Page 31 of Filthy Rich

I didn’t expect her to take off like that. Hell, I surprised myself by letting her take off like that. I could have stopped her because I know exactly what happened. She enjoyed herself with a near stranger, then got inside her own head about the whole thing. She felt awkward. Maybe slut-shamed herself a little bit. I get it. Women sometimes put themselves through that, although I’ve never understood why. Losing yourself in sex is one of the best pleasures life has to offer. It’s pretty much the only pleasure in my case, but now is not the time for another bout of self-pity. So, anyway. I could have talked her down from that ledge and kept her with me all night.

Because trust me when I tell you that I am not done with Tamsyn Scott yet. Not by a long fucking shot.

But I let her go.

Why?

My own awkwardness? I don’t think so. I think it was more like cowardice. Because little Ms. Scott is a lot. She sneaks up on you when you least expect it. She leaves her mark and makes you miss her when she’s gone.

I think part of me knew last night—understood on an unconscious but cellular level—that Ms. Scott may turn out to be a problem. I may have taken a bigger bite of her than I can chew.

I don’t like that possibility. I don’t like it a bit.

I’m not in the market for anything other than a quick hookup. With my history? After what happened with Ravenna? I don’t think so. I don’t want a romance, dating or an entanglement of any kind. Hell, even the idea of being responsible for a houseplant gives me hives. Like I keep saying, I only want a dash of excitement with a healthy dose of sex thrown in.

So Tamsyn Scott is very firmly off the table for me. I know that.

But, like I mentioned, I don’t seem to be in control here. What I objectively know and what I do are two different things when it comes to her, and I don’t know why. Some sort of fever grabs me in a chokehold. It’s happened three times now. At the curb at LaGuardia, when it felt like a mistake to let her out of my sight; when we landed in Barcelona, when it felt like a mistake not to take the cruise with her; and last night, when it felt like the worst mistake of my life not to fuse our bodies together as quickly as possible. To make her mine. Now.

I don’t get it.

Worse, I really don’t like it.

Is that normal?

No.

If only she knew how decidedly not normal my reactions to her are.

So I’ve got a huge problem. One that’s not going to be solved by running until my legs fall off. That being the case, I slow my pace and begin my cooldown.

The way I see it, I have a couple options.

Option one? Leave the ship at our first port and take my ass back home. I belong in New York running my company with my brother. Unfortunately, my visceral reaction to this option is a hearty fuck no. I’m still grappling with the desire not to let her out of my sight, much less let her stay on some other continent. Plus, I haven’t relaxed yet on this so-called vacation. I went to all this trouble and came all this way. I deserve to relax.

So Option One is out.

Option two? Stick around on the ship and give her a wider berth, which we both clearly need. Maybe lie low for a couple of days and let my blood cool down again. I think about it, warming to the idea. She’s a woman. There are lots of women out there. There’s nothing so great about her. And like Starts-with-an-S said last night: Tamsyn isn’t my type. I don’t go for young and unsophisticated virgins who wear their feelings on their sleeves. I go for women my own age who are as experienced and jaded as I am. And I’ll surely remember that crucial detail about myself once I’ve had a couple of days to decompress. After that? I’ll reevaluate things with a cooler head. That’s one of my best traits. My cool head. Ask anyone.

It’s a good plan, I decide as I slow to a walk and check my heart rate with my watch. Good for me and good for Tamsyn if we give each other some time and put the brakes on our weird chemical reaction to each other. A young woman like that needs to be free to explore her life. To have fun with her friends and establish her career. To grow up. To enjoy casual sex with as many people as she wants.

As for me? Let’s just hope that I never get what I deserve.

I pause by the rail overlooking the pool deck for a few hamstring stretches. I’ll grab lunch after my shower, I decide, wiping my sweaty face on the bottom of my shirt. A ship like this will probably have an omelet bar and?—

Hang on.

What the fuck is that?

My hands involuntarily clench on the railing when I catch sight of something profoundly disturbing down below:

Tamsyn lying on a lounge chair underneath an umbrella, her shapely limbs and curvy breasts on full display in a pink two-piece that ties with wide straps at the hip and back of her neck. Her honeyed skin gleams in the sunlight. The breeze fluffs up the hair around her face, creating a soft brown halo with flashes of gold. She’s wearing sunglasses and has a book in her lap.

None of that’s the problem, although it is a jolt to my equilibrium.

No. The problem is the guy on the lounge chair next to her, sitting there facing her with his elbows on his knees and his rich college boy here with parents vibe firmly in place.

I watch, my blood doing a slow boil, as he says something to her, and they both laugh.

---