Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(37)

But I can’t. Not here. And so I’m left craving something that will never come.

The sliding door whooshes open, and Rose walks out with a tequila sunrise. She spends a great deal of time bringing the lounge chair in front of everyone’s, the legs scraping against the hard flooring. When it’s just right, she spreads out a light blue towel and sits, facing me.

“Do you want me to get you one?” she quips, raising her alcoholic drink.

“Very funny,” I say, my stomach gurgling, still unsettled.

Lo could have easily downed fruity drinks all night without too much suspicion, but he hates sweet mixes. And he’d rather not draw any attention to himself. He puts away drinks too quickly that people are bound to be suspicious or worried that he’s returning to those old, inebriated, party-filled years before we got together. Of course they never really ended, maybe the prep school parties, but not the drinking. No one knows that though.

“Did he get you drunk?” Rose wonders, eyeing Lo’s sleeping body like she could stick him with voodoo needles.

“No,” I lie. “He actually tried to get me to stop.” Semi-true.

Rose looks doubtful and she kicks his lounge chair, waking Lo up from his nap.

He jolts, startled. “What the hell?”

“Rose,” I say with the shake of my head. “He was tired.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Lo pushes his hair back with his hand and mutters a few insults under his breath. Then he raises his lounge chair to a sitting position. “Look what the wind blew in.”

“What?” Rose snaps.

Lo’s eyebrow rises, confused. “What what?”

“What did the wind blow in? Finish what you were saying if you have the balls.”

“You’re right, I’ve lost my balls. You win.” Lo scans around his area for his drink. I hand it to him, and he looks appreciative that I kept it safe. He chugs down half.

He doesn’t need to finish his statement. I’m almost positive he meant to call her a bitch, or at least implied it in the vaguest way possible.

Poppy says, “I think you’re getting burned, Lily.”

Oh great. My plan to burn alive has been ruined by Poppy’s maternal worry.

She tosses me a bottle of suntan lotion.

“I’m fine, really. I burn and then tan. And I need the color.” I push my aviators further up my nose.

Rose snorts. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard in a while.”

“That’s not true,” I retort. “I’m pretty sure Maria said something about the color of the sky actually being orange. And you were there.”

“I’m excluding children from this.”

Lo smiles. “Ooh, Rose, showing favoritism towards children. What is the world coming to?”

She glares at me. “I still hate that you brought him. Poppy had enough sense to leave her husband and child at home.”

Lo finishes off his drink. “I’m right here, you know.”

Rose ignores, waiting for me to respond.

“It’s not like I have a child that Lo needs to look after. If Maria wasn’t born, Sam would be here, right Poppy?”

Poppy looks impassive. “I’m not getting into this.” Sometimes, being Switzerland during family tiffs is super annoying for everyone else.

Lo sets down his drink and then picks up the suntan lotion. I think he’s going to apply more to his Irish skin, but he stands and then pushes my legs up to my chest. He straddles my lounge chair, not noticing how his movements cause my chest to cave, my breathing to shallow and my heart to race.

With only a thin bathing suit on, I feel ready for something more. The sun soaks my skin, the heat intoxicating, dizzying my thoughts, a headiness I drift in. My toes curl inward as I try to suppress my feelings that will surely volcano sooner or later. I need him. I need to release all of this, but I don’t know how to ask without it being awkward. This is so different than supplying him with scotch and rum. I’m asking for his body. That’s not okay.

“I can do it,” I say, my breath ragged as he pops the lid.

Rose adds, “This doesn’t make me like you any better, Loren.”

“I know,” Lo says, his back to her. “And frankly, I don’t really care, Rose.” Yeah, emphasizing her name does not have the same effect. Lo squirts lotion in his hand, and I recoil.

“Really, I can do it myself.”

His eyes widen like we’re supposed to be together, ding bat. Oh right. “Let me get your shoulders.” He scoots forward and takes my arm in his large hand. His fingers knead into my tender skin.

My eyes shut while he rubs the lotion lower on my ribs, lifting a side of my bandeau black bikini top to apply beneath the hem. He can feel the way my chest rises in and out, my breathing heavy and strained.

He turns my body around and leans my stomach on the lounge chair. Then he hovers forward and starts spreading lotion along my shoulder blades and lower back. He unclips my bandeau, and I fade away with his touch. Holy…

The sliding door whooshes again. “Can I help any of you?” a server asks. He wears a white collared shirt and black pants, the yacht service uniform. In his late twenties, he has golden hair and an angular face, making him too angelic, too handsome, and too desirous for my throbbing body.