It was day six, and we’d finally managed to get out for that hike he’d been promising me. Hopping in his Jeep after another glorious morning of swimming, sex and breakfast cunnilingus, we parked at the base of the mountain, tossed on our sunglasses, SPF and backpacks and set forth up the trail.

We’d reached the top of The Belvedere Lookout, having made good time, and even though I was slightly out of breath from the trek, had I not been, the view alone would have done the job. It was stunning. You could see everything from the viewpoint, the entire island, in all its heart-shaped beauty.

It was busy at the top, loads of eager-beaver vacationers trying to snap that perfect shot, while at the same time avoid having an unknown person photo-bomb their attempt at a postcard-worthy photo (weren’t we all?). Sunset was the best time to come, Tate had said as we meandered around the top, dodging other weary but bright-eyed hikers, as it painted the sky into a rainbow of reds, oranges, pinks, yellows and purples. But if you wanted to hike (which we did), that was best done in the daylight. He promised that another night we’d drive up and enjoy the sunset. I didn’t really care either way; I was on top of the world and feeling amazing. The hike had been exhilarating, awakening muscles and challenging my lungs in ways I just didn’t experience doing the front crawl every morning in the pool. And the reward at the end was totally worth it. We were at the pinnacle of paradise, and I couldn’t imagine experiencing it with anyone else. My heart felt light and my mind clear as I swept my hair off my neck and dabbed a towel on my chest to mop up the thin layer of sweat that had accumulated.

“Tell me about your family,” Tate asked, handing me a water bottle out of his backpack.

“Thanks,” I replied, taking a healthy swig from the bottle, running the back of my wrist over my mouth.

We wandered over to the edge and elbowed our way to the front. The din of marveling and awestruck tourists along with the snap and click of cameras filled the warm breeze, while the unfettered view of the Opunohu Valley left many others in introspective silence. I was one of the quieter ones.

“So? Your family?” he asked again.

At this point, I’d pulled out my own camera and was adjusting the lens and specs to account for how bright it was. “What’s there to say?” I finally said, moving to the left just a smidge and out of the shadow of a big tall blond man behind me. He looked part mountain, part man. “Mom was sixteen when she had me. Never met my dad.”

Obviously that was not the answer Tate had been anticipating, because his eyebrows nearly shot clear off his tanned forehead. “Oh.”

I couldn’t hide the wry smirk that tugged at my lips as I continued to take pictures. That was most people’s response. They were left stunned silent, unsure of what to say next.

“It’s okay,” I said, checking the last couple of my shots on the screen. “It’s not that big of a deal. She did the best she could.”

“Like you don’t know who your dad is? Or he never wanted anything to do with you or your mother?”

Slanting him a side-eye, I moved over to another spot at the lookout, closer to the little souvenir stand, and started taking a few snapshots of the stand itself.

“As in she doesn’t know who he is. He could be one of three or four guys. My mother was . . . generous with her affections as a teenager, beautiful and a wild child. My grandparents both worked long hours and weren’t really around much to keep her on a clean and even path. Depending when I ask, I was either conceived at a pep rally, in the projection room of a movie theater or the back of a Ford pickup. Or my favorite, in a hot tub where there was nothing but hand stuff, but apparently his seed was just that potent.”

Tate snorted beside me, and I just rolled my eyes.

“But either way, my mother never told any of the men. I’m not sure she was able to find them after their night of reckless coupling, and so I was raised without a dad.”

“What about your grandparents? Did they step up?”

“Kind of, after the shock of it all wore off. They’d initially kicked my mother out, but after I was born and they found us living in pretty much squalor, they took us in. Though they were quick to point out that they would not be used as a babysitting service and my mother had to get a job and pay rent—which she did.”

Tate motioned for us to start heading back down the trail, and I nodded, stowing my camera in its bag and then slinging it over my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer than I thought I’d ever heard it, full of remorse and pity.

