“Before you fulfill your Pretty Woman fantasy,” I say, going to my luggage and unpacking my swimming suit and wrap. “I’m going to take a shower and get ready to enjoy my vacation. I plan on celebrating my birthday with a nice suntan.”

“Wait, it’s your birthday?”

“Yes, Tuesday is my birthday.”

“Aren’t you going back to work on Monday?”

“Nope, I’m staying until Thursday. See you in the lobby at seven,” I say with a snarky tone and close the bathroom door.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Relax and have fun,” I say from the other side of the door as I turn on the shower and get undressed. “Focus on the palm trees, Coronas, and the sound of the ocean hitting the shore.”

Eight

Miller

Palm trees, Coronas, and the ocean she said. I can only focus on her barely covered curves lying next to me. Was that body always under those baggy clothes she wears? Toned legs, wide hips, slim waist, and a perfect chest. I bet I could fit those perky boobs in the palm of my hand.

“Would you like something to eat, sir?” A waiter approaches us.

A cold shower. The heat is making me want to run my hands over Claire’s soft skin. Trace her curves with my lips.

I turn casually to ask her if she wants something when I realize she’s rubbing sunscreen on top of her well-endowed chest. If only I could pull the thin fabric down to see her nipples.

“Sir?” the guy asks again.

“Clarice?” I ask with disdain, feigning repulsion.

“I’m all good, Hannibal,” she answers and hands me the sunscreen. “Would you mind rubbing some on my back? I promise to return the favor.”

How am I supposed to spend the night with her without acting upon my fantasies?

I squeeze a generous amount and begin rubbing it into her back, diverting my thoughts to work in order to avoid getting harder than I already am. But the thought of work takes me back to Claire. This magnificent creature who, in just a few hours, has increasingly been getting under my skin—and I want her under me before the night ends.

“We need to go shopping for your dresses.”

“I’ll make it work with what I brought. I can’t afford to buy a fancy dress,” she says.

“Believable, remember? We have to pretend you came ready for the big day and not that I convinced you to do me a favor.”

“Tuscany convinced me, not you,” she clarifies, taking the sunscreen away from me and squeezing some into her hand.

“Turn around,” she orders with a sultry voice. “It’s your turn, Mr. Archer.”

I give her my back and moan as she caresses me with her soft hands.

“Huh, I didn’t picture you as a guy with tattoos.”