Love Island

Chapter 5

What the hell was taking her so damn long?

Zac resisted the urge to bang on the door again, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame to lessen the temptation. Every second that tickled by on his Patek Philippe further convinced him coming to Fatima like this, with his ego in shreds–and his head up his ass–was a mistake of epic proportions.

He wasn't a guy who was used to groveling. He was a mover. A shaker. A deal maker. A hard nosed negotiator who inspired awe–and a healthy dose of fear–in the hearts of all those lucky–or unlucky–enough to do business with them.

In short, he was the grovel–ee, not the fucking groveler. And there was only one force on earth strong enough to reverse that.

His love for his son.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself to knock a third time. Before his knuckles could strike the door, it swung open and Fatima stood before him, her hair free from its ponytail and twisted into different parts in tank top and short short.

Predictably, his thoughts drifted to X-rated territory. Not an uncommon occurrence since their encounter on the beach. Fatima, wet, breathless, and nearly naked, had become the star of his late–night erotic fantasies. And a few dirty daydreams, too.

Zac did his best to ignore his reaction to her—something he had a feeling he'd be doing a whole hell of a lot of their conversation went as planned—and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his short. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“No, not really.” Fatima's cheek flushed an appealing shade of pink. There was something irresistible about a woman who embarrassed so easily. It made him wonder if she blushed all over. “I was on FaceTime with my sister.”

Way to win her over. Cut her off from her family. He took a step back and held his hands up, palms out. “I’m sorry. If you want to call her back, we can do this later.”

“Do what?”

She blinked up at him, all wide eyed innocence, and his hyperactive imagination went into overdrive, picturing all the things he'd like to do to her. Places he'd like to touch her, taste her….

“Mr Taylor? Are you alright?”

Fuck no. He wasn't all right. He was all wrong. This was all wrong.

He had to stop thinking with his dick and remember why he was there. His son. “I wanted to talk to you about Micheal.”

“Is something wrong?” The color drained from Fatima's face, and the hand still holding the door handle tightened it's grip. “He was fine when I put him to bed.”

“Fast asleep. I just checked on him.”

“Thank goodness.” Some of the colour returned to her cheeks. “You scared me for a second.”

“I'm sorry.” Her obvious concern for his son made his chest tighten and gave him the courage to forge ahead, doubts–and desires–be damned. “Can I come in?”

She open the door wider and waved him inside. He was surprised to find in her short time there she'd managed to put her own personal stamp on the room. Some scented candles burning on the nightstand. E–reader on the desk. Framed photos on the dresser.

“Sir down.” She gestured to the bed.

On the sheets where she slept wearing what he imagined was damn near to nothing, the Egyptian cotton caressing her bare flesh as she shifted in see slumber?

No fucking way.

He wasn't a damn masochist. He opted for the desk chair instead. Hard and unforgiving and not in the least likely to stir up sexual fantasies.