Shaking my head, I gave him a stern look. “I don’t need your pity. She tried her best, my mother. She worked three jobs, finally just got her GED a few years ago. And as much as she’s a bit of a partier now because she spent her twenties holed up with a kid, she was a good mother. She tried. She didn’t do drugs, didn’t drink. I was never hungry, never without a roof over my head or clean clothes. I graduated high school and then college. I was a lot better off than a lot of teenage-pregnancy babies. Apparently the year I was born was one of the worst years for teenage pregnancies. Something like twelve girls in my mother’s school became mothers before they turned eighteen.”

“Where did you say you were from again?” he asked, awe and disbelief in his tone.

“Bumpkinville, Mississippi,” I said sarcastically. The real name of the town was irrelevant. There were so many of them along Route 61 that they didn’t even make it onto most maps. We had one high school, one grocery store and one bar. That was it.

“Really? I can’t hear any accent.”

“Good.” I grinned back at him. “Then the thousands I spent on a speech coach paid off.”

“Running from your past, eh?”

“You pretty much left wherever in Canada you’re from and set up camp in a remote part of the world. Obviously your past wasn’t that rosy, either.” I knitted my brows together into a scowl. How dare he say I was running from my past? He didn’t know me at all.

“I never told you I was Canadian.” There was humor in his tone but not in his eyes. He was trying to get me to crack my shell, let him in, tear down my walls.

Never.

“The fact that you end nearly every question with an upward inflected ‘eh?’ betrayed your origin,” I said dryly.

“I’m from Victoria. It’s on an island close to Vancouver and Seattle. Beautiful city, and I’d live there again in a heartbeat. I’m not running from anything. I had a fantastic childhood. My mother and uncle were incredible role models. But I can do more good on a global scale here. But enough about me, we’re talking about you.”

“Not anymore we’re not.”

“Come on, Parker. Just because this arrangement is only a ten-day fling doesn’t mean I don’t care about you or want to get to know the woman I’m sleeping with. You’re more than just a piece of ass, to me anyway. I might be just a piece of ass to you, but to me you’re more than that.”

I stopped in my tracks and spun around to stare at him while my breath jammed up in my lungs, and I’m sure that stab to my abdomen was the bottom of my stomach giving way.

He moved into me.

“I like you, Parker.” His arms encircled my waist, and he pulled me tight against his hardness, the heat and draw of his body making me dizzy.

I was a moth to a flame. Despite the risk of being singed and rendered flightless, I was drawn to him. Drawn to the heat of his body, his intensity, his fire and passion. He wasn’t just a piece of ass to me, he was a breath of fresh air, he was . . . mine.

“And admit it.” His eyes held a seriousness to them, fathomless pools of sage that seemed to glow almost gold in the late morning light, but he also looked like he was trying to hide a smile. “You like me too. I’m more than just a piece of ass . . . although I do have a great ass.”

I made a noise in my throat that was somewhere between a snort and a giggle. But nothing else was able to come out, because his mouth slanted over mine, and that was the end of the conversation. Before I knew what was happening, he was running off the trail, through the thick green brush and into the jungle, with me in a front piggyback, my legs wrapped around his hips and arms around his neck. We were both out of breath by the time he stopped, even though I hadn’t been the one exercising.

Tate rammed my back up against a tree and then went to work on my clothes, shucking my sky-blue tank top, followed by my sports bra, which wasn’t easy to remove. My shorts were next. Then it was his turn. We were frantic, much like the first time we’d done it, desperate for skin-to-skin and each other, wanting nothing more than to have a connection to another person, to feel the rhapsodic glee that comes with orgasms and the feeling of being needed, claimed, possessed. And if there was anything Tate McAllister did well, besides run a hotel, make oodles of money, save refugees and fuck like it was his last day on earth, it was possessing me, mind, body and soul.

I let out a gasp followed by a mewl as he sheathed himself inside me, pushing my thong to the side, not even bothering to check if I was wet or not. He knew my body, he knew I would be. I was a walking slip and slide when the man was around.

