Page 17 of Highest Bid

“Sounds lovely.” She pointed to where a rocky cliff jutted halfway out onto the beach a few hundred meters away. “But let’s walk there first and build up our appetite.”

His grin was loaded with innuendo. “And here I thought our appetite was just fine already.”

She laughed. “I can’t argue with that.”

His stare darkened, the sexual heat between them unmistakable.

There was only one way to cure that.

She kicked up some water, sending an arc of spray toward Galan that splashed his face and wet his shirt. Wrenching her hand free, she sprinted toward the cliff and shouted over her shoulder, “Last one there’s a rotten egg.”

His grunt of surprise morphed into a roar of challenge, and Layla knew there was no way she’d beat him when he gave chase and all-too-quickly closed in on her. But the rush of adrenaline and sheer exhilaration was worth any reprisal, even before he caught her forearm and spun her around.

Her heaving breaths weren’t from the sprint alone. With his windblown hair and soaked clothes, and the primeval hunger flashing in his eyes, he could have been a pirate of old claiming one last fuck before sailing off on his ship, never to return.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought. If she’d been some buxom wench with nothing to her name, she would have welcomed his body, then clutched at the memories of their intimacy.

Galan’s voice came out low, stroking her senses. “You know you’re going to pay for that.”

“Oh?” she squeaked, panting for breath...for composure.

He traced his thumb across her lower lip. “I’m going to take you tonight until you’re too sore to move, and too weak to protest. And you’ll love every second of my dominance.”

Her mouth dried and her pussy flooded with wet heat, her pulse thundering in her ears. She only wished she’d taken him unawares sooner!

Chapter Seven

The coastal pub in the middle of nowhere smelled of stale beer and peanuts, but it was clean and served tasty and generous meals. It was also popular, with many patrons enjoying their fare on the veranda with its sea breezes, or inside the dining room with its deliciously cool air conditioning.

Layla subconsciously picked out the local fishermen, with their sun-bronzed, leathery skin and silver-white hair, many of whom also had overhanging bellies and full beards.

Galan was nothing short of an underwear model in comparison, a man whose face and physique drew the eye. Even the overworked, middle-aged barwoman gawped at him between pouring drinks, her eyes twinkling at the diversion.

Layla was more than happy to stay in the air conditioning and share a platter of beer-battered cod and chips. It was nice simply to sit and have someone else wait on her for a change.

“What do you think of the cod?” Galan asked as she bit past the crunchy batter and into the flaky, tender fish.

“Delicious.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it.” He looked around, his gaze skimming over the blue-patterned carpet and the framed fishing and beach scenes on the mustard walls. “Dad always cooked a barbecue outside on the beach on a Saturday night, but every other night our family came here for dinner.”

“You must have a lot of fond memories here,” she said quietly, following his gaze to a little stage near the bar.

“I do.” He nodded at the dais. “Friday nights was karaoke. And sometimes we’d stay late and watch the locals and out-of-towners perform. Mom would drink her usual gin and tonic, while dad had his two or three beers. But one night Mom chose to have a couple of champagnes.” He chuckled. “They went straight to her head.”

“Why? What did she do?”

“She got up on the stage and sang ‘Like a Virgin’ and ‘Flashdance.’” He squeezed lemon on his fish. “The next morning she was mortified and hoped we kids didn’t think less of her for the song choices.”

Layla shoved a crunchy, salty chip into her mouth. If Galan and his brothers had been shocked by their mom singing a few slightly raunchy songs, what would Galan think of Layla’s mother if he discovered she earned a good living as a stripper?

Galan employs women who wear lingerie in the nightclub; he’s not going to care about your mom’s occupation.

Her mouth stayed dry, even after she gulped down some of her icy cold Coke. Galan had bid on Layla when she’d been up on stage wearing pasties and not much else.

Like mother, like daughter.

For once Galan didn’t notice the shift in her mood. He was too caught up in his memories, even as he demolished his lunch. “I swear these have to be the best fish and chips on the whole east coast.”

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