We fell into bed that night like savages, tearing off each other’s clothes as if they were on fire, desperate for skin-to-skin, skin in skin. I needed to feel his flesh beneath my fingertips as I clawed up his back and bit his pectoral until he hissed out from the divine pain. It didn’t matter that we’d just screwed like horny cavemen on the beach in the dark. Once was not enough. I needed more. We both did.

I needed Tate to fuck me like there was no tomorrow, because for us, there wasn’t one. I’d be gone by lunchtime. My room would be cleaned and cleared out of my dirty towels and garbage, and by two o’clock, someone new would take up residence. Would it be the same with Tate? Would someone else take up residence in his heart by this time tomorrow?

“Stay the night?” I asked, hating how needy I sounded but hoping that it drove my point, my hope, my wish, home. “Please.” It was my last night on the island; I left tomorrow, and after all this time, we’d never spent the night together.

Sitting up and pulling his boxers on, he shook his head. “I can’t, babe. I’m sorry. But I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at the pool, then we’ll have breakfast, come back here, screw one more time, and I’ll drive you to the airport, okay?” His back was to me, and I watched as his muscles flexed and strained when he reached for his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head.

Quickly wiping away the tear that was threatening to make a break for it down my cheek, I put my head down, allowing my hair to cover my face. I was desperate not to let him see me cry. “Oh. Okay. Tomorrow, then. Sure.”

He stood up from the bed and pulled his shorts on. His pecs were still visible, as he hadn’t bothered to button up his shirt, my bite mark from just a few moments ago visible and red and possibly even a little puffy. Just like he’d done with me, with his bruises and bites, his scruff chafing me, and the Sharpie—I’d branded him. He was mine. But like the bruises and the chafing and the Sharpie, it was all just temporary.

“I’ve gotta run,” he said, sliding his feet into his flip-flops, then coming around to peck me on the cheek. “Sweet dreams. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grabbed his wallet, watch and cell phone off my vanity and was off, leaving me sitting there in bed, staring at the closed door, tears running down my face as I willed him to come back and spend the night. To come back to me. To love me.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning when I finally decided to do something. I’d been lying there tossing and turning for nearly two hours, unable to get comfortable or settled after the way Tate had turned me down and left. No, he hadn’t been rude or mean. And yes, he had been apologetic. But over the last week and a bit, we’d made love in my room every single night, and every single night he’d stick around to cuddle for an hour or so, look at the clock on my nightstand and then hastily get up and leave. As if he were keeping someone waiting and he had to go and meet them for a date. Did he have a date?

I tossed back the covers with a huff, threw on my dressing gown as I stalked over to the desk and turned on my laptop. I read through all the notes I’d typed up over the last ten days. The pieces of my article, facts and interviews, things I’d done and people I’d met. Only after reading through it three times, I realized it was complete garbage. I scrunched my nose up, selected “all” and then hit “delete.” That wasn’t me anymore. Those words might have been mine, but they were no longer who I was. They were no longer the words I felt in my heart. Because now my heart was full, my heart was open, and my heart was on my sleeve. I unplugged my computer and opened up the door to the veranda, and with the sea ahead of me and the wind at my back, I wandered down to the beach, nestled down into the cool sand and began writing.

I was leaving tomorrow, this was our last night together, and if he didn’t want to stay at my place, maybe, just maybe, he’d want me to stay at his. Perhaps he had a special bed or pillow or wore a night-guard because he ground his teeth. That I could handle; I used to wear one, too. But what I couldn’t handle was if he had someone back in his house. That he wasn’t as “unattached” as he had professed. I made my way back from the beach to my villa, quickly printed what I wrote with the complimentary printer, slid into my flip-flops, grabbed my key card and headed off into the gardens and up the path.

Although I’d never been to his homestead, as we’d always wound up back at mine, I knew where it was. And thanks to my presidential villa all-access pass, I had no issues making my way through the locked gates and down the garden path that led to Tate’s bungalow. I had thought he would have wanted to claim one of the oceanfront villas as his own, but then he lived on the ocean, owned the whole resort and his office overlooked the water, so in the end it was probably more financially lucrative for him to rent out an ocean view unit than keep it for himself.