“You’re more than just a piece of ass to me, Parker,” he grunted, his teeth and stubble raking their way across my collarbone as his fingers dug deep wells into the plump flesh of my ass, holding me up and pounding me against the tree. “Say it.”

Say what? My head tilted back, and I noticed gray clouds rolling in with ominous intent, dark and foreboding, threatening rain of the torrential kind and possibly some thunder and lightning too.

“Say it!” he demanded again. “Say I’m more than just a piece of ass to you. Say I’m more than a fling.”

“God, Tate . . .”

“Say it, Parker, or I’ll pull out right now. I know you feel it, too.”

“Tate . . .” His name was but a whisper past my lips as his body coaxed me to the brink but left me teetering on the edge. He knew exactly what he was doing. The man was a master, and he was going to tease me until I said what he wanted to hear or I passed out from sheer exhaustion.

“Say it, Parker!”

Every cell in my body felt it. It was more than just a fling, of course it was. I’d never been with a man like Tate McAllister, a man who made me excited to start every day and treat each moment like an adventure. But the fact of the matter was, this was just a fling. I was only here for ten days; after that I would be leaving and going back to reality, and he’d have his tropical haven and the next heartbroken guest to breathe new life into.

“Yes,” I finally sighed, deciding to give him what he wanted. It wasn’t a lie. I felt it all, too. But the way he kept his own walls up, his unwillingness to stay the night, to invite me to his place . . . it was all just as temporary to him, too, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“That’s right!” A snarl of satisfaction had him picking up speed and hammering into me harder, measured thrusts born of the triumph that shone in his eyes. His pelvic bone rubbed against my clit while his cock massaged that sweet spot deep inside me until I was a quivering mess, ready to let go and drift off up into the ether, hoping, wishing that Tate would come with me.

He bent his head low and latched onto a scarlet nipple, drawing the bud into the wet heat of his mouth, while letting his stubble prickle and torture my pale areolas. They were already hard and tender, so the soft bite of pain and deliberate tug were all I needed to shoot me clear over the edge. I gripped his cock like a fist and tumbled backward over the cliff, freefalling, holding on tight to Tate and encouraging him to join me.

Pleasure surged through me as the orgasm took hold, ripping around my body, taking no prisoners and giving no quarter. There would be no mercy shown this afternoon. This climax was out to destroy. My hands dove into his hair and I tugged on the ends, wanting to cause him just a touch of pain. I knew I’d succeeded when he inhaled harsh and quick and delivered a saucy pinch to the bottom of my left butt cheek. Even mid-orgasm, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re going to be the end of me, Parker. I lose my head when I’m with you.” His cadence was waning. He was getting close. I felt a quake pass through him, followed by a shudder, and then he stilled. His entire body went rigid, muscles flexed, body taut. He grunted and let his head fall to the crook of my neck while sharp teeth nipped and grazed my skin and made me mewl and beg for more. I milked him, squeezing myself tight around his pulsing shaft, feeling every rush of his seed as he filled me. The pressure of his release against my sensitive walls was enough, and with the toss of my head and a low groan, I leaped off the cliff one more time.

“I’m going to book you an appointment later today, okay?” Tate said when we’d spiraled back down to earth and claimed our clothes, dodging golf-ball-size raindrops as we hightailed it back to his Jeep.

“What kind of an appointment?” I asked. The rain was picking up, and I was starting to fear for my camera, even though the case was waterproof.

“You’ll know once you get there,” he said solemnly. “I think it could help you. Sort out some of your issues.”

He was being evasive again, and it irked me. What kind of issues did I have, exactly?

“If when you get there you don’t want to do it, you can walk right out and come punch me.”

I barked out a laugh, and he just flashed me a smile that made me want to tear off his clothes and ride him again. But then his brows met in the middle again.

“I want to help you, Parker, and I think this appointment might be able to do just that.”

We reached the Jeep and piled inside. It was a soft-top, so Tate hastily unrolled the canvas before the rain soaked the interior too badly, and then we were off, rosy-cheeked, drenched and ready for our next adventure.

