“Logan?”
Anxiety began to twinge in her stomach . . . and then it rumbled. She was starving. She glanced back at the gift shop, but the thought of eating more candy bars made her sick. It was a bit sad that she was getting tired of chocolate—even M&M’s. She headed toward the far end of the first floor, near one of the restaurants, and called Logan’s name again.
“In here.” Logan’s voice sounded distant.
She headed into the restaurant, and paused in surprise. One of the tables in the center of the room had been righted and a water-stained tablecloth spread over it. Place settings had been set down and two chairs slid under the table. As she watched, Logan leaned over a pair of candles and lit them with his lighter.
A slow smile spread over her face as she approached, and a silly, nervous giggle escaped her throat. “What’s this?”
Besides the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, of course.
Logan looked back at her and smiled, his expression confident. “I thought I’d like to take my date out to dinner. Or breakfast, as the case may be.” He reached for her hand and led her to one of the chairs, pulling it out for her with a flourish.
She sat, unable to stop grinning like a fool, especially when he leaned in and kissed the back of her hand. “I hope it’s not chocolate.”
“It’s not. First, we have a fine vintage that I think you’ll appreciate.” He laid a bottle over his arm and held it out to her as if it were wine.
It was a bottle of water.
She laughed, clapping her hands. “It looks delicious.”
“Indeed.” He set down a wineglass and began to pour with effortless grace. “The flavor is peerless. I think you’ll enjoy the bouquet.”
Brontë lifted her glass when he finished pouring and pretended to sniff it. “Very nice.” She gave him an appraising look. “You’re good at this, you know.”
“Waiting tables? Should I be insulted?”
She snorted, ignoring that jab at her job. “I meant with the wine thing.” She wiggled her fingers at it. “They teach you how to be classy at manager school?”
He gave her an odd look. “Something like that. Should I bring out the next course?”
She gestured grandly. “Please do.”
To her surprise, he pulled out a covered silver dish and placed it in the center of the table, then lifted the lid with a flourish.
A basket of fruit—fruit that looked reasonably fresh, too. She gasped, pleased. “Where did you get this? I thought we picked through everything!”
“I found it in the concierge room while looking for batteries for the flashlights. I thought it’d make a nice breakfast.”
It did. Brontë hadn’t realized how pleasurable plain, simple fruit could be. They ate their fill of apples, oranges, and bananas, and split a pineapple and a mango. They licked juice from their fingers, sipped water from crystal wineglasses, and had a great time. Brontë couldn’t help but grin at Logan from across the table. This entire setup was just . . . perfect. He was perfect.
And she suddenly wanted to reward him.
With a devilish grin on her face, Brontë set down her wineglass full of water and tossed her napkin on the table. One of Logan’s dark brows went up, as if he were questioning her.
“Interested in dessert?” she asked in a low, purring voice. “I know just the thing.”
“How can I resist when it’s proposed to me like that?”
“You can’t,” she said lightly, and then slid out of her chair and under the table.
He stilled. She watched his legs shift in his chair as she crawled under the table toward him. “Brontë?”
When she got to him, she sat back on her heels and put her hands on his trousers. He was wearing them again today, which was a pity. He even had on his belt, though it was waterlogged and the leather ruined. She pulled at the buckle and began to tug it slowly free. “Just my way of saying thank you,” she said. “Thought I’d help myself to a little treat is all.”
He groaned, and she felt his knees shift, spreading a bit wider. His hand reached under the table, and he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb across her cheek.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured from above her.
“I don’t have to do anything,” she pointed out. “However, I want to do this. Now sit back and relax.”
He did, his hands moving to the arms of his chair and clenching them. Good.
“Aristotle once said, ‘Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’” She leaned in and finished unbuttoning his pants, then lowered his zipper slowly. No boxers underneath, just flesh. That was nice. Brontë grasped his already-hard cock and tugged him free of the clothing, enjoying the feel of his hot flesh against her skin. She hadn’t had a chance to really play with him when they were in bed the night before, and this was her time to explore him at her leisure. “Mmm. I see perfection right now.”
He was thick and hard, and the crown of his cock was large, the tip already wet with fluid. He felt good in her hands, too. Firm and heavy, his skin hot against her own. She measured her fingers around his girth and found that they just barely met on the other side. Nice.
“I like this,” she said in a low voice, running a finger along the length of his cock. He jerked under her touch, and she couldn’t contain the chuckle in her throat. It was fun to affect him so much. She leaned in and lightly swept her tongue over the head of his cock, tasting the salty beads of wetness on his skin. So delicious. So hot.
Above her, he groaned, and she felt him grip the edges of the table. “Brontë.”
