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Wearing only a red lace thong, Alison Giancarlo slid through the partially open bathroom door and came up behind her fiancé. Wrapping her arms around his waist she smiled at the scratch lines she’d put on his back that afternoon while thrashing around in the sheets with him after a warm ocean swim. She couldn’t wait to be Mrs. David Hollister and have him in her bed and life forever. Her hand dipped slowly into the front of the towel wrapped around his waist. It fell to the floor. He was a tanned, perfectly sculpted Greek god. She kissed him between the shoulder blades, already wanting to go to bed with him again.
His reflection smiled at her as he cocked one eyebrow and paused, razor in mid-air. “You’re going to make me cut myself.”
She splayed her hands across his muscled back, breathing in soapy male smell. Her hands skimmed lightly past his stomach to fondle and tease his growing erection. “Then stop what you’re doing. Come back to bed. We have time before dinner.”
He put down his razor and twisted out of Alison’s grasp to retrieve the towel. Um…we need to talk…I…uh… need to talk. Let me finish here, babe, and I’ll be right out, okay?”
Nonplussed, her hand fell away. She was quite willing to give him an impromptu hand job, making him watch in the mirror, of course, and ask for nothing in return, until later that is, and he wasn’t even breathing hard, or abandoning all thoughts of shaving. She reigned in her lust and forced herself to flash a smile “Sure. I’ll be in the bedroom.”
What was that all about, she wondered. A We need to talk sentence was usually followed by a I don’t think this relationship is working, I’m gay, or a This awkward, I already have a wife/fiancée/girlfriend/boyfriend sentence. Surely, he wouldn’t have come to Turks and Caicos with her to say something like that. On the other hand, she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to announce that he’d like his eggs sunny side up and his toast cut into neat triangles every morning once they were married.
They’d been here for four days and it had been pure bliss; they’d spent every second together. No arguments, no disagreement, just paradise. She hadn’t even checked the two Blackberries she’d brought along. Okay, she’d checked them a few times, but only for a couple of seconds.
They’d spent all their time swimming, napping naked in the sun on the ultra-private beach their hotel room faced, having hot sex, sipping cool tropical drinks, having more hot sex, and eating. Not necessarily in that order. She gazed out their hotel room’s sliding glass door. The ocean, a gorgeous blue green during the day, was now an extension of the black sky.
She was hungry. Hopefully, this conversation wouldn’t take too long. They had reservations at Skippers downstairs. Their seafood was phenomenal. She scooped up her bikini from the floor where David had flung it that afternoon after peeling it off her.
She slid her bare feet into her midnight blue Manolo Blahnik pumps, put her red lace bra on, and dug through her purse to find lipstick. She had just stepped into her dress when David came out of the bathroom clutching the front of his towel. He stared intently at her for a few seconds. “I don’t know how to say this.”
Uh-oh. Something told her this wasn’t going to be pleasant. Her heart thumped as her appetite vanished. “Just say it. What is it? It can’t be that bad.”
“That’s the thing. It is that bad. Allie. I don’t want to get married.”