The lights were on inside, but the blinds were drawn, and as I approached, I heard his voice murmuring through the door, followed by his rich and hearty laugh. It wrapped around me like a mantle as a wave of melancholy washed through me. This might be the last time I ever heard such a wonderful laugh.

And then I heard a woman’s voice. A woman’s laugh.

Oh, no, he did have someone in there. I turned to go, embarrassed and furious at my own stupidity. I’d come here ready to do something I’d never done before, and that was show a man my true feelings. Let my emotions, my heart, take the wheel rather than my fear. But in my haste as I spun around, I managed to bash my elbow into a tin watering can, sending the empty vessel to the ground in a noisy clatter.

“Fuck!”

I didn’t even have a chance to flee before the door opened and bright light from inside pierced the night. “Parker?”

I shook my head, fresh tears burning my eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to bother you and . . . your guest. I’ll just go.” I turned to leave but was stopped by a soft, fluffy thing wending its way between my legs. I looked down to find a cat. A sandy-blond, long-haired cat. A Maine Coon. My mother had two gray ones, Ruckus and Mayhem.

“Grab her, please,” he said, panic in his voice. “She’s an indoor cat and doesn’t go outside.”

I picked the furry beast up and cradled her against my chest. “Hello, baby,” I cooed, letting her sniff me a bit before I began to stroke her back. Instantly she closed her eyes and gentle purr rumbled through her.

“Everything okay, honey?” I heard a woman’s voice call out from inside the house.

I froze. Tate’s eyes went wide when he saw my face. Then the realization dawned on him. “Wait here,” he said as he ducked back in the house only to emerge seconds later carrying his tablet. “Parker Ryan, I’d like you to meet my mother, Helen McAllister. Mum, this is Parker, the girl I’ve been telling you about.”

A woman in pink scrubs and hair the same color as Tate’s, but pulled into a bun, smiled back at me on the screen. “Hello, Parker. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” She wrinkled her nose and chuckled softly. “Sort of. Though, in person would be better.”

I swallowed. “Um . . . hi, Mrs. McAllister, it’s nice to meet you, too.” Tate’s eyes caught mine and he invited me inside, his kitty still safely nuzzled against my chest.

We sat down on his couch and chatted with his mother for around ten minutes. Even though it was roughly five in the morning back in Victoria, Tate’s mother, a nurse, was on a quick break at work and wide awake. Apparently she and Tate chatted several times a week, often at weird hours. Both were so busy, it was the only opportunity they had to connect.

When we finally signed off, I’d been extended a sincere invitation to go and visit her in Victoria. When she went to New York in the fall with a couple of other nurses, she was going to look me up, and I was to play “tour guide.”

“So, that’s my mother,” Tate said with a sigh, flipping the cover closed on his tablet, his eyes traveling down to a sleeping and purring cat in my lap. “And this . . . this is Rosie.” He reached out and stroked her soft fur. She opened one eye just a fraction but when she realized who was petting her, closed it again.

“Is . . . is she why you won’t spend the night?” I asked, hoping that the butterflies zooming around in my belly were all for naught.

He nodded. “Yeah. Even though I live where I work, I’m gone all day. When I come home at night, this is our time. I feed her, we play for a bit, she sleeps on my bed.” He made a noise in his throat and looked up at me. Wariness clouded his eyes. “She’s my family. My mother won’t move here. The one brother I know lives in New York and isn’t willing to move here yet, so Rosie’s my companion. My best friend. And even though I’d love to spend the night with you, I can’t do that to her. It sounds stupid and corny, but she’s family. And I keep my family private. I keep my life private.”

Love streamed warmly through my veins like the buzz of a fine wine, and I felt my heart swell inside my chest as I continued to run my hands lightly over her back, her sweet little face turned in toward my belly. He owned a cat. He was a devoted cat-dad. A chuckle bubbled up inside my chest, and though I fought to keep it down, I couldn’t, and I started to giggle.

“Are you laughing at me?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m laughing at me. I was jealous of a cat.”

