Harlow

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I stood in the dimly lit space, the launch next to me. Xavier was gone, he’d fled at a dead run.

What had happened? There had been so many moments this morning I’d been absolutely sure he was going to kiss me, but he never did. His eyes had landed on my lips several times, as if contemplating the idea. We’d gotten cozy, more than friendly—holding hands. I’d pressed my ass against him, not overtly sexually, but less than subtly—I’d felt the shockingly huge and hard evidence that he was attracted to me. And I’d been barely touching him, had never made any contact with him that could be construed as sexual, until he’d come up behind me to help me reel in the monster fish I’d hooked.

When I’d felt his presence behind me, my breath had caught. My heart had started thumping a little harder. My thighs had tensed, and my skin had tingled. My core had, well, not gone damp, exactly, but had definitely let me know that we really, really liked Xavier’s proximity.

But he’d not even kissed me, or touched me. Except for that split second of intimacy when I’d intentionally stumbled against him as I got in the launch, I’d almost wondered if he was even interested in me. That moment, however, had convinced me beyond all doubt that Xavier Badd wanted me.

And good god, I wanted him.

Had I ever felt this kind of desire for a man? The most intense chemistry I’d ever experienced had been with Harrison, my boyfriend at NYU.

But with Xavier it was definitely different. The chemistry was different. Subtler. Deeper. Less overt, less pushy. If my attraction to Harrison had been like curling white-capped waves, my attraction to Xavier was a wickedly, deceptively powerful riptide. A riptide grabbed you as you swam, like an icy, invisible hand, and sucked you out to open sea before you knew what was happening—Xavier had that same power over me. I’d thought I just liked him, at first. He’d shown up on my boat, helped me, talked to me, had been funny and kind of awkward, and unpredictable, and unassumingly charming and devilishly sexy. His physical presence and sensuality made all the more potent by the fact that he seemed utterly unaware of it.

Today, however, the true power of my attraction to him was beginning to reveal itself—there was no overt, obvious sexual element to our interactions, but I was intensely aware of him as a male, as a physical being, and as a sexual creature. I’d seen his abs, his chest and arms, and a hint of a V-cut. I’d seen him move with unprepossessing power. I’d felt a hint of the manhood he was packing behind those tight jeans.

I wanted him.

I wanted more.

But…I also just wanted to talk to him. I wanted to know him, on a personal level. I wanted to understand him, to figure him out.

There was an element of the chase, too—how long had it been since I’d had to do any work at all to catch the interest of a man? Never, possibly. Harrison had pursued me, and I’d not exactly put up much of a fight. When fame came my way, men threw themselves at me left and right—celebrities, crew on the sets, screenwriters and scriptwriters, directors, producers, fans, cashiers, baristas, servers, and even people I’d thought were friends. A snap of my fingers, and I could have any of them. A phone call, and I could have a ripped, shredded, A-list actor—one who’d played a certain well-known superhero—in my bed; he’d made that clear more than once, and I’d thought about taking him up on it simply because I knew another celebrity would have the same vested interest in keeping our tryst quiet.

I wanted more than a quick tumble with someone who understood the pressures of fame.

I wanted more than a few quick orgasms with a guy who knew nothing about me other than what was on the screen and in the tabloids.

I wanted more.

I just…I’d never known how to get that.

Xavier was, possibly, the only heterosexual male in the western hemisphere who didn’t know who I was, which made him all the more attractive to me.

Which made me feel like shit, in a certain way. I mean, if he knew, what would he do? Would it change how he felt about me?

Could I tell him?

God, how would that even go? Oh, by the way Xavier, I’m a world-famous celebrity. Just so you know. I mean, yeah, better to have that conversation now than after things had gotten even more complicated. But telling him risked ruining what we had, which was by virtue of my temporary presence in Ketchikan, only a temporary thing. I’d told him I was on vacation, so he had to know that whatever we were doing could not be anything but fun in the moment.

Ugh. I’d been standing in the dark, alone, lost in my thoughts for several minutes. What was Xavier doing to me?

I’ve met presidents and worked with the most famous actors and directors out there…and an awkward but gorgeous twenty-something Alaskan local boy was turning my brain to mush and my libido into an inferno.

What a mess.

I wondered if I was making a mistake, getting involved with Xavier? Nothing had happened, yet, so it wasn’t too late to cut things off. I could recall my crew and leave. Or I could act disinterested until he stopped coming by. I could just flat out tell him I didn’t want to hang out anymore. But no, the thought of doing any one of those things made everything inside me constrict in denial.

