Page 44 of Caribbean Crush

I step forward and drop my hand to the front of his suit pants. He hisses in a sharp breath as I rub him, revealing just how badly he wants this. I’m not alone here.

His hand reaches out to grip my wrist and still me, but somewhere along the way, he loses the will. I smile as he captures my hand and tugs me from my spot. I nearly get whiplash, he’s moving so fast.

I laugh. “Where are we going?”

Already, he has me halfway down the hall. We’re not going toward the central bank of elevators. We stop in front of a discreet door built into a paneled wall, and he keys a four-digit code into a small pad before tugging the handle and revealing an austere staircase clearly meant for staff and crew.

Racing down three flights has my heart pounding.

Phillip has no issue, though. “Should I carry you?”

“Stuff it. I’m in sky-high heels.”

He laughs and slows down a bit until we make it to deck six. We slip out of the crew door and into the central hallway. I haven’t explored deck six yet beyond our tour on the first day, and it doesn’t look like I’m about to get a chance to do it now either. Phillip’s on a mission, his fingers laced through mine. He stops to kiss me for a moment.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” he murmurs against my lips. “Now. Later. You have to be honest with me.”

“Okay, you want honesty?” I fist the lapels of his jacket. “Honestly ... if you don’t take me into your suite now, I’m going to pounce on you right here in the hallway.”

Too direct? Oh well. He kisses me once more, and then we proceed until we make it all the way down to the last door at the end of the hall, the one removed from all the others, with its own private lobby, for god’s sake. As soon as he touches the door handle, it opens. Either it was already unlocked or it recognized the key in his wallet, or perhaps there’s a sensor in his watch. At the moment, I don’t care one way or another. The door opens into his suite, and I take it in—absolutely not shocked to find it’s a floating palace.

I point toward the dining table ... the one that can comfortably seat twelve. “Understated, I see ...”

He smiles at my sarcasm. “It’s not mine. I’m merely using it for the next few days. It’s the presidential suite. It needed to be ... presidential.”

“I thought mine was the presidential suite,” I mumble; then I turn to see a geometrical abstract painting hung in the living room, done in primary colors with stark black lines. “Jesus.” I turn to him. “Is that an original Mondrian?”

He looks it over and shrugs. “Are we here to discuss art or ...?”

“Oh, right. Very to the point. Well then, strip if you’re in such a rush.”

He laughs and walks toward me, only stopping when his dress shoes touch the tips of mine. He doesn’t touch me at all, save for the hand he slowly lifts so he can cup my chin and tilt it up gently, angling our mouths so they’re only a few inches apart.

“I’m sorry. I’m rude.”

My brow furrows. “You aren’t rude.”

“It is a Mondrian.”

My jaw drops, and he leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. “Now, should I undress you here?”

I smile. “Show me the rest of the suite.”

He groans. “Casey.”

I feel almost lightheaded with power knowing he wants this as badly as I do.

“I’m not giving you a tour. There are a few powder rooms, a living room, dining room ... guest bedroom ... main bedroom ... who fucking cares.” His hands slip around the back of my dress until he finds the zipper, which he slowly works down my back while he speaks.

I don’t stop him. I hold perfectly still until the material gapes open.

He steps closer as he gathers the two shoulder straps of my dress and pulls them down. The material gathers at my waist, and then he pushes it until it pools on the floor at my feet.

“Step out.”

I do, listening to the click of my high heels on the marble floor.

Only when he has me completely sans dress does he step back to look at me.

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