Rolling his eyes, he draped one arm around my shoulders and let out a contented sigh, the tension in his shoulders dissolving much like my butterflies. “You have nothing to be jealous over. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Didn’t invite you over or ask you to spend the night. It’s just . . . well . . . I don’t ever invite women over. This is my home, our home, and inviting in the flavor of the week just . . .” His lips twisted in thought. “Somehow it doesn’t feel right to me.”

I swallowed and pulled away slightly. So, that’s what I was, then, “the flavor of the week,” only for a new delicacy to show up tomorrow and he could start the whole seduction routine over again. I motioned to get up, but he put a hand on my thigh. Meanwhile Rosie stirred on my lap and made a mewl of discontent.

“But you’re different. You’re special. None of the women I’ve ever hooked up with here knew I was the owner. They all thought I was a manager, an accountant or guest or something. You’re the first guest I’ve ever revealed my true identity to, Parker. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you over. I should have. It’s just, well . . . the last time I got attached and invited a woman to spend the night, she broke my heart and made fun of me for having a cat. So now I’m wary and I keep Rosie a secret. Ridiculous, I know. But it’s worked well . . . until now.”

My heart did a flip flop in my chest. He was a wounded heart just like me.

He swallowed and looked up into my eyes. “Would you . . . would you like to spend the night?”

I let out a weighty sigh. “What makes you happy?”

“What?”

“That therapist you sent me to, she asked me to think about what makes me happy. To think about the last time that I was truly happy. What was I doing? Who was I with? So, I’m going to ask you the same thing: What makes you happy?”

Eyes as green as the lush tropical mountains we’d hiked through and flown over stared back at me. They were so full of whirling emotions I was having a hard time figuring out how he felt or what he was going to say next.

“You,” he finally said, reaching for my hand. “You make me happy, Parker. I haven’t felt like this in ages. Excited to start the day, to spend it with you. Being with you makes me happy.” His throat undulated with a hard swallow as he continued to look at me. “So, I guess the other reason I didn’t invite you to spend the night was because I was protecting myself. I’ve fallen for you, and you’re leaving tomorrow.”

If it were possible, I’d be floating. My heart felt light, the butterflies were back but this time having a righteous dance party, and my body all but shook with excitement. I thrust the pieces of paper I’d folded up and put in my robe into his hand.

“Read. Please.”

He gave me a quizzical look. “What is this?”

“It’s my article.”

He started to unfold it. “You could have just emailed it to me,” he said with a chuckle.

“Says the man who doesn’t know how to Google people.”

All he did was snort, then his eyes began to shift across the page.

The breeze, the salty air, the fragrant perfume of frangipanis and hibiscus. Green peaks, rolling hills, plantations and orchards. A turquoise sea so clear, so pure you can see your shadow on the bottom. Sand so white, so soft, so warm you want to pull it around you like a cashmere throw and sink in deep while sipping on decadent Tahitian sunrises from the beachside bar. This only just scratches the surface of the magic of Moorea, of the magic of The Windward Hibiscus Hotel. Of the magic of paradise.

A hotel for the elite, for the one percent, for those with more money than most of us could ever dream. And yet somehow I found myself here. I am not elite. I am not of the one percent. What many of you may not know about me is that I grew up in a very small town in Mississippi. Although never without food, a home or clothes on my back, I did not come from money. My mother had me when she was but a child herself, and together we struggled to make ends meet. So, to spend a day, let alone ten at the place I am dubbing “Paradise for Plutocrats,” was positively life-changing. I’ve been to my fair share of nice places, thanks to my job, but I’ve never been to anything or anywhere like this before, and I’m not sure I ever will be again. And I’m absolutely CERTAIN nothing will ever come close.

