Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel

  Annie remained uncharacteristically quiet. Eventually she said, “Rowan, we all love you. Your mom and dad, Clancy, Duncan, Mellie, me, Nat. I know it’s been a rough year since the trial and I know you’re frustrated with where you are in life right now. But things will turn around.”

  “They’d better.”

  “The point is, festival week isn’t the time to try to start a relationship with someone. It’s too crazy. There’s no time for you to really get to know each other. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  Rowan chuckled. “I don’t want to have his children, Annie. I just want to get naked and roll around with him for a few hours.”

  “Well, if you can handle that.”

  “Of course I can. I’m only interested in sex.”

  “Well, good, because if you ever became Mrs. Thurston Howell the third, I’m not sure we could be friends anymore.”

  “That’s not his name, but whatever.” Rowan took another sip of her drink, thinking she could use another dash of lime juice. She reached across the butcher block and cut a wedge, squeezing it into the ice-cold pink liquid. Really, cranberry and vodka was a very pretty drink.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Annie said. “Who cares what his name is? All that matters is the type of person he is, that he’s a good man, that he’ll leave you panting and happy and then go home.”

  “Amen.” Rowan swished the lime juice around, held her glass up to the light, and chuckled. Within seconds the chuckle escalated into a full-out guffaw. “But, seriously, is that the most stick-up-the-ass name you’ve ever heard, or what?”

  “God, yes. So what’s Thurston do for a living?”

  Rowan gazed up at the punched-tin ceiling of the kitchen, still holding her glass high. “You know, I have no idea what he does. Maybe nothing. Looks like a T-fer to me.”

  “A trust funder? Nice.”

  Rowan heard her best friend whisper, then put her hand over the receiver. It didn’t prevent Rowan from hearing muffled whispers of affection and a squeal or two. It was obvious what was going on over at Annie’s place. It was depressing.

  “I’m sorry, Row. I’m back.”

  “Tell Nat I said ‘hi.’”

  “Nat says ‘hi’ to you, too.”

  “Were they filming today?” Annie’s fiancé, Nathaniel Ravelle, was a documentary filmmaker shooting a movie about Bayberry’s mermaid legend. That’s how he and Annie met—Nat traveled from Los Angeles to the island just before Christmas last year to do advance scouting for the reality show he was working on at the time. He fell on the ice in front of Annie’s tourist tchotchke shop, and by the time she’d nursed him back to health, they’d fallen in love. Nat had since quit his job in LA, and he and his crew had been filming all of August in preparation for the blowout party atmosphere of festival week.

  Rowan would have liked Nat under any circumstance—he was funny, smart, and kind—but she absolutely loved him for making Annie happier than Rowan had ever seen her.

  “The crew was out all day, even in the rain,” Annie said. “They had to drape the equipment with tarps in order to get footage of the Man Grab.”

  “Who was this year’s sucker?”

  “No idea, but Nat said the guy wasn’t at all happy about it. Had no sense of humor, apparently.”

  “Sounds like a real douche.” Rowan sighed. “Seriously, why bother coming for the festival if you aren’t willing to let loose a little and—” The lights in the kitchen flickered, then went out completely. Rowan reached for the flashlight she’d propped on the butcher block and flicked it on. “Well, thar she blows. We just lost power.”

  “We did, too. Better go. I hope Poseidon knows how to operate a flashlight. Talk later, sweetie.”

  As Rowan clicked off her cell phone, it hit her. She’d forgotten to give Mr. Wallace a flashlight in case the island lost power. This meant that he was alone in her apartment—in the dark. Just before she’d called Annie, Rowan had personally handed over one flashlight—along with extra batteries—to each of the twelve guest rooms. Then she’d trudged up to the third floor and handed one to each of the maids. Imelda had her own stash. That left Rowan with the only remaining flashlight in the whole house, the flimsy little thing about the size of a tampon that she now held in her hand. Of course, she really didn’t need it, since she knew every odd angle and protruding fireplace mantel in the house. But how could she have forgotten Mr. Wallace?

