Chapter Three
Mila
Holiday Hangover
Through half-lidded eyes, I take in the incredible sight of what I’m sure is the most perfect male body on the planet. Magnificently sculpted pectorals gently undulate up and down with each restful breath he draws. His abs display a rippling six-pack even in repose. Rumpled white sheets veil an astonishing specimen of pure male power, one that I know has scarred and spoiled me for life, but in the best possible way. I can still feel his raging-hard thrusts inside my warm and willing body, and I can’t deny I want more. But I know there can’t be. Soon I have to leave Australia and this wonderful vacation behind.
Derric. His name is Derric, and I can’t believe I’ve slept with a man I met on the beach not twenty-four hours ago. I don’t even know his last name. His gorgeous face tilts slightly away from me, one brawny arm thrown over his head in a languid pose of utter peace and confidence. His tousled, sun-kissed blond locks drape across his forehead, and I resist the urge to run my fingers through it lest I wake this slumbering masterpiece of manhood. He’s so fucking beautiful; there’s no other word for it.
And at least for one night, he was my masterpiece. All too soon he’ll be only a memory... A photograph tucked in a padded album hidden in a dresser drawer. A holiday fling. What happens in Oz never happened, Claire and I agreed. I sigh in wistful disappointment that this fantasy has to end, but in blissful satisfaction over the lovemaking Derric and I shared.
My God, I’d never been so turned on by a guy in my life. I have few inhibitions when it comes to sex; not exactly a female libertine, but I consider myself a free spirit. The artist in me, I suppose. The way he’d pulled me inside his apartment, flattened me against the door after barely closing it and kissing me with ruthless insistence, left me breathless. And his hand slipping inside the front of my dress to cup my throbbing breast, my nipples tingling in sweet pain as they hardened to diamond points under his touch, set me on fire.
I clutched at his shirt, impatient to reveal the finely-tuned, rock-hard body I knew lay beneath. His deft fingers pulled the lace that held the neck of my dress in place, letting the material fall away. With his nude torso pressed against my unfettered breasts, he lifted my legs to wrap around him and carried me to this room. He lay me on his bed, caging my body with his own half-naked one, his lips sucking the hard spikes of my nipples then tracing a line down my torso with his tongue. Soon, my dress and thong were cast to the floor, and my thighs parted to receive the ultimate Aussie kiss, his clever tongue thrusting into my wet and waiting entrance. Can’t say as I’ve ever been tongue-fucked before, and I came harder than I ever thought possible.
My private muscles clenched at the memory, wondering if there might be a repeat performance this morning as my hungry eyes rove again over his muscled landscape. Dare I touch him? Will he disappear into a dreamlike hallucination if I do? Suddenly he stirs, a low rumble issuing from deep within his burly chest. His head turns toward me, and his eyelids lift to reveal the dreamy ocean-blue irises I feel I could drown in as easily as the surf he’d saved me from.
“G’day,” he murmurs, blinking.
“G’day,” I reply, a contented smile curving across my face. “Sleeping beauty.”
His lovely blues close as his lips form a sleepy grin. “I think that’s my line, love.” He chuckles.
My belly hums in renewed beginnings of arousal at his adorable, sleepy countenance. I feel like I could wake up next to this man until the end of time and never get enough of that sweet, dimpled grin and husky bedroom voice.
“As I recall, Sleeping Beauty was awakened with a kiss,” he says, touching the tip of his finger to his lips.
“Is that what you’d like?” I ask.
“For starters,” he says, drawing me to him. I feel the comforting, steady beat of his heart as our bodies meet. His fingers slip into the hair at the nape of my neck and pull my face within kissing range. “Then we’ll see what comes next.” He captures my mouth in another of the sweetest, most powerful kisses I can ever remember. His lips on mine sweep me into the center of a perfect, blissful storm of contentment yet unrequited desire, of a desperate longing for something I know I can never have.
Him. Body and soul.
Our lips part and I close my eyes, clinging onto the emotion, the scents, the tactile sensations of skin and soft cotton that surround me, so that I can never forget them, nor this moment.
“And what’s next?” I whisper.
“Breakfast,” he whispers back. “What d’you American girls fancy for brekkie?”
I start to laugh. Not the answer I was expecting, and my stomach rebels at the notion of food. Though I hadn’t consumed anywhere near Claire’s level of alcohol, my head was definitely on an altered plane of cognizance.
