Curbside Pickup

Chapter 6 - The Perfect Pillow for a Good Night's Sleep

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Jogging didn't help. No matter how hard Anthony pushed himself on the treadmill that night, pounding out the miles, his brain refused to settle down.

Fear of being found on the island, and what the paparazzi would do, if he was spotted..

The discomfort of sleeping on the pull-out, instead instead of in the bedroom. That was rough.

The idea of caressing the soft curve of Ellie's breasts. His mind ground to a halt and he nearly tripped. Frustrated, Anthony jammed the Emergency Stop clip on his shirt, something he never did. Only the feeble resorted to using the clip. Nah, that wasn't nice. Sensible people used the clip.

Or the jerk running with a hard-on.

Anthony had to admit, running after midnight was not a good idea. He wasn't getting tired. If anything, he was winding himself up.

Setting the incline higher, he worked to wear himself out. He worked to expunge the images from his brain. He ran from every hint of disaster, tabloid or inappropriate contact - no matter how fun that little interlude might be.

Images of Ellie, unwinding herself from the hotel's white robe, invaded his brain again. She was always so careful to conceal her body. Her sisters were enviously thin, but Ellie inherited her father's build. She was taller, more solidly built. With her mother's experience as a former model, she knew how to carry herself.

That skill, however, didn't compensate for the bone-deep insecurity she seemed to harbor. Unconscious of the effect on the men (and some of the women) around her, she'd kept her eyes on the pool deck. Did she expect people to burst out laughing? Or smirk? God knew, he hadn't.

Watching the robe fall to her ankles was one of the most erotic moments of Anthony's life. Still, she avoided his gaze until he lifted her chin. Only then could she see the admiration in his eyes. He'd made sure of that much. To his great shame, though he'd failed her in the end. He'd retreated to snacks and his magazine to get his raging libido under control.

Because, in a more perfect world, they might be in a relationship. One without a catastrophe of a wedding. One that allowed him to sweep up their possessions, retreat to their suite and order room service - the island equivalent of strawberries and champagne.

Not that she showed any desire for him.  Anthony cursed and set the pace a notch higher,  running from the memories. He ran from his lingering desire, from the possibilities that could never be. Because he'd promised.

His mind spun back to the gym, feeling for her pulse. She'd stumbled on her first lunge, and he was convinced she'd overtaxed herself. He was pushing her, and frustrated when she began to flag. He'd inhaled her scent as he'd touched her wrist - the spice of cinnamon-sugar, a freshly baked cookie. Something he'd loved as a child, returning home from an afternoon of breezy sports. Now...

Warm.

Sexy.

Forbidden.

The perfumes of his other girlfriends were heavy, they made him sneeze. Ellie's sugar cookie fragrance made him want to lick her shoulder, to see if her skin would taste as good as it smelled. Anthony saw himself, holding her still in his arms, his head bent, one finger edging aside her tank strap, and his tongue — reaching out, running along the trapezius from neck to shoulder, feeling her shiver under his touch —

Anthony did stumble then, making an awkward landing on the gym carpet. The clip, jerking out of the machine, triggered the machine's halt. The treadmill immediately ground to stop, the display blinking in dismay at the interruption.