Page 31 of Work: Strictly Professional

There’s no fucking way.

“Thank you. It’s fine,” says Derek, sounding neither impressed nor unimpressed as he casually palms a large note into the hand of the porter who’s just shown us our suite.

The suite isn’t fine. It’s far from it. It’s unbelievable. It’s easily better than the brochure and website images suggested. The bathroom is completely open plan, something that looked lovely online, but now that I realize I’ll be sharing the space with Derek, it makes me break out into a cold sweat. The tub is all but in the goddamn bedroom. The shower is in a private courtyard and clearly visible from almost every part of the bungalow. There’s a separate toilet with a door that locks, thanks be to God, but I’m still living a complete nightmare.

The bed—that’s singular, by the way—is a four-poster, hand-carved affair that faces the ocean. Tomorrow morning, at the touch of a button, reams of linen will draw back to expose a cerulean view the likes of which most people go their whole lives without seeing. The space is a symphony of white, wood, tropical plants, and moody lighting. There are pillar candles dotted around the room and a bowl of fruit so lavish that despite the dire circumstance I find myself in, it’s taking everything I havenot to throw myself onto the sofa, tilt my head back, and eat grapes directly from the bunch, ancient Greek-style.

Every inch of the place has been carefully considered. It’s luxury from floor to ceiling. It’s a living, breathing thing. A thing that’s been designed to whisper, “Come in. Relax. Take your clothes off.”

And that’s exactly what Derek MacAvoy appears to be doing right now. He’s unbuttoned an extra button at his neck and his head is currently hidden under his polo shirt. A thick mat of dark hair dusts his chest and trails down his belly. His abs twist and clench with the motion. His body is hard and thick but not cut like a gym bro in his twenties or thirties. He’s built. Muscular and solid. A physique earned by hard work and decades on the planet.

“Oop, I, er…” I stammer. “W-would you like me to wait outside?”

Derek emerges, hair disheveled and falling into his face. He looks at me quizzically. “No. No need. Just going for a dip.”

Fuck. He’s going to be totally comfortable nude, isn’t he?

Just my luck.

I have a thing for men who are comfortable in their own skin. A huge, irrevocable thing.

Two giant hands drop toward his waist and begin working his belt buckle. My heart, still wholly untethered, flies into my throat as his chinos hit the floor.

It takes hours,hours, and no less than three piña coladas to get all my organs back where they belong.

Mere minutes after I achieve that feat, Derek announces he’s going to turn in for the night. With that, he steps out of the white linen trousers he put on after his swim and ambles,ambles, stark naked to the shower. Not a care in the world. In fact, he reaches down and fluffs his pubes as he walks. Totally chilled. Totally oblivious to the fact I’m standing right here, gawkingat his stark-naked ass. An ass so muscular, by the way, that it seems clear it was built for one thing. One single, solitary purpose. One purpose only. Driving a nail home.

A big, thick, circumcised nail.

A nail that’s a little darker than the rest of his body.

A nail that sways gently between his legs as he walks.

I look longingly at the enormous pile of pillows on the bed as he runs the shower. There must be at least eight of them. Any one of them would be perfect to drown out a long, loud scream.

As Derek showers, I do complicated mathematics, calculating how many times I’ve already seen him naked and how many more times I’m likely to see him naked before the wedding is over. When the number I arrive on makes me feel like I might break into hives, I start mapping the most direct routes from my bag to the closet to the bathroom and to the bed. No matter how I look at it, during the course of my stay here, I’m going to be covering a lot more ground than I consider ideal, wearing a lot less clothing than a man with a thing for difficult men with big hands, black moods, and asses designed purely for hammering a cock into a hole, should ever have on around Derek MacAvoy.

Derek emerges from the shower at last, droplets of water running down the side of his face and neck, glittering on his shoulders as the low light hits them. He smells like sea spray and driftwood, so powerfully masculine, I drop my gaze in the hope he might miss the way my cheeks color. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of white cotton boxer briefs, and fuck me, it looks like I have a thing for that too.

“Want to hit the shower?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hurry, I’m beat.”

I carefully follow the route I’ve mapped out. I get my toiletries out of my bag, then head to the closet and grab the luggage cube holding my sleepwear. I scurry to the toilet room, close and lock the door, breathe deeply three times, and realize I forgot tobring a towel.Shit!I unlock the door, quickly retrieve a towel, and then head back into the toilet room where I change—shakily—and walk out—more shakily—and head to the shower with the towel wrapped tightly around my waist.

Palm leaves rustle softly as hot water and steam cascade around me. The moon is almost full and the sky is awash with an asterism of stars. Streaks of gold and white glitter above me. It’s so peaceful and quiet I can almost feel stardust on my skin. It would be heaven if not for the fact I spend the entire time trying to get my ass and cock under wraps, painfully aware of the fact that if he so much as looks in my direction, Derek will get an eyeful of me.

Talking my dick down from the ledge under these conditions might well be the most challenging thing I’ve ever done.

No sooner is that ordeal over when the next one arises. The only sleep shorts I packed are the ones Gould gave me for my birthday last year. They’re lovely. Soft, barely there fabric that feels like silk on my skin. Gould had them made especially for me. He has his own company, so he can do that kind of thing. It started out as a side hustle, but last year, he quit his job to work on it full-time. I’m super happy for him, I really am, and usually, I love these shorts. They’re one of my favorite pairs. It’s just that they have his company logo blazoned all over them, and I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s a disaster, but there’s nothing I can do about it. They’re light-years better than the other pair I brought with me.

The only light in the suite comes from the lamp next to the unoccupied side of the bed. It lights the bed like a spotlight, casting a warm glow over one side of Derek. Half of him light, the other half dark. He’s on his back with one hand tucked behind his head and the other splayed out on his chest. He acknowledges me with a lazy flick of his eyes and then lets his lids slide shut.

I hesitate twice and then lift the covers and slip between them. Cool, freshly starched linen envelops me. It’s pure bliss. The pillows and the mattress are sublime. Downy cushions that cradle me and render me weightless. It should be the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks, or at least the most relaxed I’ve felt all day. It isn’t. Heat emanates off Derek in slow rolling waves, warming the sheets first and then warming me. I lie on my side, facing away from him, but it does nothing to diminish my awareness. The space between us is insurmountable. Miles and miles and less than a hairsbreadth at the same time. I curl my arms tightly around myself and use every ounce of my strength not to move.

14

Wyn

It’s warm. So, sowarm and lovely. Everything is gooey and nice. I’m in a big, fleshy cocoon that smells like man.

---