Welcomed with open arms and a genuine smile by the reclusive and mysterious Tate McAllister, I spent ten days touring the island and experiencing everything Moorea and The Windward Hibiscus have to offer. When I stepped off the plane onto the steaming black tarmac, it was unlike any feeling I’d ever had before. Yes, it was tropical; yes, the balmy breeze whipped my hair up into a frenzy of fire in front of my face; and yes, it was as lush and beautiful as they say. But that wasn’t it. A place I’d never been before, and only just recently even heard of, and for some reason I felt like I was coming home. The breeze, the casual island vibe, the beauty, they were all eclipsed by an overwhelming moment of complete and total serenity. Weight from a rough couple of weeks slipped off my shoulders and was caught up in a sudden gust of warm wind, where it was pulled up into the ether, only to be replaced with the benign heat of the sun and an all-encompassing feeling of peace. It’s like when you walk into your childhood home after being away for far too long and smell that pot roast your mom made every Sunday. A feeling of familiarity, a feeling of calm, a feeling of being right where you should be. Where you’re meant to be. Home.

It was nothing but smiles and friendly chit-chat the whole way to the resort. Rico, my shuttle driver, was animated and jovial, speaking fondly of his family (wife Anila and two girls, eight and five, Yola and Kindi) and how he loves working at The Windward Hibiscus. He finds himself waking up with a smile on his face, excited to go to work. I don’t know very many New Yorkers who wake up smiling or who are excited to go to work. Maybe on that first day, maybe that first week, but eventually the stress and monotony set in, and when Monday rolls around, you’re hitting snooze far too many times before schlepping your way to the bathroom and then rushing to get out the door on time. But not Rico, not any of the staff at The Windward Hibiscus. They all love where they work and enjoy what they do, and it shows. When you are at The Windward Hibiscus, you are immediately enveloped into the low-key, carefree island mentality. It’s a stress-free zone, and nothing but love, happiness and a chill outlook on life will be tolerated. Only pure relaxation and contentment are allowed.

The most egregious voicemail message took those immediate feelings of peace that I had embraced as I’d stepped off the plane and destroyed them. It sent me into a foul mood, a funk. (Note to self, leave phone at home on next holiday.) So when I walked into the gorgeous hotel lobby, a smile could not have been further from my face. I was instantly greeted by a handsome man alarmed by my scowl. No, sorry, handsome does not do this man justice. Let’s just say his smile alone has ruined me for all other men. His eyes were the same color as the hills around us, and his hair was a deep, dark brown with flecks of gold from time spent in the sun. He didn’t know who I was, nor I him, but without hesitation, because no staff member at The Windward Hibiscus ever wants to see you with anything but a smile on your face, he asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I told him what I needed, and he saw to my every whim, instantly making me feel like I was the most important guest there and my pleasure was of the utmost priority.

I was given the presidential suite, with my own private veranda, beach view and fruit trees, ripe with decadence which I indulged in multiple times a day (mangoes have become a staple in my diet, and pineapples are my new favorite fruit). After a quick change, I went to go meet with Mr. McAllister. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he be crotchety and crass? Sweet and gentile like an old Southern gent? Handsy and overly flirtatious? I think you get where I’m going here—I thought he was old. I was wrong! So wrong. So wrong that when the man who greeted me at the door turned out to be the green-eyed man from the lobby, I asked him where his father was. *Insert foot in mouth here*

Wanting to maintain the enigma and anonymity he has fought so hard to maintain, Mr. McAllister has asked that I not post any photos of him, and of course, given that I was his guest and put up in the presidential suite, no less, I have obliged. We toured the grounds, where I was left slack-jawed and humbled again and again by such overwhelming beauty. Modern architecture blended perfectly with traditional French Polynesian, all with nature harmoniously intertwined. It’s an eco-resort—The Windward Hibiscus has solar panels on nearly every roof and flat sky-facing structure, as well an innovative recycling and composting program and its own garden, where some of the food for both the staff and guests is grown.

Four communal guest pools, three outdoor, one indoor cover the grounds, while a tennis court, basketball court and volleyball court offer plenty of opportunity for the guests to keep up with their fitness regimes. Not to mention the gym inside that could rival any Planet Fitness, the yoga and dance studios and grand ballroom, complete with stage and wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean.

My first day in paradise finished off with the most mouth-watering barracuda steak on my plate and a snazzy boozy umbrella-coiffed drink. I still have no idea of the ingredients, and I am just fine maintaining my ignorance. It was delicious. I had three that night and many more on the nights to follow, and that’s all that matters (I think it was a twist on a pina colada, though).

