Three months ago
~ KAILA ~
They say hindsight is 20/20. So tomorrow I’ll regret this.
But right now, as he slides his hands from my waist to my back making me arch instinctively toward him, my vision is profoundly blurred.
I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t be here. But God, this feeling I have when I’m with him, how my skin heats beneath his touch… it’s indistinguishable from sheer ecstasy.
And he knows it.
This is just a one-night stand and nothing more. With a man who, by his own enthusiastic admission, is incapable of anything more than that.
Still… with him inside of me, with his deep-set blue eyes locked on mine like he can see the innermost workings of my soul, it’s so hard to remember that.
As though he’s read my mind and wants to make this even more difficult for me, his lips touch my neck—barely a brush of his skin against mine. The gesture should be somehow overshadowed by the fact that he’s so deep inside of me, throbbing and hard. A light kiss isn’t more intimate than the sex act itself. And yet it feels that way—as though he’s making love to me and not just fucking me within an inch of my life.
The tenderness, mixed with the carnal thrust that invades me, is just enough to push me upward—like my soul is climbing a long, glorious spiral staircase to the heavens.
Fen Sheridan is the definition of everything I shouldn’t want in a man. I’ve reminded myself of that every time I ran into him, even when I walked down the aisle with him at a wedding just hours ago.
There’s no avoiding Fen, not with my friend and business partner Annie now married to his brother. So after this one-night stand ruins my future expectations of sex—having raised the bar to a stratospheric height—I’ll still have to face him.
And that’s what should be holding me back from screaming out his name right now. But it doesn’t.
Nope, not in the slightest.
When I reach the apex, it shouldn’t be any different from the last two orgasms he’s given me this past hour; the man is that skilled. Yet this one, when he gives in to his desire at the precise moment I do, feels like it’s somehow etched itself on my soul, as though every time I’m with another man, I’ll compare him to Fen.
Which might explain why, as he rolls off of me, I feel ever so slightly pissed off.
Not at him, though.
At myself.
“That was an unexpected end to the evening.” His low, husky tone almost soothes me.
“For you and me both,” I answer, my voice breathy, still struggling for air.
“But you won’t find me complaining,” he adds with a chuckle.
Me neither. But I can’t say it. Can’t admit it somehow. Because I feel that undeniable surge of nesting hormones coursing through my veins right now and I need to get the hell out of here before I imprint myself to his very existence.
So I don’t answer, I just listen to my breathing and how it seems to echo his perfectly. I enjoy it too much, that synchronicity coupled with the feeling of his warm skin on mine, so soft that it seems incongruent to the hard muscles showcased on his broad form.
There’s a sheen of sweat over my body and my heart is still refusing to return to its normal pace. I want more of this. Now. With him. I want to feel him inside me and not know where my body ends and his begins.
So of course I do what is completely necessary and state the obvious. “I should go.”
“Why? Stay the night. Cam’s with Annie tonight and Dodger’s with Melanie or whatever her name is.”
“Melody,” I correct.
He cracks a smile. “Melody. Right. I’ll finally start getting it right and she’ll leave for the mainland.”
“Yeah, that’s how it goes around here,” I tell him, my words slightly bitter on my tongue. That’s how a girl like me usually gets her heart broken on this island.
Truth is, one-night stands have never been my thing. I’m more of a relationship kind of girl. I love that feeling of belonging that being a couple brings, that sense that I’m a part of a team—that someone’s got my back.
But the relationships I’ve had always seem to end with a plane ticket off this rock. And it’s not my name on the ticket. It’s the name of some guy who once promised me the world.
That reminder should be enough to light a fire under my ass right now and shoot me out his door before I fool myself into thinking Fen has anything to offer me other than the sex I’ve just enjoyed.
But this feeling of his skin against mine is too addictive. Like there’s a missing piece to the puzzle of me that clicks into place when I’m resting on his chest like this, listening to his heart.
And that’s my problem. I know this too well.
I don’t like to think of myself as a needy person. I’m not. I’ve stood on my own two feet since I was seventeen.
