Page 81 of Juicy Pickle

I don’t even want to open it, honestly. To have to face boorish Rhett after having the other version feels exhausting. I’m not up for it.

But then he taps more lightly. “Bailey?” His voice is plaintive, like he’s worried.

I tuck the glass of sand I’ve collected behind a lamp. I don’t want him to think I’m being sentimental about our time on the island.

Even if I am.

When I open the door, a hundred emotions wash over me as I look at him standing in the hallway.

His sea-green T-shirt emphasizes how dark his hair is. It fits perfectly over his chest, which I can picture without even closing my eyes, as if I had X-ray vision.

A pair of yellow board shorts complements it perfectly and makes his tan pop. He’s wearing flip-flops and there are those perfect toes, now clear of sand.

I’m struck by his hands most of all. I don’t think I paid enough attention to them when we worked together. But I know where they’ve been. On me. Inside me. A glow forms low in my belly.

He waits me out, his eyes on me. Maybe he’s doing the same thing, re-categorizing, remembering.

I assumed I’d see him before the day ended, so I put on a white sundress with a stretchy top and straps that tie in a bow on my shoulders.

Without a bra, it’s a little revealing, and I know exactly when his gaze falls there, my nipples tightening in response.

I wasn’t sure how he’d be when we saw each other again, but now it’s clear. The attraction hasn’t changed.

I step back to let him in and close the door.

My back presses against the cool surface as I lean on it. He turns to wait me out, his expression uncertain.

It feels like there’s a lot to say about where we’ve been, where we’re going, but in true Bailey fashion, I blurt out, “I’m not wearing panties.”

And then he’s on me, pushing me against the door, his hands lifting my skirt as if to verify my claim.

I’m wet, so wet, almost from the moment I realized the knock on the door had to be his.

His mouth takes mine, and he’s so familiar, and I’m so relieved that my eyes smart with emotion.

His hands move up my thighs until his thumbs press into me.

I gasp against his mouth.

The circular motion makes me tingle all over. I clutch his neck, my legs giving out.

He swings me up into his arms and carries me to the narrow bed. One hand returns to where he was, his gaze on my face as he touches me.

It’s different here, more cushioned and secure than in the sand and unknown night. I close my eyes, an arm thrown over my forehead.

His fingers work me, drawing out the need. Lightning bolts of pleasure dart up my body.

Then he spreads my knees wider and his warm mouth replaces his fingers. His hair tickles my exposed belly, and I look down.

My white dress is bunched at my waist. I can only see the top of his head. I reach down to thread my fingers through his hair.

He sucks hard, and I cry out. Then I clap my hand over my mouth. I don’t know who my neighbors are, but I definitely can’t be shouting the boss’s name.

Rhett adds fingers to increase the intensity. I hold onto his hair with one hand and the sheets with the other—so much better than sand—and begin that climb. My muscles clench. I stare up at the fancy ceiling tiles. I didn’t expect to be seeing them like this.

Then all those thoughts are blown out by the rhythmic pulsing down below.

He did this to me. The first time. Then again and again. Only him.

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