As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Samantha tightens her arms around my waist. I flex my fingers around the reins, letting my mind wander for a minute. I can picture Samantha’s hands bound with these very leather straps, her hair fanned out on a pillow, her lips red and swollen from sucking my cock. I grit my teeth against where the fantasy goes next. This time is going to be sweeter than ever. It’s been so long…

The ride to the dune where I saw the sea turtle nest doesn’t take very long, which is fine with me. This slow, date-like beginning is strictly for Samantha’s benefit. I should probably warn her that it won’t last long. I don’t have the patience to drag this phase out to its normal length. As much as I’d like to, I can’t skip it altogether, though. There has to be a certain level of trust established, and it happens during this period. I know this from past experience. I’ve just never been this anxious before. It really has been too long.

For a couple of years now, I’ve limited myself to just watching when I go to my favorite…establishments. I found that it keeps me from getting that cold-turkey withdrawal sensation. But watching is nothing like doing.

I slow Galen and guide him more inland, toward the dunes. I stop him when we reach the hardly-noticeable trail in the sand. I dismount and drop the reins at the base of the dune, effectively tethering Galen to the spot, before I help Samantha down.

“They’re here?” she asks, putting her hands on my shoulders and leaning in as I ease her off the horse and let her slide slowly down my body.

I peer down into her face. It must make her nervous because she licks her lips. The sight of her pink tongue sneaking out to wet them makes me think of my earlier fantasy. “Don’t you trust me?” I ask the question knowing that, no matter what answer she gives, she doesn’t trust me. But what she does trust is that I can give her something she’s never had before. And that’s what she can’t resist. I know it as surely as I’m standing here in the sun with her.

“Of course. I didn’t mean…I just…”

I tip my head toward the streak in the sand. I see her eyes flicker to it and widen. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends on what you think it is.”

“A momma’s trail.”

“Then yes, it is what you think it is.” Her face lights up with innocent delight, making me ache again. I pick her up and carry her through the sand, following the barely discernible trail.

“How did you find this? Do they nest here every year?”

“I don’t know. I just happened to notice it when I rode yesterday.”

“You ride every day?”

“No. Only when I’ve got something under my skin.”

She looks up at me. I know she’d like to ask what—or who—but she doesn’t. And I’m glad. I’d rather she wonder about it. I watch her steadily until she turns her attention toward the sand as I continue on to the nest.

I follow the path, made by the sea turtle’s body and flippers, to where the eggs are buried. “I’ve lived in Charleston most of my life and I’ve only ever seen one nest. And I’ve never seen the hatchlings running for the water,” she informs me.

“Roughly two months from now, you could probably catch them if you put in the time to stalk the nest.”

“Have you ever seen them?”

“No. I’m more fascinated by other…natural phenomena.”

Again, she looks up at me, shyly, from beneath her lashes. I wonder if she feels like prey. She should. If she doesn’t, she really doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.

“I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine you’re the patient type.”

“You’d be surprised by how patient I can be, especially when it’s something I really want.”

“I thought your forte was aggression,” she says, referring to my earlier comment.

“Oh it is, but sometimes there must be…preparation for the aggression. That’s where the patience comes in.”

“Are your efforts ever wasted? Do you ever find yourself disappointed?”

Although she’s trying to hide it, I can see that she’s very interested in my answer.

I meet her soft gray eyes, holding her gaze. “Never. I always get what I want.”

I set her down near the nest when we reach the head of the trail. There’s not much to see at this point. Just some disturbed sand and the remnants of the female’s departure. The eggs themselves are covered. But I’m not interested in this anyway. For the moment, it’s Samantha that has my undivided attention.

There’s a place I’d love to take her, but I know she’s not ready. It makes me wish I didn’t have to work tonight. After a day like today, I could make some significant progress. Move her along in the right direction. But tonight can’t happen, which means I need to capitalize on today.

“How’s the foot?” I ask.

“It’s feeling much better. I don’t think I hurt it too badly.”

“We still need to get you off it. I should take you back and get you home, where you can put it up.”

She nods, but says nothing.

So sweet and shy.

She turns away from the nest and starts to hobble forward. Once again, I bend and take her into my arms. Carrying her back to the horse means I can mount the horse and place her in front of me. Just where I want her.

So I do. I carry her to Galen and climb atop him, much like I did earlier, placing her between my legs. She doesn’t argue.

I reach around her to take the reins, my face getting caught in the wild tangle of her hair. The fragrant mass tickles my nose.

“Have I ever told you that I love your hair?” I whisper near her ear as I ease Galen back down toward the hard-packed sand near the surf. She doesn’t respond, so I continue. “It’s like wildfire. Hot and untamed.”

I feel her breathing pick up. I know how my close proximity affects her and, of course, I’m going to use that to my advantage.

“Don’t you ever want to be like that? Hot and untamed? Wild? Don’t you ever want to let go and just feel?”

Her fingers dig into my thighs where she’s holding on and I imagine liquid heat starting to bubble in her stomach.

I urge Galen into a faster gait. “I want to see you let go like that, be wild. Free. I want to make you forget about the rest of the world for a while. I wonder if you’d let me…”

Still she says nothing, but I know she’s listening. Her lips are parted and her face is turned slightly toward me, putting her ear closer to my mouth so she can better hear me.

“Since this beach is private, I wonder if you’d let me put my hand under the edge of your skirt. Would you stop me? Or would you let me go even further? Would you let me move your bikini bottoms to the side? You’re wearing a bathing suit under this skirt, aren’t you?” As I ask the question, I move my hand to her stomach, flattening my palm and spreading my fingers so that my little finger grazes the elastic band of her bottoms, confirming my suspicion.