From there, my days just kept getting better, and I felt myself falling harder and faster in love with The Windward Hibiscus, Moorea and French Polynesia as I consumed each breakfast waffle and my tan grew darker. From scuba diving on the neon-colored reef, plentiful in fish and corals and sea creatures you’d only expect to find in a Pixar film, to morning hikes, parasailing and a visit to orchards and the local juice factory, every day was full of adventure and fun, and before I knew it, my ten days were up.

As amazing as all those excursions and experiences were, the cake was delivered and devoured by my first-ever fishing trip. Mr. McAllister, who is not only a real estate mogul, scuba diving instructor, helicopter pilot and philanthropist, also happens to be a top-notch fishing guide, and he helped me reel in my very first fish, an enormous DayGlo yellow and blue mahi-mahi.

I let the scaly beast go, though, and before I was able to get any pictures of myself or my catch. So, unfortunately, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. But I will tell you, the thing was a monster. Easily mistaken for a Kraken or Moby Dick by many a fisherman, I’m sure of it. And he put up a good fight, which is why I didn’t take him home and make him my dinner. The experience was enough.

This entire trip has been an experience like no other. The far corners of the globe, faraway mountaintop lodges and hotels with spa packages a mile long—I’ve visited them all. But nothing, and I mean nothing even remotely compares to the way I feel being on Moorea. To the way I feel staying at The Windward Hibiscus. I started this trip off in a bad state of mind, but now I end it with more clarity, more hope, more zest for life than I’ve ever had before. Much like my fish, I have been given a second chance, found a new lease on my life, and it’s not one I will take for granted. I now know what I want, who I am and who I want to be. I love life, I love myself, and I love that my possibilities are endless. And it’s all thanks to Moorea and The Windward Hibiscus.

Regretfully, this will be my last article for The Decadent Traveler. As much as I have enjoyed my time writing and traveling the world, I now realize what my true passion is, and I intend to pursue it.

I would like to thank everyone at The Decadent Traveler for their support, the staff and Mr. McAllister at The Windward Hibiscus for their over-the-top, gracious hospitality and, of course, you, my loyal readers, whose letters I have so very much enjoyed receiving over these past three years. I will miss those most of all.

I will leave you all with this, whether it’s just a visit to the next town over, a road trip in the car or a flight to a faraway land, never stop exploring. Never stop having fun, never stop having adventures and never stop living the life you want to live. Because we only have one, so make the most of it.

Pink filled his cheeks as he got to the last page, while his nostrils flared and his pupils grew dark, black invading the bright green until there was hardly any color left.

“Is this . . . is this true?” he finally asked, a croak in his voice.

“I’ve never written a lie in my life,” I said quietly.

“Am I . . . am I . . .?”

“Moorea? The Windward Hibiscus? Of course.”

“But you’ve always been so upfront about this being a ten-day fling. I didn’t think you felt the same about me as I did you. God, Parker . . . this . . . this is unlike anything you’ve written before. It’s so . . . full of heart. So full of passion. These last ten days, when I came home from your bed, I would read your articles. I’ve read everything you’ve written, even from your old online magazines and your college and high school newspapers.”

My mouth hung open. All the way back to high school?

“You’ve never written with such conviction or . . .” he trailed off.

Love. I wrote the article with love because I love you, Tate. But I couldn’t say that to him, could I?

I glanced down at my knotted fingers. “I’ve never felt this way before, and I decided to write what I feel. I wasn’t sure you felt the same, but I . . . I didn’t want to leave here without telling you.”

“I figured if you wanted more, you would have asked for it.”

“That’s not who I am, though.”

“But you asked me to fuck you in a broom closet. You asked me to stick a finger in your ass earlier on the beach. The amount of times I’ve teased you and you’ve begged and then demanded that I take you . . .” He was shaking his head, trying to figure out my words, my feelings. His words, his feelings and what they all meant. “You’re more forthright and willing to ask for what you want than you think.”

I looked him in those soulful green eyes, ready to put my heart on my sleeve. I was forthright and honest because of Tate. He’d transformed me.