  Rowan jumped up and headed toward the pantry. “Ow!” She rubbed her toes, shaking her head at her own clumsiness. Apparently, she’d forgotten to factor in the location of all the kitchen stools. She held the flashlight between her teeth and climbed on a chair to reach the top pantry shelf, where she knew she’d stored some utility candles for just this kind of emergency. Rowan grabbed two, hopped down—carefully—then rooted around in the junk drawer for a lighter. She tossed everything into a plastic freezer Baggie, shoved the Baggie into the waistband of her jeans, and raced out the kitchen door. Almost immediately, she regretted that she’d been too rushed to grab a foul-weather slicker.

  The rain was flying almost horizontal to the lawn, stinging her face. She tucked her head down and ran as fast as she could, her bare feet splashing in the saturated grass. An ear-piercingly loud crack of thunder startled her so much, she screamed. Rowan dared a glance toward the beach and saw nature’s laser light show taking place not so far out at sea, jagged streaks of lightning piercing the black sky and lighting up the waves, one flash right after the next. It was a jaw-dropping display of destructive beauty and power, and if Rowan hadn’t been afraid of being burned like a matchstick, she might have paused to watch.

  Instead she ran on, slipping on the gentle slope of lawn leading toward the carriage house. She pushed herself to a stand and continued. When she reached the stone and shingle building seconds later, she found the door to her apartment wide open and banging in the wind.

  A slice of fear went through her. Had something happened to Mr. Wallace? Had he run toward the main house while she’d been running out to him? Had he been struck by lightning?

  “Hello?”

  Rowan heard her shout die in the wind. She braced her bare heels on the slate walkway and grabbed the edge of the door. “Mr. Wallace?” She backed into the entrance to the stairway, then used all her strength to yank the door shut. Instantly, she was wrapped in silence, protected by the thick fortresslike walls her great-grandfather had insisted upon. Even for his staff. Even for his horses.

  It was black in the narrow, windowless stairwell. She fished the tampon flashlight out of her jeans pocket and toggled the switch several times. Nothing. It must have gotten wet. “Perfect.” Rowan shoved the useless thing back into her pocket and pushed away the wet hair that was plastered to her face. She slowly climbed the stairs. Since there were no railings, she dragged her hand along the wall for reassurance.

  As she very well knew, there was no door to the apartment. That meant that once she reached the top of the stairs, she would be in the living room, which would be a clear invasion of her guest’s privacy. But this was an emergency. If Mr. Wallace was still up here, he was in the dark and quite possibly concerned for his safety.

  Rowan reached the last step, curled her fingers around the corner of the wall, and stepped into the living room.

  “Mr. Wallace? It’s Rowan Flynn. Are you all right?”

  Just then, a flash of lightning illuminated the room just enough to show her it was empty. He’d gone back to the main house, then. All this running and falling had been for nothing. With a sigh, Rowan reached into the front of her jeans and pulled out the Baggie, leaving the candles and lighter on the dinette table for when he returned. She turned to go, but the loud thunk coming from the bedroom made her jump in surprise.

  “Goddammit!”

  He was here. “Mr. Wallace?” Rowan suspected he hadn’t heard her because a rumble of thunder had drowned out her shout. She hated to surprise him, but what if he were hurt? What if every wa
sted second could mean the difference between life and death? She rushed toward the bedroom door with her hands outstretched. “Are you all right?”

  Whump. It felt like she’d hit a wall—a full-frontal wall of wet, hard, bare flesh. A hand grabbed her elbow. She screamed in surprise.

  “Rowan?”

  She tugged her arm free and started jogging backward, her mind racing. This had been a mistake. It was dark. From what she could tell, he was naked. She’d had two cranberry vodkas—well, technically, two and a half. And she hadn’t had sex in nearly two years.

  Severely undersexed and half in the bag had never been a good combination for her.

  “Oh!” The back of Rowan’s heel hit something, and she began to fall backward, not sure exactly where she was or where she’d land. Was she in the hallway? The living room? The dining area? What had she just tripped over?

