Page 20 of The Tropical Romance Test

His eyes on my body, watching as I slowly undress… teasing him, displaying myself to him, until finally, he strides across the courtyard and flings my door open and throws me down on the bed…

I quickly cross the room to my makeup bag, and retrieve my tiny bullet vibe. God bless the wonders of modern technology: it looks just like a lipstick case, but when I go turn the shower on, and slide the slim tube down between my legs…

Mmm…

The slow vibrations build, right where I need them the most. I moan softly, the sound drowned out by the drum of hot water on the tile around me, as I imagine exploring Josh’s body; kissing my way across those broad strong shoulders, and down to the chiseled V of his hips… Taking him in my mouth, and teasing him with slow, long licks until he drags me up, and pins me down, and fucks me senseless into those expensive hotel sheets?—

I climax with a muffled cry, sweet ripples of pleasure cresting through my body.

Damn.

I haven’t even kissed the man yet, and already, he’s some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

I towel off, catching sight of my reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror. My eyes are bright, and my skin is flushed, and I look younger somehow; a glimpse of the girl I used to be.

Bolder. Reckless. Ready for adventure.

I smile. Maybe I’ve got some seduction in me, after all.

By the timeI’ve picked out a slinky bronze slip dress to make Josh’s knees weak, and carefully made up my face with some shimmery blush and a bold, smoky eye, the sunset is blazing in full glory. I grab a thin wrap, and head down to the beach, where I can hear the party is already getting started.

“This looks amazing, and so do you!” Ivy greets me, a champagne glass in one hand and a flower already tucked behind her ear. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

I look around, pleased to see that all those tiny details the team labored over have come together in a truly stunning scene. The banquet tables stretch, laden with fruits and florals. Ornate chandeliers glitter from the invisible, flower-draped scaffolds, their light reflecting off the antique glassware and heavy silver candlesticks at the makeshift bar. Lush red flowers drape over every chair and canopy, and with the ocean glittering midnight blue, and the skies ablaze with color, it’s a magical, stunning effect.

“Nils and Nella designed everything,” I remind Ivy, wanting to give them the credit they deserve. “I just helped out, that’s all.”

“Helped?” A friendly-looking woman nearby with dark blonde hair gives us a knowing smirk. “Avery was just about ready to call the FBI on Chef Boo before you talked her down. I’d say you deserve a drink for that.”

She beckons a waiter over, who delivers an elegant martini glass into my hand. “I’m Brooke,” the woman introduces herself. “Cousin of the bride.”

“It’s great to meet you. I’m?—”

“Oh, I know who you are.” Brooke cuts me off, smiling. “And you, too,” she adds to Ivy. “When Avery gets stressed on set, who do you think she calls to rant about what her idiot director and clueless crew are doing? No offense,” she adds, with a wink.

“None taken,” I smile back, liking her immediately. She has a down-to-earth vibe, in her late twenties, maybe, and wearing a cool, silky jumpsuit with a professional camera slung across her body. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve met here from Avery’s family,” I say, curious.

“The first, and only one invited,” Brooke says firmly. “And even I’m on official duties. I’m shooting video and photos for her social media accounts,” she explains, holding up the camera.

“You’re a photographer?” I ask, interested.

“An aspiring one,” Brooke replies. “But her regular team quit – and their replacements, too, so Avery begged me to help out. She swears I’m the only one she trusts to get her good angles,” she adds with a grin.

“I thought all her angles are good ones,” Ivy comments. “That’s what makes her the movie star, and the rest of us deleting every pic that shows our double chins.”

Brooke laughs. “Believe me, she’s deleting plenty of pics. I have a whole shoebox full of Polaroids from junior high,” she adds with a mischievous grin. “And let’s just say, Birdie’s Disney phase wasn’t half so photogenic.”

“Birdie?” I ask.

“That was her nickname, growing up,” Brooke explains. “Back when she listened to the Jonas Brothers and crimped her hair and had a whole vision board of Hollywood stardom.”

Ivy pauses, brow furrowing. “But wait, if Avery’s twenty-five now, that means she would have been in junior high only, like, eleven years ago…”

I swear, panic flashes in Brooke’s eyes for a moment as Ivy does the math. “Then maybe it was Miley, or Selena,” Brooke says quickly. “I forget! Either way, you should have seen the dance routines she made me do. So humiliating! Anyway, Ivy, tell me about treasure hunting. I used to watch that show you did, with your ex?—”

Before Ivy can reply to Brooke’s quick change of topic, one of the Rat Pack guys interrupts, elbowing his way into our group and almost sloshing his champagne all over my dress. “Well, isn’t this is sight for sore eyes,” he beams at us, with a balding patch and his spry, sixty-something frame draped in designer tailoring. “Avery sure has some beautiful friends. And who here’s flying solo for the week?”

“I’m engaged,” Ivy says immediately, holding up her ring finger as evidence.

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