* * *

I changed out of my wet hiking clothes and into something a little more comfortable and beachy. It was still raining pretty hard, so the inside of the hotel was buzzing like a sunscreen-scented beehive with people in every imaginable corner. It made me quickly realize how busy and populated the resort really was. When it was sunny and warm, people were much more scattered, and the property seemed less full. I walked down the hallway past the pool and the soundproof room, around the corner where I waved at Janessa behind the desk and then to the left where a door marked “Allison Sheffield” had me coming to an abrupt halt and getting ready to knock. All sorts of “help with my issues” scenarios raced through my head. Was she some special massage therapist? Reiki? Hypnotist? I honestly had no clue.

I hadn’t even knocked when the door swung open and a woman wearing light linen pants and an understated short-sleeved pink blouse smiled widely at me. She was probably no more than three or four years older than me, with wavy brown hair that fell just below her shoulders, a classically symmetrical round face with peachy cheeks and naturally long lashes that encased dark chocolate eyes.

“You must be Parker?” she said, a delightfully soft British lilt flowing at me like a melodic hum.

I nodded. “Yes, I am.” I stuck my hand out. She took it with a knowing smile. Her hands were soft and delicate, with long fingers and beautifully shaped nails.

“Well, welcome. Come on in, won’t you? Have a seat, and we’ll get started.”

I followed her inside the room, which at first glance appeared to be an office, but upon further inspection looked more like a therapy room, with two mirror image couches facing each other, a couple of other chairs and a bookshelf that housed works by Freud, Jung, Erickson, Morgan, Skinner, Chapman and Joannides. She took a seat on one of the cream-colored couches and motioned for me to do the same. But I’d stopped mid-stride and was just gaping around the room. Diplomas and certificates, one from Cambridge, another Oxford. I think she’d gone to Brown and done something as well; it was too far down the wall for me to know. She was a shrink. Tate had sent me to see a shrink!

Shaking my head, I started to back up. “Uh, I think both you and Mr. McAllister may have been mistaken here. I don’t need a shrink.” My hand was on the doorknob now.

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. You don’t have to sit and talk with me. We could just stare at each other for an hour. Or we could talk about whatever you want to talk about, work, your life, nail polish, your favorite food or cooking show. Or you can go. Totally up to you.”

I cocked my head at her like the curious kitten I felt like, unsure what I’d just gotten myself into but not altogether terrified. “Why does Ta— Mr. McAllister think I need a shrink?”

“I’m not a shrink,” she said with an amused eye roll. “I’m a clinical counselor who happens to specialize in family, relationship, sex and meta-psychotherapy. I also teach yoga. We’re all multi-taskers here. One of the doctors on site is also a personal trainer, and I think the other one is a lifeguard. My husband is the executive chef in the Tiki Lounge.”

I’m not sure why she said that last bit. Perhaps it was to quell the subconscious worry that perhaps Dr. Sheffield and Tate were lovers, or at the very least, itch scratchers. It wasn’t until she said anything that I realized that had been precisely what I’d been thinking. And why wouldn’t I? She was gorgeous.

My fingers left the knob, and I took a couple of steps deeper into the room. She held out her hand, offering the couch again, like one might offer up a scrap of food to a mangy and snarling dog, with equal parts kindness and hesitation. If she was too forceful, I’d bite off her hand and run away; too gentle, and I wouldn’t take her seriously. This woman knew exactly what she was doing. With a resigned sigh, I ate up the rest of the distance and slumped into the couch cushions.

“I’m not sure what Tate thinks I need help with. I’m perfectly fine. Unless he thinks I’m crazy?”

Dr. Sheffield smiled a small smile and jotted something down on her notepad.

“I’m not crazy, you know? At least I don’t think I am. Heartbroken? Yes. Lost? Yeah, probably. Contemplating a career change? You betcha. Unhappy? Well, up until recently, that too had been a big ol’ yes.”