  His hand grabbed her arm again, but both of them were wet and slick so she slipped from his grasp. That’s when his hand clutched at the bottom of her T-shirt and tried to pull her to a stand. The shirt ripped. Rowan fell on her ass. Ash fell on top of her, catching most—but not all—of his weight on his hands. She’d been flattened onto her back.

  Oh God! He smelled delicious! He smelled like sex! He must have been in the shower when the electricity went off, because his own mysterious scent had mixed in with Rowan’s familiar soap and shampoo. The result was the exotic elixir now flowing through her nostrils and penetrating the exact part of her brain that didn’t want her to stay a sex-starved spinster, “ma’am” innkeeper for another minute!

  He panted. She panted. He hovered close. She felt his warm, big body pressing into hers from thighs to chest, his bare skin against her own. She gasped. If she felt skin-on-skin, it meant her shirt had ripped from hem to neck, leaving her whole front exposed. A Greek god had just ripped off her clothes!

  What a difference a day could make.

  A brief flash of lightning illuminated his face, not an inch above hers, beautifully masculine and serious. Another flare revealed his hair was wet. Another showed his lips were parted. Thunder rumbled low and angry, vibrating across the sea and through their bodies. She felt his breath on her face. It would be so easy just to grab his head, force his lips onto hers, and kiss him until he begged for mercy. No one would ever know. But the window for that kind of outrageous act was rapidly closing. Another few seconds and one—or both—of them would come to their senses, apologize, and shove each other away. Rowan knew that if she didn’t make her move now . . .

  “Oh, fuck it,” he whispered.

  “God, yes!”

  Ash lowered his mouth onto hers. He shoved his fingers into her wet hair, angled her face exactly how he wanted, then kissed her with such perfection that her mind went blank. Rowan felt everything suddenly stop—her blood, her breath, her rational thought, her awareness of anything but him. His kiss was tender but without a trace of hesitation. This was a man who knew what he was doing, knew what he wanted. And it was clear that Ashton Louis Wallace III wanted her.

  Rowan raised her hands to touch him. He felt so damn good beneath her fingers. His back, upper arms, and shoulders were built from hard muscle and smooth skin. His neck was strong. She figured it was her turn to be bold, so she yanked on his hair and took the kiss where she needed it to go.

  Total pleasure. Her entire being was nothing but a nerve ending designed to receive pleasure. She felt out of control, wrapping a leg around his and then slipping her hands down his muscular back to his ass. This was already so outrageous that Rowan figured it didn’t matter what she did next—so she grabbed his booty, pulled him tighter to her, and arched her back.

  Two thoughts penetrated the lustful fog in her brain. The first was that this was prime man beneath her hands and on top of her body. The second was that her dry spell was about to end, and probably with a lot more than a trickle.

  “Are you sure?” He asked this question in between her increasingly demanding kisses.

  “I’m sure.” Rowan pushed up into him again, feeling his long and hard arousal poke against her sweet spot. At least it used to be her sweet spot. For too long it had been just another spot.

  Thunder pounded. Lightning cracked and flashed. Rowan groaned with disappointment when Ash removed his lips from hers, but sighed with relief when he ripped what remained of her sopping-wet shirt from her body, then unhooked the front closure of her bra faster than she ever could. Immediately, his hands were on her breasts, teasing her nipples, pulling and flicking at them until she cried out. The way he handled her was so . . . carnal.

  Ash stopped. He raised his face just as another strobe of light filled the apartment. That’s when she saw the single-minded glint in his eyes. Ash was a man on a mission. He lowered his mouth to her nipples, left then the right, back and forth he went, tugging and sucking until Rowan began squirming beneath him.

  “Too much?” he asked, his voice husky in the darkness.

  Lightning illuminated the room again, and Rowan shook her head. She had to shout over the thunder. “Take my pants off! Please!”

  He pushed up to his knees, and Rowan lifted her hips off the floor to assist him. It was then that a series of lightning hits created several seconds of on-again-off-again illumination, allowing Rowan to get her first good look at Ash’s naked body as he threw her soaking-wet jeans across the room.

