A soft knock pulls me out of my rant and I sit up and look over at the door just in time to see an envelope slide through.

I jump up, run over, and fling it open—I scan the pathway in front of our bungalow, but it’s twisty and thick with tropical foliage, so of course there’s no one in sight. I close the door and pick up the thick paper. This time the envelope says nothing, so I just take out the card.

Meet me. 9:00 Sunset Cove Beach.

Mr. B

What?

Mr. B? Mr. Buttinski? I gasp and clasp my hand over my mouth in shock. Is this note from Vaughn Asher? It has to be, that’s what I called him at the bar.

Oh my God, can my day get any more fantastic? Vaughn Asher wants to… well, he never said what he wanted, only where I’m supposed to go and when.

Maybe I shouldn’t go?

Ha! Like hell! I’m going. I get up and go over to the closet where my meager wardrobe is hanging. I have three sun dresses, six pairs of shorts, four bikinis, three sexy camis, two tank tops, and a pair of jeans.

A sun dress it is, I guess. I was not expecting to meet a movie star on this trip. I wasn’t even expecting to get lucky. Not many single guys my age come to a resort like this. It’s more for anniversary celebrations and honeymoons.

I check the time. It’s only four, and I’m wiped out from the martinis and sun, so I figure I have plenty of time to catch a nap, shower, and pull myself together for a date with Vaughn Asher!

I flop down on the bed and stuff my face in the pillow as I kick and scream with excitement. I grab my cell off the nightstand and I’m already pulling up Twitter to tell my bitches before Dirty Heaven tonight when I realize I can’t tweet about him! I already messed up and copped out to my past indiscretions, so there’s no way he can know.

In fact, I’m not sure I want my girls to know either. I mean, they will out me in a snap. All in good fun, to them, at least. But I will die of humiliation if he ever reads half the shit I’ve said about him.

Once I get home and have time to process all this, I will tell them all about it. And I’ll stalker-pic him all night so I have proof.

I’m smiling so big my cheeks are beginning to hurt, so I just roll over and hug the pillow to my chest, my eyes drooping as I daydream about what a night with a famous movie star means. I’m sure he wants it all on the down low. I’m nobody and he’s probably only looking for a one-night stand.

Am I up for a one-night stand with a sex god?

Ha! As if. Yes. Yes, yes, and more and more yeses. I’ve never had a one-nighter, but if a girl needs to lose her booty-call virginity, why not do it with—wait. If I sleep with him tonight he’ll think I’m cheap.

I am cheap. At least in this case. But I know better than to get involved in games. And I’m sure his game-playing skills are epic.

So no. I can’t sleep with him.

At least not tonight. Tonight I should just see if he’s normal or not. He could be a creep ass**le for all I know. He could like choking or spanking or domination.

God, I hope he likes that shit.

Maybe he’s got a special room filled with accessories. I giggle at that. I’ve never done anything so adventurous. I’ve had plenty of dates and boyfriends, but they were all pretty vanilla when it came to sex. Only one got a little crazy, but when he started putting on my underwear, I knew his brand of crazy was not what I was looking for.

But Vaughn… I reach down between my legs and find my clit through my shorts and bathing suit.

Way too much fabric between me and my pleasure, so I shimmy out of my bottoms, then let my hand wander again.

I picture all the dirty things I’ve tweeted about his face. How I’d like to sit on it and rub myself against his scratchy chin. How his tongue would feel lapping against my folds. How my wetness would spill out and coat his lips, and then I’d scoot down and kiss him. Tangle my tongue with his so I could share in the taste of me.

I don’t usually get so excited sans vibrator, but the tingling between my legs begins to build, cresting higher until I have to pull my hand away to stop the release.

I don’t want to masturbate to his image anymore. I’ve done that hundreds of times. I want the real thing.

God help me. Because I’m not sure I could say no if he wants to have sex with me tonight. And from what I’ve read about him in the tabloids, he’s dirty. He’s a talker, one article said. Of course that was only from a “reliable source” so it could all be made up. And another equally suspicious one said he wished he was chosen to play Christian Grey in Fifty Shades so he could take a girl to the red room.

My fingertips are slick with my own juices again, my hand wandering down of its own accord. And I bring my fingers to my lips and suck, picturing what it might be like to suck Vaughn Asher’s dick.

And that’s it.

Dreaming about blowing him is all it takes.

I gush for him. I come for him. I moan his name and buckle my back for him. My body aches for more as soon as I’m finished. I bring my fingers back to my mouth as I imagine how hot the sex might be.

How thick is his cock? How long? Will he go slow and give kisses? Or fast and hard up against the wall? Will he eat me out? Make me beg? Will I beg? Fuck yes, I’ll beg. Will he have stamina? Or will he be a huge disappointment?

My eyelids become heavy and before I know it I’m dropping off as all these things flash through my mind.

I dream of hard cock.

Of my sopping wet pu**y.

I dream of his fingers inside me, caressing my most sensitive spots. I picture his c**k as it pushes past my wet folds and plunges into me for the first time, giving me the best orgasm of my life.