“Oh?” Her eyes lit up, and for the first time since I’d arrived, I noticed a hint of copper glimmering just around the pupil. I’d never seen such interesting or beautiful brown eyes. They were like shimmering cocoa truffles with flecks of gold leaf. “And why are you all of sudden happy? What has changed?”

“Don’t get carried away with that admission there, doc.”

“All right, then, so why don’t we talk about why you’re heartbroken and lost, rather than why you’re happy. It seems you’d prefer not to focus on the good things.”

Well, that was like a cold slap in the face.

I toed at a piece of fluff on the harsh white tile, deliberately avoiding her gaze. “My mom was sixteen when she had me. She did her best. But as soon as I turned eighteen, I got the hell out of there and only go back twice a year. I hired a speech coach to help me lose the drawl and have spent the last fourteen years trying to reinvent myself, distance myself from that town, that life, that . . . stigma. I don’t know my father, and you mind-meddlers would probably say I have daddy issues. I might in fact. Xavier seems to think I do.”

“Who is Xavier?”

“My ex. He dumped me about three weeks ago, in a room full of people with his mistress sitting on his lap.” I couldn’t stop the derisive snort that burst through my nose.

Dr. Sheffield lifted one perfectly spa-threaded eyebrow. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Do you provide counseling for all the staff too?” I asked.

Her lip twitched. “Yes.”

“Figures.”

The eyebrow ascended again. “Figures?”

“He’s fucking perfect, isn’t he? A modern-day Robin Hood. Only he’s not stealing from the rich, he’s just giving them something highly prized for an exorbitant price. Then turning around and giving back to the less fortunate, those that need it the most. Does the man have a flaw?”

“Mr. McAllister?”

“Of course, Mr. McAllister. Do you call him Tate?”

She shook her head. “Not very often, no.”

“Why?”

“Because as staff we’ve drawn a clear line—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that spiel before. Don’t want to muddy the water. So does Tate . . . Mr. McAllister have any friends?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Her lips pursed into a perfect little pale pink rosebud.

“Does he come to see you for sessions?”

“I can’t answer that, either.”

I exhaled through my nose and eyed her with building frustration. “So, what’s wrong with me?”

A sculpted shoulder bobbed ever so slightly, making the waves of her hair glimmer and shine in the light that burst through the big north-facing window. It would appear the rains had fled and the clouds had parted, because outside it was beautifully bright. The sun was peeking in through gauzy drapes, while a fan in the corner made them move ever so slightly. I suppose an open window would defeat the privacy aspect of this session, even though at that moment I was feeling rather suffocated and would have liked some fresh air.

“Let me ask you something, Miss Ryan. Think of a time when you were most happy. When was the time you were at your happiest? Close your eyes.” I did as I was told. “All right now, focus.”

“Okay.” Still skeptical but willing to give it a whirl.

“Do you have that moment?”

As soon as I closed my eyes, Tate’s face popped up. We were out on the boat, hiking, wandering through the orchard picking fruit, sitting at the Tiki Lounge eating dinner, on my veranda laughing and clinking our breakfast mimosa glasses. Every moment that had any kind of happiness in it was full of Tate. I couldn’t find a moment in the last week, month . . . year where I had felt even as remotely happy as I did in these last few days.

“Do you have that moment?” she asked again.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Now hold on to it. You don’t have to tell me when it was, but just think. How can you get back to that moment, that feeling? Who were you with? What were you doing? If being happy is what you’re after, do the things that make you happy, be with people that make you happy.”

I swallowed, and the feeling of a warm tear trickling down my cheek made my whole chest shake. The thought of having to leave all this happiness in just a few days made my heart hurt. I wanted to feel this way forever.

“You can open your eyes, Miss Ryan.”

Licking my lips and trying to discreetly sweep my finger beneath my eye to catch the stray drop, I fixed her with a look that was equal parts confusion and frustration. How dare she make me identify what made me happy when that happiness was fleeting? When there wasn’t anything I could do to hang on to it? I couldn’t afford to stay here more than the week and a half I was slotted, and even though Tate had said I was more than just a piece of ass, he sure as hell wasn’t in love with me and about to ask me to stay. That was pure insanity.