  Damn. Pure male perfection. Big across the chest and shoulders, defined arms, flat and hard abs rippling as he moved, and . . . She stopped breathing. Her eyes went big. Rowan slammed her palms onto the old wood floor and tossed her head back, thanking the storm gods for washing this truly gifted man upon the shores of Bayberry Island.

  Pants gone. Arms wrapped tight around her back. Ash’s mouth went back where it belonged, on hers, as he lifted her off the floor.

  “Spread your legs.”

  That would work for her.

  “Wider. Open your legs wider.”

  Rowan flipped her legs up and over Ash’s thighs as he sat back on his heels. He pulled her to his chest. Mouth rough on hers. Hands on her ass, then moving across her hips, along her back. Oh God. She could feel his big cock pressing into her belly. All she had to do was lift up and forward just the tiniest bit and they’d be in business.

  She heard herself whimper. Rowan clutched at his wet skin, slapped her hands onto his back, and opened her mouth so that he could have her. In that moment, she knew she would give Ash anything and everything he wanted.

  She was drowning in the lust, lost in it, and so incredibly hungry for relief. “Please,” she whispered as he kissed her. “God, please.”

  Ash slid one hand from her hip to inside her open legs. A vague sensation of embarrassment went through her. It had been so long since she cared about how her body would look and feel to a man. Had she shaved her legs that morning? Her underarms? The tip of his finger brushed against her swollen clitoris and her brain exploded.

  “Please. Please.” She knew she sounded like a desperate woman, but she didn’t give a damn what she sounded like. The same went for the shaving. Who cared? His finger slid down into the opening of her sex, and she cried out from the shock of it.

  “Rowan. God. You’re so wet. So incredibly beautiful.” Ash spread her open with his fingers, teasing and pushing and teasing some more. He dragged his lips from hers and began kissing her cheeks, hair, and throat. “Are you sure? We can stop. Tell me what to do.”

  His words sounded as desperate as her own, which surprised her. This was a huge deal for Rowan. Maybe it was for him, too. Of course, she had no way of knowing because Ashton Louis Wallace III was a stranger. She knew almost nothing about him, except that he possessed a gorgeous face, perfect body, and black credit card.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She shouldn’t be doing this. She knew this wasn’t a smart move. On every level. First, she didn’t have a condom. Of course she didn’t! This wasn’t exactly planned.

  And what about afterward? How ridiculous would she feel
? True, she was sex starved, but she’d been sex starved before and it had never left her lost to herself like this, helpless, feeling as if she were being swept up and claimed. But that was exactly how she felt at that moment.

  Lightning split the air. Thunder rolled through them. Rowan knew it was far too late to stop, even if she wanted to. Whatever this was, it would have to be. It had a weight to it. A force. It felt like fate.

  Ash’s fingers suddenly stilled, and Rowan realized she’d gotten so absorbed in her own internal battle that she hadn’t noticed that he’d produced a condom as if from thin air. She also realized she hadn’t answered his question.

  “Don’t you dare stop,” she said. “Take me. Make love to me. Do it.”

  Ash didn’t need to be asked twice. He resumed the beautiful torment with his fingers, and Rowan could hear the extent of her own arousal. He hadn’t been joking—she was as soaking wet as her clothes had been. He found her nipples again with his mouth, and Rowan felt it building—rushing, driving, hot—so intense it was almost painful. Ash gently closed his teeth on a nipple and the lid blew off of Rowan’s being.

  She heard the strangest sound, something so raw and fierce that it didn’t even occur to her that she was responsible. Orgasmic waves hit her over and over, leaving her fingers numb, her breath ragged. Lightning ripped the darkness apart and Ash looked up at her. Their eyes remained locked as more lightning flashed, and Rowan’s gaze was glued to Ash’s as he lifted her and slowly, so slowly, guided her limp body onto his rock-hard cock.

  It was too much. Too much pleasure and release. Rowan felt the tears roll down her cheeks as she called out again, squeezing and pulling on him as he moved her up and down.

  Ash might have been speaking to her. She couldn’t tell for sure. The thunder was too loud. She was washed away in a sea of sensation. But her eyes held his in the on-and-off light, and she saw the tension drain from his expression. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but she swore a shadow of emotion fell over his face.