the worry on her face. “No, I—”
“Was the walk too much for you? This pool is far from your cabin. I should have thought about that.” She came up to him and draped his arm over her shoulders then wrapped her arm around his waist, pressing her wet body against him. He groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked sharply.
She was killing him, but it was sweet torture and the evidence of his desire was on full alert. If her hand slipped lower than his waist he was a lost man. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why not? Don’t worry about anyone looking—it’s none of their business.” Arlene held him tighter. He knew she meant it as an act of reassurance, but it affected his equilibrium and he stumbled forward. “Careful, Michael. I don’t want you to fall. Lean on me. Come on. You did it before,” she said, leading him to the deck chair. Once they reached it she swept the items off the seat. “There you go.”
Michael sat down and briefly closed his eyes.
“You really are in pain, aren’t you?” she said, anxious. “And I’ve gotten you wet. Do you want me to help you take off your shirt?”
His eyes flew open. “No!”
She hesitated, surprised by his vehemence, then softened her voice. “Is it because of your bruises?”
He met her eyes with amazement. She was completely unaware of the effect she had on him. The expression in her eyes reflected only deep concern. That Arlene truly cared about his well-being stunned him. Who was this woman who could dress and walk like a sex kitten one moment and be Florence Nightingale the next? And why did she keep looking at him like that? As if he was special and dear to her? He could hardly remember the last time a woman had treated him with such tenderness. The last time was…no, he wasn’t going to go back that far.
Her attention was becoming like a drug he was starting to crave. Michael covered his eyes, unable to meet her gentle gaze. “Yes,” he lied. “It’s the bruises.”
“They don’t look that bad, but I understand.”
He sighed with relief that she’d believed him, then he felt the soft pressure of her fingers on his leg. He nearly leaped off the chair.
“What are you doing?” he asked, noticing that one of her bikini straps was sliding down. He stared at it wishing he could move it with mental energy— just a little lower.
She pulled it back up. “I’m going to help you. Just lean back.”
“Don’t. I’m fine. Really,” he said then lifted his legs and swung them onto the chair to prove it. But he did the motion too fast and swore.
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t need help,” she said then stood and reached across him.
He balled his hands into fists. Her beautiful brown body was like a tree and her breasts hung in front of him like two bright oranges ready to be plucked. He could imagine peeling off the outer layer and sucking the divine fruit underneath. Before he could further enjoy his fantasy, she pulled back and opened a towel.
He stared at her, wary. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to put this over you.”
Michael took it from her and draped the towel over his lap, glad that his trunks were loose. “It’s all right. I don’t need it.”
She grabbed her own towel and wrapped it around herself, staring at him, unsure.
“I’m okay,” he said, glancing away. He was going to kiss her if she kept looking at him like that.
“I don’t—”
“So tell me about Bertram, the man at your table,” he said, desperate to change the subject.
To his relief the look of worry left her face and Arlene smiled. She sat down on the lounge chair beside him. She told him about Bertram, a failed ventriloquist who tried to throw his voice and make his sock puppet talk then she did an imitation of him trying to feed it. And Michael burst into laughter and winced, begging her to stop.
“I’m sorry,” she said, biting her lip.
Michael rubbed his side. “It’s my fault for asking.”
“I
“Was the walk too much for you? This pool is far from your cabin. I should have thought about that.” She came up to him and draped his arm over her shoulders then wrapped her arm around his waist, pressing her wet body against him. He groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked sharply.
She was killing him, but it was sweet torture and the evidence of his desire was on full alert. If her hand slipped lower than his waist he was a lost man. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why not? Don’t worry about anyone looking—it’s none of their business.” Arlene held him tighter. He knew she meant it as an act of reassurance, but it affected his equilibrium and he stumbled forward. “Careful, Michael. I don’t want you to fall. Lean on me. Come on. You did it before,” she said, leading him to the deck chair. Once they reached it she swept the items off the seat. “There you go.”
Michael sat down and briefly closed his eyes.
“You really are in pain, aren’t you?” she said, anxious. “And I’ve gotten you wet. Do you want me to help you take off your shirt?”
His eyes flew open. “No!”
She hesitated, surprised by his vehemence, then softened her voice. “Is it because of your bruises?”
He met her eyes with amazement. She was completely unaware of the effect she had on him. The expression in her eyes reflected only deep concern. That Arlene truly cared about his well-being stunned him. Who was this woman who could dress and walk like a sex kitten one moment and be Florence Nightingale the next? And why did she keep looking at him like that? As if he was special and dear to her? He could hardly remember the last time a woman had treated him with such tenderness. The last time was…no, he wasn’t going to go back that far.
Her attention was becoming like a drug he was starting to crave. Michael covered his eyes, unable to meet her gentle gaze. “Yes,” he lied. “It’s the bruises.”
“They don’t look that bad, but I understand.”
He sighed with relief that she’d believed him, then he felt the soft pressure of her fingers on his leg. He nearly leaped off the chair.
“What are you doing?” he asked, noticing that one of her bikini straps was sliding down. He stared at it wishing he could move it with mental energy— just a little lower.
She pulled it back up. “I’m going to help you. Just lean back.”
“Don’t. I’m fine. Really,” he said then lifted his legs and swung them onto the chair to prove it. But he did the motion too fast and swore.
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t need help,” she said then stood and reached across him.
He balled his hands into fists. Her beautiful brown body was like a tree and her breasts hung in front of him like two bright oranges ready to be plucked. He could imagine peeling off the outer layer and sucking the divine fruit underneath. Before he could further enjoy his fantasy, she pulled back and opened a towel.
He stared at her, wary. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to put this over you.”
Michael took it from her and draped the towel over his lap, glad that his trunks were loose. “It’s all right. I don’t need it.”
She grabbed her own towel and wrapped it around herself, staring at him, unsure.
“I’m okay,” he said, glancing away. He was going to kiss her if she kept looking at him like that.
“I don’t—”
“So tell me about Bertram, the man at your table,” he said, desperate to change the subject.
To his relief the look of worry left her face and Arlene smiled. She sat down on the lounge chair beside him. She told him about Bertram, a failed ventriloquist who tried to throw his voice and make his sock puppet talk then she did an imitation of him trying to feed it. And Michael burst into laughter and winced, begging her to stop.
“I’m sorry,” she said, biting her lip.
Michael rubbed his side. “It’s my fault for asking.”
“I
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