Page 20 of Sharing Shane

Even hours later he could still smell it, and it wasn’t until he was walking up the path to their condo behind her and he lifted his duffle bag over his shoulder that he realized it was because she’d somehow transferred the scent onto him. Peaches and cream and something else that teased just underneath the fruity scent and made his dick hard, and he had to stifle what felt like his forty-seventh groan of the day.

Veronica paused and half turned, a look of concern on her face, her pretty lips pursed. “Did you say something?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, her eyes searching his in the dim light of the path. Then she gave a little shrug and began walking again. “I think we’re almost there.”

He said nothing, concentrating on the back of her head as he walked. Her hair was tangled from the day’s travels, reminding him of Wyatt’s fuck-hair, which was not helping the boner situation. He’d tried keeping his eyes on his feet, but she’d stopped abruptly to let a lizard scamper across the path, and he’d nearly plowed into her. Since then he’d backed up so there was a good four feet between them and kept his gaze resolutely on her head.

Mostly, anyway. The sway of her hips—round, generous, excellent for grabbing while he buried his face in her cunt—kept trying to draw his attention, and he was only human, after all.

And horny, he thought sardonically. Don’t forget horny.

The thick vegetation on either side of the path abruptly gave way to a small clearing, and nestled in the center of it was the tidy cottage that was their destination.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, and he heard the exhaustion in her throaty voice. “I want a drink and a shower and to fall into bed for eight hours.”

“I could use a drink.”

He caught the startled look she threw him, and couldn’t blame her. It was the most he’d said to her since, “Thanks for the Dew,” back in the Detroit airport.

“What’s your poison?” she asked, mounting the two shallow steps to the cottage’s front door. She had the key card from the front desk in one hand and her messenger bag over her shoulder. He’d offered to take her rollaway by the simple method of picking it up, and after a brief protest she’d let him. They could have had a porter bring their luggage and show them to the cottage, but the staff had been scrambling and neither of them had wanted to wait. So, he’d picked up her bag and his, she’d taken the key and directions to the cottage, and they’d set off on foot.

“I’m not picky,” he answered with a shrug as she fit the card into the slot and shoved open the door.

The blast of cool air was a welcome slap in the face. Even though the air held only a hint of humidity, the long day of travel had left him feeling grimy and sweaty, and the fifteen-minute walk hadn’t helped. Veronica hit the light switch beside the door, and he stepped past her into the room. “Nice.”

It was one large, open space. A small kitchen was to the left, defined by the marble-topped island separating it from the rest of the room, white tiles and shiny appliances gleaming in the light. The living space beyond boasted a huge sectional sofa in white, arranged so part of it faced the gas fireplace and the big-screen television mounted over it, and part faced the wall of glass that made up the entire back of the cottage. There were lights on outside, enough to see the small patio with an outdoor eating area and a hammock, and the beach beyond. On the right side of the room two short steps led to a platform that held a huge bed, mounded high with pillows and scattered with pink rose petals.

“Huh.”

He turned to look at her and noticed was chewing on her lower lip. His dick noticed, too. “What?”

She glanced at him, color climbing into her cheeks, then away again. “That,” she said and pointed to the bed.

He looked again. Big bed, lots of pillows, flower petals. The whole thing was draped in gauzy curtains that he guessed were meant to act as mosquito netting, or a more romantic, less effective version of it, and more gauzy curtains stretched across the room at the edge of the platform. They were pulled back now, and wouldn’t be very effective at creating privacy when they were closed, but he figured it went with the beachy-romance theme.

“What about it?”

She gnawed on her lower lip some more, still staring at the bed. “Do you see another bedroom?”

He looked around. There was a door just inside the entrance that when opened revealed a small closet, and another just off the steps of the platform that held a powder room. He set his duffle down and climbed the steps, ignoring the bed, and found another closet and a full bath done in the same gleaming white tile as the kitchen. It had a walk-in shower that could’ve comfortably accommodated the defensive line of the Detroit Lions, and a separate soaking tub.

He stepped back out. “Bathroom.”

She was sitting on one of the barstools lined up at the kitchen island, the only seating in the room other than the enormous sofa. She looked up when he stepped down from the platform, her eyes wide.

“What?” he asked.

“There’s only one bed.”

He shrugged. “So? The couch is huge. I’ll sleep there.”

If he’d thought that answer would bring relief, he’d been mistaken. If anything, she looked even more worried, and started gnawing on her lower lip again.

“I can’t let you do that,” she protested, her husky voice ragged. “I’m shorter, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He shook his head. The manners his mother had spent years drilling into him may have mostly faded away, but a scrap or two still lingered. “Nope. You get the bed.”

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