“Lauren.” Her name left his lips in a groan – or a prayer, he wasn’t sure which. He slid his hands down to her buttocks, holding her still as he rubbed his cock against the sweet, hot notch of her thighs. He was so hard, so starved for her, that it was right on the edge of being painful. All he could think about was tearing her underwear off, getting inside of her as quickly as possible, fucking her hard and fast until they were both screaming in release. And then really getting down to business after taking the edge off a little.
He had just slid his hand beneath her skirt, was barely an inch away from slipping his fingers inside the soaking wet crotch of her flimsy thong, when he felt her pushing against his chest.
“Don’t. Stop,” she pleaded raggedly. “Oh, God, Ben. You’ve got to stop now.”
Her almost desperate pleas finally penetrated his lust-addled brain and he let go of her reluctantly. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he grunted, his body screaming for release and none too happy that he’d halted its progress towards that end.
Lauren clapped a hand over her mouth, shaking her head. “Uh, try not to take this personally but – oh, crap!”
She dashed into the kitchen, her heels clacking noisily on the wood floor. She didn’t even bother turning a light on as she rushed over to the sink, and was immediately, rather revoltingly, sick.
“You have got to be kidding,” he muttered darkly. “Talk about bad timing, huh?”
Telling himself – though he didn’t really mean it – that this was all for the best under the circumstances – those circumstances mainly involving his complicated relationship with Elle – Ben heaved a sigh of resignation and followed Lauren inside the spacious, well-equipped kitchen. As she continued to vomit into the sink, he simply held her long hair back until she gave one final shudder. He got her a glass of water and then dampened a dishcloth to wipe off her face.
Lauren was pale and shaky as she rinsed the sink out, and she looked ready to drop at his feet like a ragdoll.
“Sorry,” she croaked. “I blame that damned ceviche. Definitely some bad fish there.”
Ben smiled knowingly. “Yeah, it was the ceviche all right. And maybe a few too many pisco sours. As well as that last round of tequila shots. Ah, don’t forget the red wine.”
Lauren let out a groan and clamped a hand over her mouth again. “Okay, enough. Maybe I did have a little too much to drink tonight. But it was mostly the ceviche.”
“Whatever you say,” he agreed amiably. “Look, you’re obviously in no shape to talk about anything tonight. Not to mention that things got awfully out of control just now. Speaking of which.”
He tried to ignore how badly his balls ached as he clumsily retied the top of her dress, covering up her bare, tempting breasts. But he knew that it wouldn’t be nearly so easy to forget the sight and feel and taste of them.
“Time for you to get some sleep, Lauren,” he told her in his best no-nonsense voice. “After all, you’ve got a busy couple of days ahead of you and that’s even before you arrive in the islands. But you can be damned sure that the minute you’re back I’m finally going to have my say. And for once in your life you’re going to shut up and listen.”
He couldn’t resist pressing a quick kiss to her forehead, the sort of kiss one might give to a small, frightened child. And then he left while the few fragments that remained of his willpower were still intact.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ten Days Later – Andaman and Nicobar Islands
Lauren wondered if she would ever be able to drink enough to forget what had easily been the most humiliating night of her entire life – only to recall that too much alcohol had been the cause of said humiliation. She groaned again, as she had done every single time she’d thought of that awful night in New York two weeks ago – the one where she had made a fool out of herself in too many ways to count.
It had been bad enough that she’d actually gotten drunk – something she hadn’t done for a long, long time. She’d initially blamed her inebriation on mixing alcohol, which she rarely did, and on those damned pisco sours that had admittedly had a real kick to them.
But her humiliation hadn’t ended with her very public exhibition of drunkenness. It had continued – big time – when she’d come this close to seducing Ben in her aunt’s living room, practically stripping naked in the process.
And even that hadn’t been quite enough debasement for one night. Oh, no, then she’d had to go and upchuck rather brilliantly, suffering the added shame of Ben holding her hair back and then wiping her face off. It was the last part, perhaps, that really made her wince to recall.
She wondered now, while sipping a glass of wine and watching the stars come out, how much farther things would have progressed that evening if she hadn’t lost the battle with her overwhelming urge to hurl. Would Ben have called a halt to their hot, urgent, hump-fest? Was he even now regretting what he’d done, feeling guilty because of Elle? There had been no direct communication from him in the two weeks that the crew had been gone. As usual these days, George was the crew’s point of contact and the one to touch base with headquarters.
But Lauren couldn’t help wishing – expecting – hoping - that Ben might have sent her a personal email or called her cell phone to – what? Apologize? See how she was feeling after what had certainly been a real bitch of a hangover? Set up a time to finally have that long overdue talk?
She shook her head impatiently, furious at herself to feel disappointed, and that she had ever allowed herself to feel hope. It couldn’t have been more obvious that Ben deeply regretted their heated make-out session, and that he’d very intentionally not contacted her as a way of re-establishing boundaries between them. He was still with Elle, after all, and even though there had been no announcement of an engagement as yet, that didn’t mean it wasn’t forthcoming. And Lauren had definitely made a fool of herself with her wanton behavior that night, especially since Ben now knew without a doubt that she was still attracted to him. She had no idea how she was going to be able to face him in a couple of days, and even less idea how she could possibly continue to work with him now.
The emails had been drafted for days now. She had typed both of them up her second night here in the islands, and had made daily revisions to the longer of the two. But she’d lacked the nerve to actually press the Send button, knowing there would be repercussions involved when she did.
This trip to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands had been a bittersweet one for Lauren. The crew had made the most of their time here – snorkeling, diving, exploring – and she had loved the wildness of the place, the unspoiled beaches, the spicy, exotic foods.
But always in the back of her mind had been the thought that this would in all likelihood be her last trip with Karl, Chris, and George – her final assignment with the magazine. It all depended on whether or not she had the guts to hit that damned Send button.
The sliding door of the room next to hers opened, and Karl ambled out onto his adjoining balcony, carrying a bottle of some local beer.
“Thought I’d find you out here,” he drawled, resting his arms on the balcony railing just as she was doing.
She shrugged. “Our last night here. Might as well enjoy it. When we get back to New York in a couple of days – literally, thanks to our fantastic flight arrangements – it will already be autumn. Summer will be over.”
“Not for long,” reminded Karl. “When it’s autumn in New York, it’s spring in other parts of the world. And you can’t stop the seasons from changing, kiddo. Nothing stays the same forever, you know.”
Lauren reached across the low ledge that separated their balconies and hooked her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Don’t remind me, you jerk. We’ve had a good thing going these last few years – you, me, and Chris – and now you want to spoil it all.”