Page 41 of The All-Inclusive

Maybe they wanted to pray together or something?

Sara’s brow furrows. “Does this mean we’re not having sex?”

My dick lunges at the thought. “We who?”

“You and me.” Sara nibbles her lip, turning to Trent. “What you described about watching someone else have me? I wantthat. I touched myself thinking about it last night, and I came so hard that?—”

“I know.” Trent watches her face like she’s a magical goddess. “I saw you on the balcony and it was insanely hot even without knowing what you were thinking. I—I’ve never seen you like that.”

She looks startled at first, then smiles. “We want the same thing.” She breathes it out slowly, like she’s relieved to release the words from her body. “I feel like a kid in a candy shop. I want gumballs and lollipops and threesomes and exhibitionist fantasies.”

I chuckle again as my cock starts to swell. I’m the only one here who didn’t get off and I’m worried that might get obvious. “You’re here for two weeks, right? We’ve got time, if that’s what you want.”

“Not exactly.” Trent scrapes a hand over his jaw. “According to Ashton, I need to be gone by tomorrow.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

I say it the same time Sara does. We both laugh.

“Let me do it,” she says. “He’s engaged to my bestie, and he’s really a big ol’ softie. Especially when it comes to anything Camille wants, and whatshewants is for me to chase whatIwant.”

“All right.” I’m not sure I agree with the big ol’ softie assessment, but the boss is a good man who listens to women. He’s most likely to give in to Sara. “You handle that, and we’ll handleyou.”

“Excellent.” A salacious smile spreads over her features. “How are you planning to handle me?”

I feel Trent watching me. Feel an unexpected stir in my belly. A longing for something that isn’t just Sara.

Shifting my gaze, I stare at Trent as I answer her. “However you want to be handled.”

The next couplehours take a page straight from Sara’s personal playbook.

Literally, her playbook.

That’s what consorts privately call the intake forms guests complete when they come here. Aside from sexual proclivities, we ask them to list favorite hobbies and snacks, scents and textures, music and games and movies.

That’s how Trent and I wind up shirtless on the floor sitting shoulder to shoulder at Sara’s feet. We’re rubbing her calves with a lotion that smells like marshmallows.

“You know,” I say as I glide my thumb along a tight band of muscle. “In all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve never had anyone choose the marshmallow fragrance.”

“It’s nice.” She glances at Trent. “I’ll admit I picked it for sentimental reasons, but I like it completely separate from that.”

I’m debating whether to ask what’s sentimental about marshmallows when Trent jumps in. “That’s kinda our thing.” He’s looking at me when he says it, and I’m getting the oddest vibe from him. “Marshmallows, you know?”

Idon’tknow, but Sara supplies more detail. “It started as a reference to something when we were just kids, but now it’s become like a code word for love.”

“I see.” And I’m seeing Trent work hard not to look at me right now. Guess the guy isn’t big on overt signs of emotion.

Or maybe he’s remembering the bowl of sweet treats I delivered to his room this morning, along with the news that I know something about him Sara doesn’t. Something he’s clearly kept private.

Before I can ask about marshmallows, the employee we pulled from the spa wraps up Sara’s French manicure.

“All done, madam.”

“Gorgeous.” She wiggles her sparkly fingertips as a consortnamed Jacques feeds her another bacon-wrapped fig. “Thank you.”

Jacques dabs her mouth with a napkin. “More passionfruit seltzer?”

“Yes, please.” She sips from the straw he presents her as the manicurist packs up her things. “Oh!” Sara gasps. “This is my favorite part of the film. Could you shift to the right just a little, babe?”

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