I wanted him.

He wanted me.

It was obviously a temporary situation, and was proving to be a challenge, which meant it would almost certainly turn to be even more fun and rewarding.

I was on vacation. Relaxing, spending much-needed me-time. Recharging my batteries, rejuvenating my spirit. What better way to do that than by indulging in some harmless fun with a hot guy?

If the path to getting anywhere with him was a challenge, the more the better.

I went upstairs to the main lounge, heated up a bowl of chicken and rice stir-fry, and tossed in a sappy but fun rom-com, and tried to put Xavier Badd out of my mind.

---

I had trouble falling asleep, that night. I was restless, antsy. My legs kept scissoring and twisting, and my pillow was too hot or too cold or too lumpy or too flat. I was hot, I was cold. Too much sleep lately, maybe? I’d had a late cup of tea, so maybe it was caffeine? My mind wouldn’t stop racing, darting, flitting.

Eventually, I fell asleep, but it was a fitful sleep, and filled with dreams.

Manic, weird, intense dreams. I woke up thirsty and disoriented and flustered, but unable to remember the substance of them.

After waking up and getting a drink of water, I was once again unable to fall back asleep. And this time, remembering a session I’d had with a mindfulness therapist once, I decided to do some internal investigating. Why was I so restless? Why couldn’t I sleep?

The answer became obvious almost immediately: I was horny and flush with sexual tension, and in denial of it.

How long had it been since I’d last been with a man? Months. A cute sound tech and I had spent a couple of fairly memorable nights together during the shoot in Ireland. But that had been during the shoot, before editing, and the press tour, and the premiere. Six months ago? Something like that, possibly more. Definitely longer, now that I thought about it.

A long, long time. Enough that it was difficult to remember what a man’s touch felt like, what an orgasm I didn’t give myself felt like.

Speaking of that, when was the last time I’d done that? Before buying the boat, I think.

Maybe it was time for self-care. Maybe if I relieved some of this ache, some of this pent-up frustration, things with Xavier would be less complicated?

Dammit, I shouldn’t have thought about him. I mean, no sense dwelling, right? What would happen would happen, and in the meantime, I needed to just enjoy the novelty of stimulating conversation with an articulate, intelligent, intellectually challenging man.

Who happened to be sexy as sin.

A tactile memory assaulted me—the fishing rod in my hands, nearly tugged out of my grip by the powerful fish on the hook, and then Xavier behind me. I hadn’t paid any attention to how he reeled in the stupid fish, having been more focused on him. I’d leaned back, just slightly. That’s all it had taken. My butt had brushed up against his thighs and groin and I’d felt a firm, thick ridge bulging against his zipper, nudging my butt.

What would he have done if I’d turned in his arms and unzipped him? I wondered what he looked like, bare. Long and thick, I knew that much. Straight as an arrow, or curved a little? I imagined him to be slightly curved, the tip nudging his belly. Cut, or uncut? I didn’t care. He’d have a thatch of curly black pubic hair, almost certainly—he didn’t seem like the manscaping type. The pubic hair would be coarse against my knuckles as I stroked him.

I felt my core ache, dampening at the mental image I was conjuring. God, he’d feel so good in my hands. There’d be no rush. He’d slowly unzip my jeans and pull them down, and then remove my underwear. His lips would touch my knee, and then my inner thigh, and I would willingly let my thighs open for him.

I kicked my blankets away, spread my thighs, and brought my fingers to my clit. His tongue would be firm and hot and slithery and wet, and he’d devour me like I was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Oh god, his tongue would feel so good, circling my clit, flicking against it. Maybe he’d slide a finger inside me.

Thighs quaking, I reached over to the drawer beside my bed and grabbed my vibrator, a clitoral stimulator. But…I needed more. I needed something inside me. I pictured Xavier’s fingers sliding into me as I slid my giant purple vibrator inside. Immediately, I felt myself clenching around the humming silicone as the stimulator suctioned around my clit, driving me to climax within seconds.

Screaming, imagining Xavier’s hands on me, his mouth on me, I came hard and fast, shaking, gasping.

Reminding myself to clean my toys later, I tossed them back in the drawer and collapsed back onto the bed, sweating, panting.

And still frustrated as hell, because even though I’d come, and pretty hard, the fantasy hadn’t done anything to quench the real need I felt, and picturing Xavier had only made me want him all the more, because now I wanted—needed—to know if reality matched my imagination.

I lay awake for another hour at least, until sleep finally claimed me—and even then, the dreams were back, only now they were weird, intense, and sexually fraught.