picked it because it’s the number of orgasms you’ve given me.”