She nods to answer my question. But I don’t want her to nod. I want to hear her voice. I want to hear how breathless she is, I want to hear her pant how much she wants me to do wicked things to her.

“Answer,” I command.

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice just a little above a whisper.

“Would you let me do that? Would you let me push them to the side and put my fingers inside you? Would you ride them to the rhythm of Galen as he runs across the sand? Would you pour that sweet juice all over my hand when you say my name, over and over again? Would you let me?” I inch my hand lower, just a fraction. “Or do you want me to make you?” I feel her tense. She’s under my spell. I know she is. I’ve done this enough to know, enough to be able to read women perfectly. But there’s something stopping her, something more than just inexperience.

I know she’s not a virgin. Samantha has got an awareness about her that comes from having had sex before. She knows where I’m coming from. But I’d be willing to bet she’s never been very adventurous, sexually speaking.

That’s not uncommon in the women I find most suitable for this type of…relationship. But I think there’s something else going on with Samantha. It doesn’t really matter what it is. I’ll work around it, help her overcome it. In fact, now that I think about it, the challenge of it will just make the end result that much sweeter.

I keep my hand where it is, moving neither lower nor higher. I don’t want to press her just yet, but I won’t retreat either. Instead, I pull her in snug against my crotch. I want her to feel every inch of me. Tapping Galen’s sides, I urge him into a gallop.

I know she’s thinking about my words, about my hands on her body, about the rhythm of the horse and how it might feel to be coming all over my fingers while the wind is whipping her hair and the sun is kissing her face. I want her to think about it now. And I want her to crave it later.

And she will.

I know she will.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Samantha

“Wakey wakey! Eggs and bakey.”

I peek up at Chris from under my arm. I don’t bother to roll over. “I want my key back.”

“Could you repeat that? I can’t understand you with a pillow in your mouth.”

I lift my head. “I want my key back. You have used it in a manner contrary to its intended purpose. I hereby revoke your access. You are deniiiiiiiied!”

“In that case.”

Silence.

A pillow hits me in the back of the head.

“All right, all right! I’m getting up. You better have brought me something delicious and sugar-filled, that’s all I have to say.”

“Of course I did. I assumed this would be a rescue mission. I called you six thousand times last night and got no answer. When you weren’t at the coffee shop this morning, I did the math. You either had a long night of sweaty, satisfying sex, you’re hung over, or you’re pouting. Which is it?” she asks. Before I can answer, she chants quietly, “Please be the sex, please be the sex, please be the sex.”

“None of the above.”

Her expression is crestfallen. I doubt there is another person on the planet who takes more interest in my sex life than Chris. Myself included.

“What? No sex? Not of any kind?” I shake my head. “That is a major date fail.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I mutter.

“So it is pouting! What happened? Spill,” she orders, handing me a coffee, kicking off her shoes, and curling her legs beneath her.

I knew she would ask. It’s exactly why I didn’t answer the phone last night. I didn’t want to address her questions. Or my concerns. I need time to think, to figure out what to do.

I’m in over my head and I know it. But what’s possibly worse is that it’s all over a guy who began as the embodiment of a fictional character. It’s psychotic! That alone should’ve been a red flag. But it wasn’t. Well, it was, but not enough of a warning to stop me. And now it’s too late. I’m beginning to see that Alec Brand is much more dangerous than Mason could ever be. Alec is practically identical to Mason in most ways.

Only Alec Brand is real.

“Nothing happened. He iced my ankle, gave me some ibuprofen and then took me to see a sea turtle nest he’d stumbled upon.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing. He took me back to his house, we got in his Range Rover and he brought me home. End of story.”

Chris hmphs in disappointment. “Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know.”

And that’s true. After speaking such…heated words into my ear after we left the dune-secluded nest, Alec put Galen into a gallop and didn’t say anything else until he dropped me off at my door. And, even then, it was just a polite goodbye and hope-you-feel-better type thing.

I just don’t understand him. He keeps me off kilter with his whiplash-inducing changes in temperature—from burning hot to cool as a cucumber. I don’t know what to think or what to expect. How can I possibly plan or anticipate when I have no clue what’s going on?

The rational part of me says that the only planning I need to do is on how to avoid him at all costs. That’s what I should be thinking.

Only I’m not. I spent the majority of my evening and a good portion of my sleepless night thinking of what it felt like to be pressed against his body, moving with the rhythm of the horse, with his words still ringing in my ear.

It felt so natural. The tension was building so perfectly. If I weren’t such a train wreck, it would be all too easy…

Why, oh why can’t I be normal?

“Well, this guy needs to get in the game.”

“Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t, Chris.”

“Oh, bullshit. This is the one. I can feel it. I can see it on your face. You just have to give him a chance.”

Common sense tells me she can’t possibly know that. But I desperately want to believe her, to throw caution to the wind and just jump.

“I wish you were right.”

“I am right.”

“If you are then I’m wasting a lot of money on this therapist you forced me to talk to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She says I should stay away from him. From Alec.”

Chris is quiet. I’m sure she doesn’t know what to say to that. She was convinced that Dr. B would be able to help me with all of my problems, sending me off after a month or two to live happily ever after with the man of my choosing. What Chris fails to realize is that happily ever afters are reserved for fiction. I write them, but that’s probably as close as I’ll ever get to one.