Marcia King-Gamble - Sex On Flamingo Beach

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

She didn’t know what had gotten into her. It wasn’t as if she and Rowan would be taking this further. And that was precisely why she’d agreed to stay over. There would be no emotional involvement between them, and so he was safe. It wasn’t as if this was the first time they’d been out, more like their fifth, and she did find him attractive.

“I should have filled you up with cosmopolitans sooner,” he mumbled, taking her hand and leading her upstairs.

“I’m perfectly sober.”

Rowan’s bedroom was comfortably air-conditioned, the sheets fresh smelling and crisp. Fully clothed, Emilie hopped onto the king-sized bed. He climbed in beside her and immediately began helping her out of her shirt.

As Rowan’s rough palms stroked her body and his mouth began an intimate exploration of her flesh, she found herself responding. Soon she was giving as good as she got.

Don’t think, Emilie. Just live in the moment.

It had been almost a full year since she’d been made love to and her body was wired and quickly on fire.

Rowan was making loud noises as she tore at what remained of his clothing. Much as she would have preferred to slow things down, neither of them seemed able to wait.

“Before this goes any further, let me ask the obvious question,” Emilie said. “Do you have protection?”

“Like a good Boy Scout, I’m always prepared.” He showed her the condom that had magically appeared in his hand. Emilie helped him slide it on.

“Get on top of me so that I can see you,” he said, shifting her into the dominant position.

She was quickly impaled on Rowan. He wasn’t at all selfish. In fact he was a giving and considerate lover. She didn’t have a single regret. Emilie closed her eyes and allowed the sensations to wash over her. It could only get better if they were in love. But love complicated things and emotions caused you to make wrong choices.

Rowan James was not the kind of man who would ever settle down. By his own admission he was always off chasing one dream or another, and he was clearly the wrong man for her. But his hands on her flesh caused her to do a sexy gyration. Rowan’s deep baritone, and the next thrust, had Emilie clutching his broad shoulders. Her body came alive as he took her on a wild ride. She’d turned into a bucking bronco.

And he was bucking right along with her, in tune with her body and satisfying her more than she’d ever thought possible. Even their breathing had synchronized.

When Rowan held her around the waist and sat her down hard on him, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Never in her wildest imaginations had she expected it to be this good with a man who was just a booty call.

And as Emilie spiraled out of control, she thought about the old Tina Turner tune.

What did love have to do with it?

Making love with Emilie Woodward had been a far more moving experience than Rowan had ever imagined. Three days later and he still couldn’t get her out of his head. He was still thinking about her and trying to get rid of the perfumed scent that lingered in his nostrils. He’d been attracted to the vivacious redhead from the first day he’d laid eyes on her. He’d been determined to have her, and not just in a sexual sense.

Fortunately the company she worked for, the Knight Corporation, had hired him to develop the land butting up against the golf course. That had given him reason to saunter into Emilie’s office every chance he got. Eventually he’d worn her down and she’d agreed to go out with him. Their first official date had been Chere Adams and Quentin Abrahams’s wedding.

Initially, Rowan had thought Emilie was white but it was no big deal when he found out otherwise. He was used to dating women outside of his race and in fact that was his preference. He’d married a black woman. The issues leading up to his divorce had nothing at all to do with their different ethnicities.

Emilie was a striking woman with great shoulders and magnificent breasts. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit those full breasts had turned him on from the moment he’d laid eyes on them. But it was her take-charge attitude and outgoing personality that he’d really been attracted to. He wanted to know what made her tick.

Getting Emilie to trust him and realize he was sincere was going to be a challenge. She had her guard up—a barrier he planned on penetrating. Rowan had tried everything to convince her he was cool, and that her ethnicity wasn’t a problem for him, but she either wasn’t listening or he wasn’t getting through. He refused to believe she didn’t care.

What he’d failed to share was that his upbringing was far more humble than hers. He’d grown up in the projects in a tough Brooklyn, East New York, neighborhood. While other white families raced for the suburbs, his parents, both factory workers, stayed put. He’d been left with no choice but to adjust and fit in. And so he’d grown up playing stickball and basketball with black and Latino kids.

As he got older, he began dating his playmates’ sisters, who by then didn’t seem to notice the color of his skin. He knew the urban slang, holding his own with the best of them, and when it came to street brawls he could match the nastiest gang leader blow for blow. Growing up under those circumstances made him appreciate his success even more.

Rowan wondered if helping Emilie fill up her overpriced hotel would guarantee her attention.

Derek Morse, his new partner, was at his door.

“Keith Lightfoot just pulled up,” he said. “Are you ready for him?”

“Sure.” Rowan took his feet off the desk, stood and stretched. It was an important meeting. Rowan needed to convince Keith that although the competition might come in cheaper, James Morse, Inc.’s, work spoke for itself. They would get the job done according to specifications and in the allotted time.

“Hey, Keith,” Rowan greeted, meeting him at the front door of the office he’d leased.

Keith had brought with him a sullen-looking man that he introduced as Stephen Priddy, the Seminole group’s newly hired CFO.

Inside his cramped office, Rowan waved both men into chairs. Derek went off to get them water, and Rowan wondered why his part-time assistant, Blanca, wasn’t doing her job. He hadn’t seen her in at least half an hour.

“Landsdale is interested in working with you,” Keith said, getting to the point. “They like your reputation. But you’ll need to get your pricing in line with the other guys to be considered.”

“Just how far off am I?”

“Way off,’’ Priddy said, slapping down a spreadsheet on Rowan’s desk. He stabbed a finger at a bidder whose name had been whited out. “You’ll need to come in around here for us to even look at you.”

Rowan quickly did the math in his head. “I’m not sure that’s doable,” he said. “You often get what you pay for. My references are excellent and my jobs all come in on time. I would consider taking less of a bonus to make this work.”

“How much less?” Stephen inquired, his calculator of a brain already crunching numbers.

Rowan named a figure and Keith shot Stephen a charged look.

Derek had found Blanca wandering around somewhere. She carried foam cups, water and coffee on a tray. When she bent over to place the items on Rowan’s desk, Stephen Priddy almost lost it. Blanca’s tight, short skirt left little to the imagination. Her ridiculous high heels made her totter.

Rowan had tried talking to her about professional dress, but she wasn’t getting it. Since he was paying her minimum wage, and she could at least type and had computer skills, he’d given up. Good enough that she showed up to work and actually got something done.