JC Harroway - The Proposition / Her Every Fantasy

We disembark the tender and climb aboard the Abella . Cam takes a glass of bubbles from a member of the smartly dressed welcoming crew and hands it to me with a smile. Every inch of the stunning vessel is packed with beautiful people in a full-on party atmosphere. I grip Cam’s hand as we head to the upper deck, which features an infinity pool, a hot tub and the best views of Monaco.

We wind through the partygoers and head towards the rail. My phone vibrates in my bag, and I pull it out, scanning the message from my assistant but checking the time. Despite Cam’s promise to deliver me to Zurich, I’m aware of every second he delays. Perhaps this was a mistake. I certainly didn’t get to where I am by making many of those.

Cam spies my phone and I shove the device back into my bag. ‘So, are you thinking of buying this?’ I want to caution him against making such a rash investment, but then, boats like this are more about hedonism and status than sound returns and I don’t want to sound like a killjoy. But really, most people who own one of these spend a few weeks a year actually enjoying the lifestyle. Who has the time to take a year off work?

People like Cam, I guess, deciding to ask him about his inheritance if he agrees to come to Zurich.

‘She’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘Who wouldn’t want to own her? You could permanently live on board. She’s fully equipped—a cinema, a gym, a spa. And you should see the stateroom.’

‘But?’ We might be here so I can prove I’m not a stick-in-the-mud workaholic, but I can sense that sailing around the Mediterranean in the Abella isn’t his dream, despite her charms.

He smiles as if I cracked a code no one else has. ‘But I prefer bricks and mortar, preferably something I’ve built myself.’ He holds up his calloused hands in proof.

I nod, impressed. I want to get to know this side of him more but stop myself, remembering what happened when we steered too close to personal. ‘Blood, sweat and tears?’ I say.

‘Bingo,’ he says, his easy smile wider.

Then I spoil the moment by handing my untouched glass of champagne to a passing waiter.

‘You don’t like champagne?’ he asks.

‘I have work to do later—I need a clear head. And you’re not drinking.’

‘I’m driving you to the airport after this.’ I sense his disappointment, feeling as if I’ve failed the first test.

At his reminder that I’m on probation, I seize the change of topic to push my agenda. ‘So, will you come to Zurich?’ I want his company. I want the way he makes me feel, what he brings out in me, to be that woman who remembers how to enjoy herself, remembers that it’s allowed, even beneficial.

‘You’re very direct, aren’t you, Orla Hendricks? Direct, not afraid to proposition a stranger, and very driven.’

‘That’s a fair assessment, given we don’t know each other very well.’

He tilts his head in acknowledgement. ‘No, we don’t know each other. So, here’s what you need to know about me beyond the fact I’m a sensational lay,’ he says with a wicked grin that tells me he’s teasing me again, so I can’t help smiling along. ‘I’m a decent bloke. I’m not harbouring any sexually transmitted infections, so you can shag me with complete peace of mind, and if you want my company for the next six weeks I have two conditions.’

My pulse leaps with excitement, warm, syrupy heat forging through my blood as my lips twitch at his forthright declaration. ‘Thanks for the honesty and the practicality. What are these conditions?’ I say, my blood roaring through my ears with anticipation.

His eyes darken in that sexy way that reminds me of last night’s Cam. ‘One, you name the destinations and leave the rest up to me— I’ll foot the bill, the transport…’ he waves a dismissive had around at our current luxurious location ‘…the off-the-clock itinerary.’ One eyebrow lifts above the rim of his sunglasses in that self-assured way. ‘Even the wardrobe—I have a feeling I might ruin a few more of your outfits now I know what’s hidden underneath. All you have to do is come and come and come…’

My current underwear goes up in flames at the very idea of him being impatient enough to get to me that he goes all caveman. He’s sufficiently evolved that he sought my consent first. I hold in a smile and offer a droll, ‘I get the picture.’

I’m woman enough, secure enough, to concede a little control to this man. After all, I hold the advantage in terms of age and life experience, and it’s not as if we’re entering into a relationship—this is about pleasure, and he’s proved he can deliver. And, while I’m not used to relinquishing control over my life—it’s why I’m successful—do I really care if he wants to pick up the travel tab?

‘Okay, but I want it known I’m happy with more…frugal methods of transportation than supercars and private jets.’ It’s not as if I need his money or run any risk of becoming a kept woman —I almost splutter a laugh at the absurdity of that thought. My days of trying to play wife ended in disaster.

He shakes his head. ‘Noted, but it’s my call. You can be frugal on your own time.’ He winks and I capitulate. For his own reasons, reasons he’s already hinted at, his generosity and extravagance are motivated by more than altruism, but is his request any more outlandish than my proposition?

‘And two?’

‘Two—you won’t like this one.’ He pauses.

My pulse hammers in my neck.

‘You have to loosen up a bit more. If this is about us having a good time, I’m going to want to see a whole lot more of last night’s Orla.’

My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean? It’s eleven a.m. I’m at a superyacht party. How loose do I have to be?’

His head drops back and he looks at the sky as if seeking inspiration. ‘Ah, Orla, you have so much to learn…’ He smiles, perfectly pleasant, his tone teasing. But then he turns serious. ‘You’re at a party, checking your phone and thinking about work, probably biding your time until you can get back to it.’

My shoulders tense in defence. I heard similar criticism a hundred times from my ex.

‘Actually, I was checking the time. I have other places I need to be, so let’s wrap this up. Are you joining me in Zurich or not?’ My patience is stretched to the limit.

Instead of answering, he sidles up close to my side and stretches his arm along the rail at my back. He leans in close, his mouth inches from mine, and my irritation evaporates in anticipation of being kissed.

‘No need to get defensive,’ he says, his voice low, seductive. ‘Last night was fun. Fun that could have continued into this morning.’

I watch his lips move, reminded that I had the best sex of my life.

His hand slides between my shoulder blades and he urges me closer. ‘Instead I woke up in an empty bed to find you working in the dark.’

My head spins, confused by the contradiction in the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s touching me, and the censure of his words. ‘I’m not going to apologise for working—’

‘Of course not, but when you’re not working hard, where’s the harm in playing hard?’ He looks over his shoulder to where the most enthusiastic partygoers are climbing from the pool or hot tub and diving into the sea from a diving platform. ‘Now, they look like they’re really letting loose, wouldn’t you say?’

I hear his subtext loud and clear, even as my body sways closer to his. He thinks I’m too straitlaced to let down my hair to that degree. He thinks because I work long hours, I don’t know how to enjoy myself. Adrenaline floods my blood, my pulse leaping with defiance.

He turns back to face me and I touch my lips to his in a barely-there caress as I say, ‘You’re right, that does look fun.’ I’m not wearing a bikini, but what better way to show Cam that not only can I be as outgoing as the next person, but also that I’m up for any challenge—in or out of the bedroom?