Swallowing my fear, my pride, my old self, I set my jaw firm and held his gaze. “Fine, if you want me to ask, I’ll ask. I’ll ask for everything I want from now on. Ask me to stay, Tate!” I blurted out. “Ask me to stay! Let me stay with you. Let me live here. Let me be with you. I want you. I want to be with you. Not for just ten days, but for forever.”

His head snapped up from where he’d been studying the pages of my article again.

“You make me happy, too,” I said softly, bringing my voice down again. “When Dr. Sheffield asked me what made me happy? When was my happiest moment? Immediately you popped into my head. Every happy moment I’ve had this past month, hell, this past year, has been with you. I emailed my boss and quit my job. I don’t want to work there anymore. I don’t want to live in New York anymore. I want to fulfill my lifelong dream and write a book. Ask me to stay.”

He blinked at least a dozen times, his head still shaking with what could only be described as disbelief. And then the shake quickly turned into an emphatic nod, and a smile so wide, so true erupted on his face. “Stay, Parker. Stay here with me, live here with me. Be with me.”

I nodded. “Okay!”

Suddenly poor Rosie found herself knocked to the couch as Tate pulled me up to my feet, his hands on either side of my face, holding my head steady as he looked into my eyes. “I love you, Parker. You are who I’ve been waiting for.”

I blinked back at him. “I love you, too.” Biting my lip, I looked away for a second. “But . . .”

“But what?”

“But I think I want children. I’ve done a lot of soul-searching on this trip, and I realized that I want to be a mother. I want a family. I never really had one growing up. I was an only child to a teenage mom. I want a nuclear family. One with two parents and lots of kids. I never had it, and I want it.”

“How many kids do you want?”

My eyes whipped back up to his. “What?”

“How many kids do you want? I’m thinking two or four. One of each, or two boys and two girls.”

Holy shit.

His eyes were glowing, crinkling at the corners as his smile just continued to get bigger and bigger. “I want them, too. I—I was afraid of turning into my dad, but with you as the mother, I’m willing to take the risk. I want it all, Parker, and I want it all with you.”

I scanned his handsome face while my head just shook in awe. Tears of pure joy pricked the corners of my eyes, and I choked on a sob.

“Seeing my friend James and his beautiful wife, Emma, and then Justin and Kendra and their gorgeous family . . .” A warm and content smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t know how badly I wanted that, too, until I saw it. Until I met the person I wanted it with. I’ve been lonely and bored—sad, for a while—but meeting you has changed all of that.”

Now I was nodding like there was no tomorrow while tears streamed down my cheeks. He used his big thumbs to wipe them away.

“I like the idea of four,” I blubbered, the words getting strangled by my joy on the way out. “A house full of children. Busy and noisy and full of love. That’s the perfect life for me.”

He smiled. “So full of love. So perfect.”

I laughed and hiccupped at the same time. This was insane. I’d known this man for all of ten days, and here we were saying we loved each other and planning to have four children. This didn’t happen in real life, and certainly not in my life . . . did it?

“What are you going to write your book about?” he asked, his fingers weaving their way into my hair as his palms cupped my cheeks and he held my head in place, his eyes boring into mine. Claiming my soul as his.

I chewed on my bottom lip. “I dunno yet. Maybe about my life and growing up back in Mississippi. Or maybe . . . maybe I’ll write about a lost thirty-something woman who finds herself on a tropical island and in bed with a sexy billionaire. Only what starts out as just a lust-fueled fling blossoms into a love like none other. She finds herself, she finds true love and her happily ever after. What do you think? Thoughts on a title?”

He scooped me up and headed off down a hallway. “I’ve got the perfect title for you,” he said.

I wrapped my arm around his neck and kissed his chin, the beard tickling my lips. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Quick and Dirty.” He kicked open a door like a Viking and tossed me on to the bed in the dimly lit and very manly but homey bedroom. I bounced twice, staring up at him with wide eyes.