“I’m not sure I’m up for food just yet.”
“I’ll bet a little tucker will set you right. Let me fix you something,” he says. He reaches up to brush a stray coil of my unruly brunette mop from my forehead and then cups my chin in his palm. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”
I don’t feel at all beautiful—knowing my forest of hair is probably bristling out in all directions from my mascara-stained face. But my heart leaps to hear him say it. I feel an uninvited blush rise from my neck to blossom on my cheeks. I smile and rest my head on his chest as he continues to stroke my hair.
“Last night was fantastic,” I say. “Thank you for the tour.”
“Just the tour? Was that the only highlight?”
“No, of course not.” I giggle. “It was a wonderful way to remember my Australian holiday. Thank you.”
“No worries. It beats a koala keychain, I hope.”
“Totally. But a keychain I can tuck in my pocket. Not so much you.”
He wraps me in a hug and kisses the top of my head. A few speechless moments are broken with his massive inhale that raises my head a few inches.
“Let’s get some food in you,” he says, nudging me from my position across his broad torso. I reluctantly roll over, allowing him to leave the bed. The sight of his sculptured, naked butt is more tantalizing to my taste buds than any meal.
As he disappears, presumably into the kitchen, my eyes take the time to actually see the room I’ve slept in. It has a high ceiling and very modern fixtures. The furniture is clean-lined, high-end designer pieces. In fact, the entire decor is not unlike something me or Claire would design. Neutral, classic shades punctuated with rich jewel-tone accents.
A pair of lamps with bases made from kiln-fired blue and green beach-glass sit on sparkling chrome night tables that frame the bed. A stunning steel and beach-glass metal sculpture commands an entire wall. The carpet is made from a luxurious and finely woven wool. Whose apartment is this? It smacks of an executive rental, or... perhaps belonging to someone else entirely. A horrible thought crosses my mind. Swank apartment. Drives a Ferrari. Could the hunky lifeguard be some sort of kept man? A wealthy widow’s salaried gigolo? I shiver at the notion.
I reach for my skimpy dress—thrown to the floor in lustful haste the night before. I feel guilty for abandoning Claire; I should get back to the hotel and check on her, though I’m sure she’s still sleeping off the effects of last night. Should I even tell her what happened between Derric and me? She’d be so hurt.
I wander out of the bedroom to find Derric putzing about the galley style kitchen. The delicious smell of brewing coffee wafts across to me. I could really use a cup. He’s setting out plates and reaching in and out of the fridge, completely unconcerned that he’s naked as a newborn. I certainly don’t mind; the view is spectacular. Nearly as spectacular as the one that beckons to me from the adjacent floor-to-ceiling windows. I move toward them and gape in awe through the glass at the magnificent vista of Bondi beach far below us.
The sun’s rays streak across the waves as they roll lazily to shore. The tops of myriad office and hotel towers nearby, shrouded in early morning mist, form a hazy jagged staircase down to sea level. I feel like I’ve woken atop a cloud. It’s both breathtaking and surreal. This is no beach bum’s bachelor pad. This is serious real estate.
“You fancy the view?” he asks, stepping up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He plants a gentle kiss on the skin between my neck and shoulder. He’s managed to pull on a robe while I’ve been standing transfixed at the window.
“I do,” I say, snuggling into his embrace. I want to savor what I know must be the last minutes we’ll have together. “How long have you lived here?”
“Couple years. It’s convenient for work.”
I laugh aloud. “You can say that again. The beach is like, right there.”
“No, I mean close to work. My office is a few minutes’ drive downtown from here.”
I twist to face him, breaking his grasp. “Since when do lifeguards have offices?”
Derric frames my face in his hands and flashes a sheepish smile. “Come sit and have some breakfast.” He leads me to a seat at the kitchen bar and sets a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast in front of me. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” I decide to risk a popping a piece of fruit in my mouth, something my wobbly stomach can handle.
He pours two mugs of the rich dark brew and settles onto the bar stool next to me. “I’m not really a lifeguard. At least, not all the time.”
“There’s a shocker. This apartment, your car?” I shake my head. “You’re no surfie. Who are you, really? What do you do? Is your name really Derric?”
He laughs and takes a thoughtful sip from his steaming mug. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. Yes, my name is really Derric. Derric Faris. Of Faris Media.”