“Now, how do you feel?”

“Pissed!” I said, trying hard to pop her head off with my mind power.

“Wonderful,” she cheered, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. “Let’s explore that, shall we?”

* * *

Since the good doctor’s time was fixed into the price of the hotel stay and she didn’t have any appointments or a yoga session after me, we ended up talking for nearly two hours. I spilled my guts. All about Xavier, my seemingly endless stream of Mr. Wrongs before him, all crappy guys who treated me like an afterthought or not a thought at all, and my aloofness toward it all. My dead fish exterior that bored men and inevitably caused them to break it off in search of someone more adventurous and alive. Because when I dug down deep, really, really deep, Xavier wasn’t the first man to call me boring or dull. An ice queen or dead fish or some variation of the insult.

Of course, this all stemmed from my lack of a father figure, or so the good doctor had me deduce. Apparently, I’d put up these giant walls around myself and donned this “I don’t need a man” attitude that could be seen from space. And that wall, inevitably, pushed all the men in my life away. They felt neither needed nor wanted, because I was too afraid of getting attached to someone only to have them leave me later on.

For so long I’d tried to leave the life I’d been brought up in behind, and I’d ultimately succeeded. No more drawl. My driver’s license said “Resident of New York.” And when I HAD to go home, no one recognized me anymore when I walked through the lone and rundown grocery store. I’d achieved what I set out to do, and that was exorcise Mississippi from my veins, my soul, my life. I lost the glasses, grew my hair out, lost twenty pounds, started using top-shelf moisturizers and wrinkle creams. I had a standing appointment at the salon every eight weeks for a trim and every five weeks with my eye-brow threader. I’d dabbled with Botox and fillers for a while but realized I didn’t need them, though Xavier seemed to think I needed to start getting them again. But I wasn’t a fan. I changed everything about myself thinking that it would make me happy. Make me whole. When instead it had turned me into this sad, empty, emotionless robot. Prim and cold and incapable of forging warm and serious relationships because I was terrified that the “true” me, the “real” me, the Parker Ryan from Bumpkinville, Mississippi, would be found out and be looked down on. I’d gone and taken up with the likes of Xavier Rollins, a man so snobby, so conceited, with his head so far and so firmly embedded up his own ass, that I’d forsaken and forgotten all the good parts of myself in the process. I had become a snob just like Xavier, looking down on my past life, on my mother, on my family, and in turn, on myself; forsaking fun, adventure and excitement because it wasn’t “cool.”

By the end of the session I was a sobbing mess, clutching tissues in both hands as I cried through my explanations, rehashing every single relationship I’d ever had—down to my eighth-grade boyfriend, Beau, and how he’d humiliated me at our school dance by sneaking off with my best friend, Shelly, to go and make out behind the stage. It may have even been as early on as that moment that I removed my emotions from the equation and went into a relationship guarded. I’d cried for hours over Beau, but after seeing the mascara stains on my pillowcase, I’d vowed never to let a man make me feel that way again. I didn’t need their love or attention to be whole, to be successful, to be happy. What I’d needed was to get the hell out of Mississippi, and start a new life. And I’d done just that. Only I’d done so at the cost of my own soul. Because as successful as I was, as far as I’d come in the last fourteen years, I was neither whole nor happy, and none of that had been because of a man.

I left Dr. Sheffield’s office feeling better. I still didn’t think it was possible to obtain the happiness I felt with Tate and hold on to it for more than my allotted time on the island, but during our discussion, without giving away the identity of the man I was smitten with, I decided that I was going to take this time as the respite from seriousness that I needed. I was going to go with the flow (something I’d never done) and live each day on its own and to its fullest, with zero expectation or plan. Besides, Tate had everything planned; he expected me to just submit, sit back and enjoy. I could do that. I would do that.

