Page 9 of Hooked on Trouble

Memories of his other touches flip through my mind, snippets of skin and ink, flashes of ecstasy.

My back arching.

His fingers exploring.

The curve of his inked shoulder.

His huge hands.

The sheer size of him.

We might not have had sex, and the details may be fuzzy, but there’s no doubt it was the hottest night I’ve ever had. What isn’t fuzzy is the time I spent with him in the hot tub prior, and how he took advantage of my vulnerability.

Goddamn Nico. And Goddamn Aspen.

We’d left the group that night, the two of us intent on privacy. Since I’d laid eyes on him, I was salivating to see Nico’s hulking frame in the flesh, taste his inked skin, so I suggested a hot tub. We met at his place and stripped down to our bathing suits, a bottle of tequila at the ready, and holy god of gods, that body. I’d seen fit men before—eight-pack, deep V, and carved muscles—but I didn’t know where to look first. Tribal tattoos followed the deep cuts of his biceps and triceps, the tail of a stylized phoenix landing in the groove between his pecs. The muscles of his thighs and calves twitched with each step, and his swim shorts were snug enough to show what I’d hoped.

Everything about Nico was huge.

He took an eyeful of me in my black string bikini, letting his hand drag over my ass as he passed me to slip into the outdoor tub. The water sloshed as he sank in. “We should get to know each other better.”

I licked my lips. “I’d like to get to know what’s under your shorts.”

I’m pretty sure he blushed, but the outdoor lighting was nothing but a soft glow, and Nico’s uninked skin was smooth and dark, thanks to his Polynesian father, making it hard to tell. He flicked his head toward the seat opposite him. “Sit. Let’s talk first.”

I wasn’t one for delayed gratification, especially being that desperate for oblivion. Talking led to thinking, when all I wanted was distraction. Wanted to pretend the news I’d learned before leaving home never happened.

Unprepared to walk away from him, I huffed out a breath then did as he asked. I sank into the warm churning water, my sore muscles relaxing on contact. Steam curled into the cold air.

I waited and waited until he said, “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Or we could do shots.” I grinned.

“Shots sound like fun, in a bit.”

Was this guy for real? There I was, my bikini practically nonexistent, a sure thing, and he wanted to talk. “I like long walks on the beach, collecting garden gnomes, and saving whales.”

He didn’t crack a smile, not even a smirk, so I nudged his knee with my foot. He caught my ankle and tugged me forward. That game I could play. That game led to release and nirvana and the amnesia I craved. I straddled his lap but couldn’t get close enough to feel him against me, to medicate my emptiness with his big, strong body.

The more I wiggled, the firmer he gripped my hips. “If you want me, tell me something real.”

It was a trip to be so tightly wound and forced to hold back. I dug my fingers into his shoulders, kneading the ropy muscle. “I don’t do real.”

“I don’t do casual.” He leaned forward and kissed my neck, his tongue darting out for a taste. My head dropped back, and I tried to shift forward, but he held firm.

Frustrated, I planted my feet on the bench to push away, but his vise grip didn’t budge. “You live in Vancouver, Nico. I live in Toronto. This is the definition of casual. If you’re not interested, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else to have fun with on this trip.”

He eased his grasp. “If you want to go, then go. I won’t keep you here. But if you want what I want, tell me something real.”

The heat from the pool and his body clouded my mind, my heart buzzing faster than a tattoo gun. I never did real. I did fun and easy and quick escapes. Real was a broken heart. Real was tearstained cheeks the day you turned nine and walked into your sister’s room to find everything gone. No note, no good-bye. Real was learning your grandmother had tragically died.

I should have taken Door Number One and left him sitting here, not played his game, but I looked into his ocean eyes, and I was drowning. The urge to share a piece of myself with him overwhelmed me, to release some of the turmoil simmering below my skin, but I didn’t know how.

“I don’t do real,” I repeated, quieter, hoping he’d convince me otherwise.

He tilted his head and brushed my bangs aside. “Why?”

The men in my life liked sex and good times, not searching conversations. They didn’t look at me like I was special or precious. They didn’t look at me like Nico did. “Real gets you hurt.” I gripped his shoulders.