Page 11 of The VIP Package

What the hell was I thinking?

And why is some twisted part of me aching to do it again?

“Stop.” The man looks like he’s trying for a medal in Olympic frowning. “I can’t allow you to leave like this.”

“Allowme?” Does he think because I let him call me a dirty slut he’s now my keeper? Degradation’s never been my thing, so I’m a little perplexed by how hot that was.

But I’m drawing the line now. “No manallowsme to do anything.”

“Certainly,” he agrees. “But the captain of the transport vessel that makes twice-daily deliveries to this island might have an opinion on your wish to leave forty minutes after the final boat has departed for the day.”

“Motherfucker.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Did I mention this isn’t my day?”

“It might have come up.”

I open my eyes and size up the man. “Now what?”

“You’re asking me?” There’s that bemused look again. “I thought no man allows you to do anything.”

“I’m not seeking permission. I’m asking if you have any ideas for how you can get rid of me so I can move forward with at least a few shreds of dignity.”

His eyes travel my body, going a little bit molten. “On the latter count, there’s no chance. On the former?—”

“Fuck you, Ash Hole.” I stoop down and pick up my gym bag. “I’ll swim if I have to.”

“Wait.” He catches my arm and I turn. “I apologize. I’m being inhospitable.”

“You think?” I glare at his hand, then soften. A memory of those fingers on my clit sends a shockwave of lust through my body. “You seemed pretty hospitable with your dick buried inside me. Thanks for that, by the way.” It’s maybe not wise to be bitchy to the guy whose private property I’m trespassing upon,so I dial it down a notch. “I apologize for basically bullying you into having sex with me.”

“Madam.” His grip on my arm tightens. “I can assure you that no one—no man, woman, or non-gendered individual—bullies me.”

I hate how fucking hot that is. Not just the confidence. The utter arrogance. The fact that he just used inclusive language. I want to hate this guy, but part of me can’t seem to manage.

“Okay.” I draw a deep breath. “We’re two intelligent, educated, rational individuals.” I try to recall what I’ve read about Ashton Holyfield and his Ivy League pedigree floats through my mind. I’ll look him up later. “If the last boat of the day already left, what are my options?”

He opens his mouth to say something snotty, but my stomach chooses that moment to let loose a ferocious growl.

Ashton’s blue eyes drop to my midsection. “Did you smuggle a gargoyle with you on the plane?”

I laugh. The man’s funny, I’ll give him that. “The only thing I’ve eaten since yesterday was a whole can of Pringles on the plane.” I meant to buy something at the airport, but I couldn’t find any restaurants open during my 3 a.m. layover in Houston. “I don’t suppose you have a granola bar or something?”

He studies my face and those steely eyes shift to something a little less chilly. An odd warmth seeps into them. Not pity or fondness. Kindness, maybe.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Ashton Holyfield might actually have feelings.

He straightens his tie, which is silly since he can’t even button his shirt. “I might wind up regretting this.”

“Welcome to the club,” I mutter. “I wrote the fucking book on regret today.”

He frowns. “You regret what we did?”

I replay the last twenty-four hours in fast forward: getting stood up for my wedding, racing to get on a plane and flying three-thousand miles without a plan, leaving my friends with little more than a text.

There’s plenty I regret. Having sex in a boiler room with Ashton Holyfield isn’t one of them.

“No.” I watch his shoulders drop with something that looks like relief. “I don’t regret it.”

“Nor do I.” He tugs at his tie again, long fingers brushing his bare chest.

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