But the day they buried my parents, I felt like I buried a piece of myself—leaving a void that fills too easily with the wrong man who has the right moves.
I can’t let that happen with this man. He’s Annie’s brother-in-law. Even though dancing with him under the stars at her beachside wedding was magical enough for me to follow him back to his place, this has to end now.
I sigh, pulling myself away from him and reaching for the bra that was tossed on the floor. “No, I should really get going.”
He looks perplexed. “Why?”
Retrieving my panties that somehow ended up hanging from his headboard, I tell him, “Look, I know the deal with you. Annie’s clued me in. And it’s fine.”
I tug on my dress, refusing to meet his gaze. Until tonight, I borderline disliked this guy, for all the stories I’ve heard from Annie.
But then at Annie’s wedding, I discovered that there’s something even more attractive than Fen’s eyes or pecs or abs. It’s the way he’s mastered this glorious thing called “active listening” that my Business Communications professor used to blather about.
It’s irresistible on a guy like Fen. No wonder women put up with his anti-commitment agenda and end up in his bed with no strings attached.
He touches my arm just before I’m about to stand. “Look, I won’t deny that I don’t do relationships—” he begins.
“—as you stated several times this evening,” I interject, more as a reminder to me than him. Give me some reason to hate you right now. Please. Something to stop these feelings welling up inside me that make me want to curl up in your arms and just be held.
“—but it doesn’t mean you have to run out the door,” he finishes. “How about I get you a glass of wine from downstairs? Annie keeps some kind of Chardonnay in the fridge.”
Annie. Just the name I didn’t need to hear right now. How am I going to hide this from Annie?
“No. Really. Thanks, though.”
I try to conjure a reason to despise this guy. I need it now—fuel to send me on my way. I run through our conversation tonight, trying to recall some moment when he revealed himself to be the arrogant player that Annie warned me he is.
But my brain’s coming up dry.
He glances at the clock. “Sex that good demands a few repeat performances. And the night is young.”
My eyes follow the track of his to the clock on his nightstand, and when I see the number on its display I can’t help myself from calculating how many more times he might be able to coax an orgasm from me before the first rays of dawn hit this side of the island.
The number I come up with is pretty staggering.
And tempting as hell.
Until I see it—a small wooden frame with a photo inside it.
It’s unassuming—just Fen and some other guy roasting a couple of marshmallows.
Over a lava flow.
Over Pele.
Disbelieving for a moment—it just doesn’t mesh up with his personality—I almost smile insidiously when I accept it as truth.
He roasted marshmallows on our volcano.
Eureka! It’s like a gift to me—a reason to knock him off this pedestal where I’ve unconsciously placed him, seeing as this was the best sex I’ve ever had.
His eyes must have followed my gaze because he suddenly says, “Oh, that’s me and Drake at Kilauea.”
“Drake.” I almost whisper it.
“Yeah. Just an Army guy I served with a while back.”
“You roasted marshmallows on the lava flow.” I say it as a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, it was on his bucket list.”
I’m not living under a rock. I know plenty of tour groups sell this tacky experience to tourists.
But native Hawaiians like me frown on it. To us, that volcano is the sacred home of Pele, a part of our culture.
It’s about the equivalent of roasting marshmallows over devotional candles at a Catholic church. Sure, you’ll get a viral photo op for Instagram. But you’ll look like an asshole doing it.
Thirty seconds ago, I’d have sworn that there was nothing that could have adequately chilled the post-climax heat that still emanates from my body.
But that photo seems to do the trick.
Thank God.
“Have you ever done it?” he asks, so oblivious it’s almost comical.
No.
I think it, but I don’t say it, instead staring at the image like it’s a lifeline.
A fucking marshmallow. Perfect.
“I should really go,” I whisper rather than answering, standing now on wobbly legs. It’s bad enough that I slept with a guy who has no future with me whatsoever. But I did it with someone who roasts marshmallows on the volcano.
