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Cabana 12 sat right on the sand, with a thatched roof, white gauze curtains and a king-size bed that had been very wasted on me for three nights.
I didn’t turn the light on. The moon did the job. Mateo stood in the doorway, shirt open, the sea breeze lifting the curtains round him, and I thought: right, this is happening.
“Last chance,” he said, smiling. “To be sensible.”
“I’ve been sensible for ten years.”
I pulled his shirt off. His chest was brown and hard, with a dusting of dark hair, and my mouth was on it before I’d thought about it. He undid the knot of my bikini top and let it fall. His hands were warm and slightly rough and he cupped my breasts like they were something precious and rubbed his thumbs across my nipples until I whimpered.
He laid me back on the bed and kissed down my stomach, slow, slow, slow, pulling my bikini bottoms down my legs with his teeth. Then his tongue was between my legs, flat and wet and patient, finding the exact place and staying there. I clutched his curls and arched up off the sheets and came almost embarrassingly quickly, a long shuddering gasp I felt in my toes.
He came up, lips shining, and grinned. I reached down and wrapped my hand round his cock, thick and hot and rock-hard, and he shut his eyes.
“Sophie,” he said, a bit roughly. “I start at six. Tell me what you want. Tonight only? Or something longer?”