He growled. “But enough about the book.” He removed his shirt then covered me with his big body. His long, strong index finger lightly traced the letters of his name on the tops of my breasts and a small but cocky smile spread across his lips. He’d marked me. Claimed me. The Sharpie would fade but I was Tate’s forever.

“Do you still have the Sharpie in your pocket?” I asked, loving the weight of him on me.

He fished around in the deep pocket of his cargo shorts and handed it to me. “Here.”

I pulled the cap off with my teeth and brought the felt tip of the pen up to his hard, sculpted chest. Right over his heart I wrote my name: Parker Elizabeth Ryan.

His eyes were glassy as he looked down at my marking and then back up into my eyes. “And now I’m yours,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Always.”

Sobering he flashed me another dazzling smile and rotated his hips against mine. A rush of pleasure crashed into me from how good the friction felt. Even clothed the man knew exactly how to drive me wild.

“Let’s start now!” he said doing another hip swirl. I let my nails rake down the length of his back, feeling his warm skin and chiseled muscles bunch beneath my fingertips.

“Start what?” I asked breathlessly, inhaling and then squeaking when his hand made its way into my robe and up my shirt. Fingers pinched and pulled on a hard nipple, and a moan fled from my lips.

“A family.” He quickly sprung to his knees and shucked the rest of his clothes. Once he was completely naked he went to work relieving me of my robe and skimpy night dress.

“Seriously?” I propped myself up on my elbows to look at him. The man was crazy.

“Yeah. Let’s start a family now. The kid’ll take nine months to cook anyway.”

To cook? I snorted a most unladylike laugh as he pinned me back down to the mattress. That decadent and manly scent of him all but poured inside me, warming the breath in my lungs and wrapping around my heart.

“But I’m on the pill.”

He paused for a second, but then his mouth started trailing its way down my chin and neck until he found a needy nipple and sucked it into his hot mouth. I wilted into his touch and brought my hand up to his chin. I wanted the beard. Always the beard. Forever the beard.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured, tugging on the bud. He shrugged. “Okay, well, then, we’ll just practice. Get really good at the ‘making’ before we actually try for real. You can go off the pill next month.”

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

His mouth was still bouncing back and forth between my breasts, but two devious fingers had made their way down my body and between my legs. A gasp escaped me when he plunged them inside. My body ached. Desire edged with a sharp blade of pain pulsed fiercely inside me as he crooked his fingers against my sensitive walls.

“Like a heart attack,” he said. His head popped up. “I’ll do it right if you want me to, but nothing about our start has been conventional.” Where was he going with this? His eyes grew even darker for a moment, the lids dropping to half-mast while his nostrils flared and his fingers inside me pumped. “Marry me, Parker.”

Another gasp, and not because he’d slipped in another finger.

“Marry me. Have babies with me. Make me as happy as I am now, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make you just as happy.”

Oh fuck, new tears. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried this much. Grabbing him by the ears, I pulled him back up to me. His fingers slipped out, but I didn’t care. We were nose to nose. All I could see were his eyes, but of course, I saw so much more. I saw all the way to the depths of his soul and what a truly wonderful man he really was. He was excellence marbled with flaws. Intensity sheathed in elegance. Powerful and fierce and yet, at the very same time, so kind and gentle. The perfect paradox. My perfect paradox.

“Yes.” I nodded, brushing my lips across his. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

His scruff scratched me as he smashed his lips against mine in a need-driven kiss. When we finally came up for air, his smile took my breath away. “I love you, Parker.”

I looped one arm around his neck while the other one fell to my name over his heart. I shimmied my hips until he was nestled between them, his cock notched at my core.

“I love you, too.” I lunged at his bottom lip and tugged on it, releasing it a second later. “Besides, I pretty much have to stay here forever and marry you and have your babies. You’ve ruined me for other men anyway. I’m not sure I could ever be with a clean-shaven man again, let alone one who doesn’t fly his own helicopter, have tattoos, spear fish or scuba dive or try to make the world a better place for everyone, including the other ninety-nine percent.”

His hips lifted up, and he swirled himself around my entrance. My eyes threatened to roll into the back of my head. “I told you before, baby, once you go beard, you never go back.” And with that he took me, all of me, forever.