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BLAIR
Never did I think I’d be on a frickin’ writers’ retreat with two hunky NFL players.
Beau’s on a lounger to my right with his back to the ocean, his nose down, his pen feverishly writing in his black journal.
Colton’s on a lounger to my left, facing Beau and the horizon. He’ll write, look up, and study Beau with a scowl, then put his face down, his pen scribbling, too.
And I swear this retreat is a pilot episode of Mad Ballers With Angry Ball Point Pens.
So, here I am, sitting on my shaded lounger between them, inspired to write another alien romance book, and yep, you guessed it.
It’s about two alien rival warlords who are secretly lovers, too. And the one thing that will bring them peace? The human sacrifice they kidnap, the woman they have to breed together to unite their seed, their tribes in lasting harmony.
But here on planet Earth?
I do what I can to bring some peace, too.
When the chef comes by with fresh tamales for lunch, along with ceviche and slices of dragon fruit and mangos, I thank him and tell him he’s free to enjoy his afternoon. I’ll serve the men.
Then, I notice the basket of ingredients he’s brought for dinner and tell him I’ll cook dinner, too. He’s hesitant initially, but I’m the guest, so he graciously accepts his day and night off with a smile.
Once he leaves, I grab the frilly apron to the French maid lingerie outfit I brought to torture Beau with and wrap it over my red string bikini.
I feel like a naughty young Martha Stewart—the goddess of cooking and entertaining who was just in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue at age eighty-one: life goals—when I bend over, serving Beau from a rattan tray.
“Would you like to eat my sweet mangoes, Sir?”
Beau glances up from his journal, his ire turning into a smirk as he thanks my cleavage for lunch. When I serve Colton, he does the same.
They settle on their opposing loungers, devouring their lunch while, yes, my kitty purrs, feeling their eyes devouring me, too. Then, I bend over and serve them big glasses of ice water while chewing my bottom lip for them. Who knew serving men with your tits and a smile could make them drop their swords, pens, or whatever?
Me and every human alive.
So, while Beau’s busy enjoying candied craboo, the tiny Belizean cherries I served with a “Please eat my cherries for dessert, Sir,” I wander inside.
When I come back, he’s downed his water. So, he gets up to grab a refill in the kitchen while I save my work, set my laptop aside, and wait. And wait. And wait. And…
“Goddammit, Blair!”
I start laughing when he appears on the threshold of his bedroom, his glass doors open, his sexy face fuming about my Clingwrap over the toilet revenge.
“I got it in my flip-flops!” He shouts, charging my way.
“My, my, someone’s pissy!” I jump up. “Payback is warm, yellow, hell!”
But Beau’s coming, and not in a sexy way, so I dash the other way as if I can outrun a professional athlete when I’m allergic to treadmills. I don’t even make a lap around the pool before I squeal as Beau snatches me from behind, laughing with him while he plunges us into the pool.
It’s a refreshing jolt, and I emerge, trapped in his beefy embrace, my black mop blinding my face.
He laughs. “You look like Cousin It with great tits.” So I twist in his slick arms and dip my head back again, making my long hair flow down my back, away from my face.
I’m still laughing at my pissy payback when I find my focus. When I meet Beau’s intense, dripping gaze, the heat in his eyes startling, and suddenly, I feel the heat of his wet body holding me, too.
“Damn, Blair.” He mutters, “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby, I’d swim in my piss for you.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
“Oh. Are golden showers your kink, too?”
