Aaron
The tropics are especially fucking hot this year.
Watching the lady from the bar walk away, full of fire with a bit of anger, I think that this week may turn out to be much more fun than I expected.
She’s plenty sexy to begin with, she obviously takes good care of herself, and even her taste in jeans seems fucking solid—I mean, she looks really good walking away—but she’s got fiery fucking self-confidence to spare, and she knows how to keep up with me the way even Academy fucking Award-winning screenwriters cannot.
And that, my friends, is sexier than even the shapeliest ass in the most form-fitting pair of designer jeans.
Yes, based on our conversation, I can tell she’ll be the perfect vacation fling.
Vacation flings have their own sort of baked-in perfection—once they’re over, they’re over, with all parties involved free from the risk of lingering, festering bullshit that comes with the territory from more serious relationships.
As much as I appreciate the beauty of a vacation fling, I wasn’t sure if I’d find a single woman on this little jaunt to the Caribbean.
Especially a woman so immensely fucking alluring and just purely fucking hot as this woman from the bar.
Her appeal started to light me on fucking fire the moment I saw her, and her sassy, sexy wit and no-bullshit approach—even to a deadly sexy stud such as myself—have added countless alarms to that blaze, which are still ringing loudly as she disappears into the hotel.
My phone vibrating in my left pocket brings my attention to that part of my body.
And it makes me realize that my cock might be starting to act up already.
Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’m just that impressed—but I’ll try to keep things under control for the time being.
I rearrange myself discreetly while pulling out my phone.
Looks like my room is ready, too. Nice of them to text me, I guess. I hope it’s still ready whenever the hell I end up going inside.
I still have half a drink left, which makes me optimistic about this trip. A nice, healthy gulp leaves me feeling even better.
This bartender makes a mean mojito, but where did he go? I might need another one of these soon.
Oh well, I can’t stand up and look—I need a little “down time” before that. I look around, admiring the architecture, while willing my cock into submission.
The bartender, John, lifts my glass and slides a coaster under it. “Would you like another, sir?”
I’m about to instruct him to just keep ’em coming, but, all of a sudden, I felt weirdly antsy. I would rather get up and walk around now.
“No, I’ll just finish this. I just got the text—my room is ready.” The fresh minty taste of my mojito seems to awaken all my senses. Leaning back in the comfortable barstool, I watch John work his way around the circular bar.
This resort is incredible, and I can’t wait to check the beach out. It’s like they designed everything on a grand-enough scale that it would be impressive to every last motherfucker who walked through here, and then they made it larger—from the huge entry doors to the long, vast reception area.
Even this bar must be twenty-five feet around, shaped into a huge oval. Liquor bottles are showcased on glass shelves behind it.
There are random clusters of chairs grouped together on every side. It’s quieting down now, transitioning from the rush of sun-blanched tourists inhabiting the area just a few minutes ago.
The wall behind the bar is all glass, utilizing the natural light and framing the ocean view.
I savor the last couple of sips of my drink, before returning the cool, ice-filled glass to its coaster. Sliding a tip under the coaster, I wave to John.
“See you a little later?”
“For sure. I’ll be here until this bar closes at midnight.” He tosses his hand towel over his left shoulder; I can’t help chuckling at how he reminds me of all bartenders around the world.
“Until then.” Throwing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I head to the reception desk.
An older couple checking in are peppering the woman behind the front desk with questions.
It takes five or maybe closer to ten minutes for her to patiently get through each question. I take the opportunity to admire the expansive layout and decor in this part of the resort. After they’re ushered away, with staff carrying their bags to their room, I step up to the front desk.
“I’m here to check in—Aaron Michaelson.”
At least half my career up until now has been spent being lectured by actors, directors, and studio heads about putting hotel and restaurant reservations under my own name. Apparently, I’m crazy for doing that and for not having assistants and other staff around to do everything for me wherever I go.
“One moment, please.” She turns away to type busily on the computer.
First of all, I’m only a producer, my face isn’t plastered fucking everywhere, and very few people would give a shit even if they did recognize me.
“Excellent, Mr. Michaelson. We have your key waiting here.”
This clerk maybe recognizes me, because she didn’t ask for an ID, but shit like that only makes life easier.
“It’ll be a moment before I have someone available to take you up.”
“That won’t be necessary. Do you guys have a map of the resort?”
And as far as having a full-time assistant and all that other shit goes, I figure that if I stop doing everything for myself, I eventually won’t be able to do anything for myself.
I can think of few bigger risks than that.
Obviously having done this a million times, the clerk pulls a map out from a drawer in front of her and leans across with a pen putting an X where we are in the lobby.
There are aromatic hints of peach and coconut as she leans over. I study her tanned features and dark hair.
Nope. It’s not doing it for me.
My mind travels back to the bar for a moment, to that conversation...
This vacation’s turning out to be quite interesting, indeed.
And quite fun, fucking certainly.
My charm hasn’t failed me yet. When I run into the Woman from the Bar next, it’ll be time to really turn up the charm.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I give the clerk a wink and my classic half smirk as I straighten up and take the map.
She smiles back appreciatively.
So, it’s not me. From the way the Woman at the Bar shut me down, I couldn’t help feeling like maybe there was something in my teeth.
Walking into the elevator, I replay our conversation in my head again. I’m laughing lightly as I push the button.
If she’s half as opinionated in bed, she’ll take me for a real ride.
I’m certain she’ll be a real firecracker in a whole lot of ways that I’m really starting to look forward to.
It may take a little smooth-talking, but this’ll be the perfect vacation fling.
She’s beautiful and apparently single. Who goes on a vacation like this alone if he or she has a significant other at home?
I exit the elevator and start hunting for my room. It isn’t hard to find, just a few doors down with a big, gaudy red ribbon on it.
Unlike many of the most celebrated film-industry figures I know, I have no trouble with the simple task of getting myself and my luggage to my suite within a few minutes.
And that ribbon makes it even easier to find.
That ridiculous goddamn ribbon.
Pulling out my phone, I snap a picture. I immediately send it in a text with a helpful caption:
You avoided a fate worse than death, my friend.
Fitting, really. It goes perfectly with the “Congratulations” written on the ribbon. He’ll get a kick out of it.
I can’t even count the number of times I told my best friend what an idiot he is to get wrapped up in this shit time and again—only to inevitably have his heart broken.
That type of shit—love, relationships, marriage—it’s like it’s all a joke that no one seems to get. I’m happy to have dropped the illusion long ago.
As for my dear, hapless friend, he just set himself up to hurt and get hurt. And he did.
By the time the truth came out about the sham he was living, they had passed the refund window on most of their wedding reservations. Lucky me, though!
And I’m going to take advantage of it.
Walking in, I toss my duffel bag casually on the sofa and parade with purpose toward what must be the bathroom door.
Not one to waste time getting into my birthday suit, I undo my belt, letting my pants drop. I drop my Rolex on the floor for safekeeping and kick off my casual Italian leather loafers.
Pulling my shirt over my head, I drop it to the floor. My boxers are next to go, and finally my socks as I approach the closed door.
Opening the bathroom door, the steam hits me first—enough to cloud my vision slightly. That’s weird.
How recently did the last guest check out, anyway?
Stepping farther in, I’m stunned by a fabulous sight.
I don’t know when I’d run into the Woman from the Bar again, but I guess our next meeting is now—right in my suite’s bathroom.
As she steps out of the glass-walled shower.
As totally and completely naked as I am.
Fucking hell.