A quick stop in the lobby washroom had me splashing cold water on my face and regaining my composure. It had been a very revealing two hours, but a good two hours. I hadn’t expected to see a therapist while on vacation, but Tate seemed to know exactly what I needed; he’d been on the money every day so far.

“Do you know where Mr. McAllister is?” I asked Janessa at the front desk, after making sure my eyes no longer looked like two red-rimmed orbs of sadness.

“I believe he is upstairs in his office, Miss Ryan.” She smiled. “Would you like me to call and check?”

I nodded. “Yes, please.”

The queen of discretion and poise, Janessa called upstairs and spoke with Tate, and whether she knew of more than just a professional relationship she didn’t let on, but she also didn’t disclose as to why she was calling. My arrival at his door would be a secret. How had she known that’s what I’d wanted but was too afraid to ask for?

“He’s up there, Miss Ryan.” Her face didn’t give away anything. If I lived here, I’d try my damndest to befriend that woman. She was spectacular.

I gave her a quick nod of my own, then pushed the button for the elevator. “Thanks, Janessa. I’m going to head on up then.”

“You’re welcome, Miss.” Then finally, after she’d made sure no other staff member, guest or otherwise saw her, she gave me the most indiscernible wink. But I caught it. She put her head back down and started to tap away on the keyboard. Son of a gun, she knew!

In no time, I was standing in front of his office door. Feelings of nostalgia ran through me without restraint as thoughts from the last time I’d prepared myself to tap my knuckles to the smooth teak took my whole body by storm. It’d only been a few days, but already so much had changed. I knocked quickly and then waited.

“Come in,” he called from inside, the shuffling of papers muffled through the door.

Hesitantly, I opened it, poking my head around the corner. “You busy?”

At the sound of my voice, his head snapped up from where he’d been glowering at a document on his desk. The smile on his face made my skin tingle. Even the ends of my hair felt the spark. He was up and out of his chair and, in less than six strides, across the room and pulling me into the depths of his office.

“So, how was it?”

I gave him a sideways look. “You mean my therapy session? You shanghaied me into seeing a shrink while I’m on vacation!” But I couldn’t hide my smile, and my need for his touch wouldn’t allow me to pull away from his embrace.

“You’re not on vacation, you’re working,” he said with a wily grin, tugging me against his warm, hard frame. My whole body ignited. A needy heat pooled between my legs, want amplified by emotion, and right now I was a rollercoaster of emotions.

“You know what I mean,” I finally said, letting him tug me over to the couch, but I resisted that and instead steered him back over to his desk chair, pushing him into the body-hugging leather, hearing it whoosh out air and the springs slightly groan as they took his weight.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his eyes wary as he attempted to figure out what I was up to.

“I was,” I started, sinking to my knees in front of him and wedging my way between his thighs. I started to unbutton his dress shirt, letting each morsel of sun-kissed skin reveal itself. Faint threads of dark hair came into view as I released each opalescent button, defining the valley that led to his taut stomach and down into the waist of his slacks. “But in the end I gave in and we talked.”

“Good. And how do you feel now?”

“I still have some thinking to do, lots and lots of thinking, but I also feel better. Dr. Sheffield offered for me to come back again before I leave. If I have the time, I might take her up on it. Otherwise maybe I’ll look into counseling when I get back to New York.”

“Wha—” His Adam’s apple heaved thick and heavy in his throat as I snaked my hand into the front of his trousers. “What did you guys discuss?”

I fished around inside his pants and pulled out his erection. A delicious bead of pre-cum glistened on the head like a pearl.

“Unless you’re willing to tell me what you and the good doctor talk about, my lips are sealed . . . besides when I do this, of course.” I dipped my head low and let him bottom out in my throat.

“Sh-she told you I got to see her?” he stammered, his hands making their way into my hair.

I popped up and off his cock and gave him a sinister grin of triumph. “No, but you just did.” Then I bent my head again and went to task, making the most of my time on Moorea, of the moment, of paradise . . . of Tate.