Page 90 of Faking the Pass
“Sharks?” Rosie bolted upright, her mask filling with saltwater. I apologized as she coughed, slapping her back.
“Sorry. Bad joke. There are sharks in these waters, but just reef sharks and bamboo sharks,” I said. “I looked it up. They’re pretty timid, not aggressive. Not a threat to divers and snorkelers.”
She gave me a dubious look. “If you’re thinking of going home alone with one of those my-wife-died-tragically-on-our-honeymoon stories, just remember… I’m flat broke. And I have no life insurance to claim.”
I laughed out loud. “I’m telling the truth, I promise. We can call Wilder when we go back to the house. He’ll tell you.”
We went back to snorkeling, gliding slowly through the crystal clear waters, sometimes side by side, sometimes with Rosie a bit ahead of me.
The good news was there was no way she’d go under and drown with the floatation belt strapped around her waist.
The bad news was the flotation device kept her shapely ass propped up high in the water—pretty much front and center in my line of vision whenever I wasn’t face-down, looking at the far less interesting coral and tropical fish.
After a couple hours we emerged from the water, both feeling heavy and tired. Rosie plopped onto the sand beside me, and her breasts performed a pretty little bounce in her bikini top.
Not that I was looking, but… yeah, okay, I was looking.
I mean, how could I not?
Either my sister-in-law was far meaner than I’d realized and had included this tiny little gem of her own accord, or this is what Rosie had been planning to wear while swimming on her honeymoon with Randy.
Anger slashed through my midsection, making me dig my fingertips into the sand beneath me.
At least I had the satisfaction of knowing that while I may never gain access to what was beneath those strategically placed scraps of fabric, that bastard wouldn’t either.
This fake marriage had accomplished at leastthatmuch.
“The air here feels amazing,” Rosie said, reaching up and running her hands through her hair, lifting and separating sections so they’d dry faster, I assumed.
The motion served to lift those beautiful breasts and squeeze them together so they looked even more plump and tempting.
I had to roll over on my stomach to hide my natural reaction to the stimulating sight.
That satisfaction I mentioned? It ebbed a bit, replaced by some pretty serious yearning.
It was going to be alongweek.
And it only got worse as the week went on.
We went hiking, watched the sunset every night from our deck chairs, cooked together, and swam or snorkeled every day. At night we watched movies.
And each day’s outfit was smaller and sexier than the last.
Randy Ryland was the biggest asshole on the earth to have let this stunning, sexy woman get out of his grasp.
And I was wishing more and more that she was in mine.
At this point I was reminding myself on pretty much an hourly basis that Rosie didn’t want a sexual relationship.
She was so adamant about that in fact, she’d literally put it in writing.
And yeah, when we’d started this thing I’d said I didn’t want one either. But I was more than willing to make an amendment to our “contract.” I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take.
It didn’t help that we’d agreed to share the bed at night.
“It’s the only humane thing to do,” Rosie had said. “As long as we stick to our contract, it’ll be fine.”
And though she’d built a virtual fort with extra blankets and pillows along the centerline at bedtime, by morning we’d both inevitably migrated to the middle, and I was inevitably right up against the back of her body.