Ugh. If my ‘ohana finds out about this, I’ll never live it down.
“You sure?”
My mind is plenty sure. But my body seems to be experiencing a delay. It’s just a marshmallow, I hear my hungry girl-parts whisper.
Then my brain takes over. “Yeah,” I say, feeling somewhat proud, the same way I feel when I step away empty-handed from a plate of steaming hot chocolate chip cookies which, until tonight, I’d have bet were better than sex could ever be.
Still gloriously naked, he stands. “You really don’t want to spend the night? I can grab breakfast sandwiches at the deli down the road and we can take them to the beach.”
Just two minutes ago, I would have been sorely tempted.
But now? Not so much.
“Look, thanks for the offer,” I tell him. “But you don’t have to treat me to a follow-up breakfast just because your brother is married to my friend and business partner.”
“I’m not—”
“Where’s my purse?” I cut him off, looking around.
“On the—” He stops when he sees me find my purse on his dresser.
As I take it in my hand, I spot something only inches from where my purse just was.
A small glass jar filled with green sand.
A jar I really wish I had taken a moment to notice before I experienced my first, second, and yes, even third climax tonight.
Green sand.
Apparently scooped up by a self-absorbed, disrespectful asshole.
The same guy who roasted a marshmallow over Pele.
Double ugh. He’s one of those guys. Those guys who steal green sand from Papakolea Beach when no one is looking.
Wow. Just wow. As if roasting a marshmallow over Pele wasn’t enough, I’ve just been gifted another reason to dislike this guy.
The Big Island’s Papakolea is one of only four green sand beaches in the world. It’s against the law to take sand from it, but from time to time, you still see people stealing a handful here or there, as though the law doesn’t apply to them.
People like Fen, apparently.
What a waste of carnal talent on a guy like this.
With my purse in my grip, I whirl around to head to the stairs, half expecting to see some cheesy statue of a hula girl with hips that jiggle when you shake it because tacky seems to be the trend with this guy.
“I think it’s best we just never mention we did this. Especially to Cam or Annie,” I blurt as he follows me.
Downstairs, he reaches out and lightly strokes my arm. I feel myself instinctively move toward him, his pull nothing short of magnetic.
“Maybe I want to mention it.” His voice practically purrs it—a low, sultry murmur that tugs at me. But I resist, using the only armor I have to protect myself, an armor literally made of marshmallows and green sand.
“Well, don’t.” My voice is just this side of bitchy. “I don’t want Annie worrying there will be any friction between us.”
“Who says there would have to be friction between us?” he counters. “Stay the night, Kaila.”
He’s moved closer to me, tenderly resting his palm on my hip. The heat between my thighs is almost embarrassing.
Oh, hell no. I’m made of sterner stuff than that.
“No. Let’s just forget this ever happened.” I brush past him to grab my wrap from the kitchen counter, inhaling deeply as though I want to fill my lungs with his scent one last time.
“Okay. If that’s what you want.” He says it as though he doesn’t believe it. As though he’ll be waiting for me to text him tomorrow. He cocks his head. “I hope you’re not regretting this.”
“Of course not,” I lie. “But you’re not my type.”
The look on his face tells me he takes my words as the insult they were intended to be. I immediately wish I hadn’t said it. I may be fragile, vulnerable, and admittedly have a hole in my heart these past eight years since my parents died. But I’ve never been bitchy.
Till this moment.
“I’m not your type?”
I bite my lip, hating the way it sounds, knowing that he’s been nothing but nice to me all night and I’m only latching onto whatever I can to keep myself from getting hurt by this man.
Because it felt that good… being in his arms.
“No. And I’m not your type. Admit it.”
His jaw sets, and there’s a vein that pops out on his forehead—the kind I used to see on my dad when I’d take the car out at night without getting permission first. “No, I guess you’re not,” he finally responds.
“Well, see you.”
“Yeah, see you around,” he says with the same tone he might say, Don’t let the door hit you in the ass as you leave.
And I can’t say I blame him.
The blame rests entirely with me.