Stripped. Nicola Marsh

a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass. It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.

      His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause. What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?

      It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.

      ‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’

      I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’

      There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.

      Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt dismissal adds to my embarrassment. Crazy, because it’s not his fault: I flung myself at him. But with him behaving like that make-out session never happened I’m thrust back into a familiar role of taking whatever is dished out. I don’t like it.

      So I break into a jog, desperate to get away and nurse my humiliation in peace.

      He calls out, ‘Hey, Daisy, wait up,’ but I don’t stop. I keep going.

      I’m done looking back.

       CHAPTER THREE

      Hart

      I SHOULD GO after Daisy. Smooth things over, placate her, give her a spiel about how the kiss meant nothing, to forget it.

      Instead, I stand here with a dumbass grin on my face.

      I know why I deliberately provoked her into that kiss. I’ve done it my entire life, since my dad dumped me in the foster system: push people to the edge so they can hate me first.

      With Daisy, it backfired, big time.

      I’d had a hard-on since I first saw her sprawled on the sand, her ass in the air. It’s why I accepted her invitation for a walk even after she revealed her identity and I knew we’d be working together.

      For me, our transient working relationship is perfect, because even if I do fuck her like I want to—the insistent throb in my dick won’t let up—it won’t mean anything. Just the way I like it.

      So I needled her, accepting her invitation for a walk when I knew she’d hate me for it because I should know better considering our impending working relationship. I expected her to bristle, to push me away, to be appalled. The part where she reacted by flinging herself at me? Not in the plan.

      Fuck, she was a turn-on. A confident woman not afraid to go after what she wants, even if that happens to be me, the guy working alongside her for the next few weeks.

      I should go after her and try to salvage the wreckage of this unexpected night before we meet in the morning. Put her at ease. But then I remember the way she devoured me, the way she felt me up, and my damn face feels like it’s going to crack with my smug grin.

      I’m rock hard, my balls throbbing. If all my blood hadn’t drained south I’d use half a brain cell and go after her, if only with the intention to invite her back to my room to finish what we started.

      I watch her fleeing up the beach until she reaches the resort gates and enters. Only then do I follow at a sedate pace.

      My grin fades the closer I get to the resort, the weight of what I’m facing in the upcoming weeks making my feet drag.

      I’m nobody’s saviour, least of all Pa’s. But this hotel business is his legacy and, for reasons I can only blame on declining health, profit margins for his pride and joy have plummeted.

      I need to change all that.

      It’s the least I can do before I fuck off again.

      Several couples stroll past, so wrapped up in each other they don’t notice me. A family, husband and wife, with twin boys about seven, are laughing by the water’s edge, kicking at the incoming waves, sending sea spray high into the air, drenching each other.

      It’s late, the kids should be in bed, but as I watch the family having fun with a complete disregard for so-called society norms on child-raising, an ache starts in my chest and spreads outwards.

      The complete innocence of the boys disarms me; their complete trust in their parents. I had that once. An expectation that the adults responsible for me would be dependable; an illusion ripped away the first time I got whacked across the side of the head for taking the last piece of bread, age three.

      And the next time, when my dad took a belt to my butt for accidentally knocking over his beer bottle, I was four.

      And the next, when a social worker didn’t believe me when I told her I was locked in a cupboard at night so I wouldn’t sneak off, I was six and in my first foster home.

      I learned after that. Adults would never look after me. They would never hug me or care for me or love me.

      So I did my best to make them hate me.

      It ensured I didn’t get close to anyone. Knowing my shoddy behaviour would have the desired result was the one thing I could control in a crumbling world I despised.

      I never trusted anyone and despite how hard Pa tried, I couldn’t let him into that hidden part of me, the part of me that wondered would he, too, eventually cast me aside.

      One of the boys lets out a squeal and it pierces my reminiscing. I blink, surprised by the dampness in my eyes.

      Shit, I’m turning into a sissy. Tears are wasted. The only good thing my father taught me before he dumped me at Social Services was to ‘harden the fuck up’. Apparently a snivelling five-year-old had never been in his plans after my mum shot through shortly after my birth. I’m surprised the mean prick kept me around that long.

      With a shake of my head, I turn my back on the happy family and head for the resort. I have a shitload of work to do and the sooner I get started, the sooner I can leave this place and its unwelcome, maudlin memories behind.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Daisy

      MY HEAD HURTS. I shouldn’t have drunk those cocktails last night. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, starting with downing those Gorgeous Gems like cordial and ending with snogging Hart Rochester on the beach.

      I have a presentation to nail shortly and the painkillers I took with OJ half an hour ago haven’t kicked in. Facing Hart after I practically mounted him will be hard enough without the drummer boy in my head practising his cymbal crashes.

      I’ve done my research. I’m prepared. But unless I can pretend that kiss never happened, I’m in deep doo-doo.

      I never should’ve run away. He called out to me too and I didn’t stop. I acted like some crazy hormonal teen when I should’ve been mature and blasé, as he was.

      Adults kiss all the time. We were attracted, we gave into it, shit happens. But by running away like some mortified ingénue, I made more of it rather than dismissing it as a casual sexual impulse.

      Maybe I can joke about it when I see him shortly. Something witty and fabulous that will clear the air and ensure he takes me seriously when I present my plans to him.

      Only one problem: I can’t think