It sounded like he was gritting her name out between his teeth. She smiled and grasped his cock in her hand, circling the base with her fingers before leaning forward and taking him deeper into her mouth. Again, he groaned, and she began to work his thick length with her mouth, rubbing her tongue along the underside as she sucked him deep, pumping with her fist at the base to increase the sensation.
Sucking on his cock was getting her excited, too. She could feel the slickness between her legs, felt the heat of her pulse throbbing through her body, centered low in her hips. She wanted to rock them with every motion she made. More than anything, she wanted to please him, to make him lose control and come.
“Your mouth is amazing,” he ground out. She felt one hand slide under the table, felt it tangle into her hair, and then he began to work her head. He was fucking her face, she realized, a little scandalized by that—and a lot turned on. Moaning around his cock, she moved with the force of his thrusts, whimpering when he’d butt up against the back of her throat. He was in so deep, filling her mouth up. His motions were abandoned, as if he weren’t quite able to control himself, and she curled her fingers into his pants with excitement, feeling her own sex tingling with need.
“I’m going to come,” he warned her. “If you don’t—”
She leaned in, sucking harder, letting him know it was okay.
That was all it took. He breathed her name, and his fist tightened in her hair, his hand thumping on the table as he came in her mouth, his hot come wetting the back of her throat. She jerked involuntarily, swallowing and pulling back when he was done. She’d hit her head on the underside of the table, she was pretty sure. She was also pretty sure that neither of them had noticed.
“Brontë,” he groaned. “God, your mouth.” And he was still hitting the table with that light, rhythmic slap that sounded like a beat. Music?
She smiled to herself, pleased at his reaction.
His hands pulled her up from under the tablecloth, and she realized that the rhythmic sound was continuing. Puzzled, she looked up at him—he had a slightly dazed expression, his hair was mussed and tousled over his tanned forehead, and he was still a bit hazy from his passion. “What’s that noise?”
Logan focused, and then his eyes narrowed. A grin spread across his face. “Helicopter.”
“Rescue?” She stood, wobbly and leaning against him, her body still humming with need. Lousy timing, that rescue.
He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff and see who’s here.”
***
Their stairwell went all the way to the roof, and even though there was debris scattered up the stairs and she was pretty sure some of the steps were creaking more than they should, they made it to the top. Once up there, Brontë could see several things at once.
There was a helipad on the roof of the resort. That was handy. There was a helicopter coming in for a landing, too, close enough that her sundress was whipping around her legs and her tangled mess of hair was turning into a tumbleweed around her face.
She could see for miles around up here, too, and she gasped at the sight of the island. There were cars washed off the road in the distance, in ditches. Trees were uprooted everywhere. Boats were overturned at a distant marina. On the far side of the hotel’s roof, it looked like the hotel had crumbled away. The east wing hadn’t fared nearly so well as where they’d been staying. She was thankful their elevator hadn’t been there.
“Come on,” Logan shouted over the deafening chop chop chop of the helicopter. He put an arm around her shoulders possessively, and she put her hands to her sides to keep her dress from flying up. He leaned over and yelled something at her that sounded like, “I think I recognize that chopper.”
They ran forward, and to her surprise, a man jumped out of the helicopter and ran across the helipad to meet them. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a khaki shirt and shorts, and laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He raised a friendly hand in greeting, and Brontë was surprised when Logan gave it a high five, clasped it, and then brought the man in for a hug.
That was rather . . . friendly.
The man in the sunglasses gave her a rather knowing up-and-down look and then turned back to Logan. “I should have guessed,” he shouted over the helicopter’s blades. “You looked entirely too happy for a man who’s been stranded for a few days, but I guess the company was good, right?”
“This is Brontë,” Logan told him. “She was stuck in the same elevator I was.”
“You picked a good elevator to get stuck in,” the man agreed amiably and then thrust his hand toward Brontë. “Nice to meet you.”
She shook his hand, noticing that it was very big and sturdy, and covered in calluses. Small scars crisscrossed his dark tan up and down his arms. The newcomer looked wild and just a bit dangerous. Handsome, she supposed, but Logan was more appealing to her. Still, it was odd that Logan would be such good buddies with the resort’s pilot. Maybe the manager of a resort had to fly around in a helicopter a lot? She had no idea what his job entailed.
“We’re so glad to see you,” she told the newcomer as they moved toward the helicopter. “I guess I picked the right hotel to be stranded at if it’s the one with the private helicopter.”
They got into the helicopter, and the men buckled her in. The seats were plush leather and incredibly nice. Not what she’d expected from a rescue copter. It seemed almost luxurious. Someone handed her a headset with a microphone, and she put it on. Thank goodness, no more shouting at each other. The thwack thwack thwack of the helicopter blades was so strong it vibrated in her belly, but at least it wasn’t making her eardrums want to burst anymore.