“Faris Media?” I swallow my piece of melon with difficulty.
“I don’t imagine the name would ring a bell. My father, Steven Faris, owns every newspaper in New South Wales and stations TEN-10 Sydney and TVQ-10 Brisbane on Australia’s Network 10. I’m the VP of operations and executive producer.”
“What?” I gasp, my coffee cup halted halfway to my lips. “You’re a TV executive? What the hell are you doing babysitting a bunch of sun-bathing tourists?”
“Because I like it. I like helping people in trouble—especially when they’re as pretty as you.”
I roll my eyes, even though I’m deeply flattered by his constant declarations of my beauty, it leads to an obvious conclusion. “Oh, I see. The lifeguard thing is only about snagging pretty women. And when you save their lives, they have no choice but to fall in love with you.”
Derric’s twinkling blue eyes fix on me as he takes another sip of coffee. “Is that what’s happening to you?” he asks, after setting his mug down.
Now he’s making me blush again. I’ve as good as admitted how attracted I am to him. “Just an observation,” I say, covering my tracks.
“Right. Well, it’s good PR, too,” Derric says. “Giving back to the community, being a good corporate citizen. When you’re involved in the media, you’re under a lot of scrutiny.”
“I can imagine. Performing heroic deeds would distract the public from the millions of dollars you rake in every year.” Now I’m curious. I’ve just slept with possibly one of the wealthiest men on the continent. A millionaire at least. Or a billionaire even. “How much money do you make?”
“Ah, now that’s classified info. Would you tell me how much your business makes?”
I lower my eyes to my breakfast plate. “It’s not as much as I’d like it to.”
“See, there you go. But give it time,” he says, folding his perpetually-tanned and perfectly-muscled forearms on the counter. “You have a website?”
“Yes, churchandstrait-dot-com. Why?”
“I’ll check it out. See if I can give you some tips on your SEO and media marketing strategies.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, tackling a bite of scrambled eggs. The conversation seems to be veering toward shop talk, and it makes me think of Claire. I should be getting back to check in on her soon. And start packing. Unwelcome reality is creeping in. I’m way out of my league. It’s preposterous to think Derric Faris is actually interested in me, or my fledgling business venture
“Thank you again for last night. And breakfast,” I say, gesturing to my plate.
“This sounds ominously like an exit line, Miss Churchwood. Are you binning me?” he asks, feigning injury. As if he wouldn’t be ditching me within the hour; I know this is at best a one-night stand. As stupendous as it was, it can’t be more than that.
I shrug in apology. “I do have a plane to catch, Mr. Faris.” I slip as gracefully as I can off the seat and touch my feet to the marble floor.
“So you do.” He rises from his chair. His robe conveniently falls open, exposing his deliciously ripped body and oh-so-ready cock. My stomach flutters at the sight. I’d like nothing better than to march him straight back to that bedroom and…
My thoughts slip away as he steps in close and wraps his arms around me. His stiffening member grinds insistently against my belly, as though trying to convince me to stay. Oh, how I want to.
“You were bloody fantastic last night, love. A goddess. I hope you’ll remember your holiday fondly. I know I’ll never forget it.”
He tips my chin upward so that I can’t miss being swallowed by those intense baby blues of his. My knees tremble as he leans down and kisses me. A goodbye kiss. It’s sweet and gut-wrenchingly sad at the same time.
“I don’t think I could,” I say.
He smiles, and I feel as though I’ll melt into a helpless puddle on the polished floor as he releases his hold on me. “Y’know, I do get to New York on business every so often. Maybe we could see each other again.” He steps across to a coffee table and plucks something from a holder. What? He’s seriously offering to keep in touch? Or is the gesture just for show… a little token of hope, so a girl doesn’t feel completely used? How many times has he said this line?
Derric hands me a business card. It has the Network 10 branding along with his name and several contact numbers. At least this part is true.
“That is, if you ever want to. Maybe your plan is to get the hell out of Oz as fast as you can and never look back, I don’t know,” he says with a rueful chuckle. “But here. Ball’s in your court if you’d like to call me. Or text me. Add me on What’s App, whatever’s convenient.”
I stare unbelieving at the card clutched between my thumb and forefinger. It seems as precious and rare as a thousand-dollar bill to me, but I can’t let him know that. I’ll give it a few days. A week at least. Two weeks.
Then I’ll call him. Maybe.