Bring the Heat by Margot Radcliffe (13 ebook reader .txt) 📕

a second time, she let out a pent-up breath. She didn’t want to talk to Max and they most certainly didn’t have anything to discuss. In fact, she was downright irritated that his text was pulling her out of the lusciously filthy thoughts she’d been having all morning about Oliver.

“No frowning on yachts,” Oliver reprimanded from his place behind the bar where he was making another batch of margaritas.

“I see people cry in baseball all the time,” she told him, trying to sidestep the text she’d just gotten. She didn’t want to talk about Max with Oliver anymore. Just wanted him to be a distant memory already.

“You must be thinking of soccer,” he joked, coming out from behind the small chrome bar of the deck with his own refilled margarita. Looking down at her from where he stood, he took a sip and regarded her. She knew he expected her to tell him what had made her frown but she didn’t want to. She wanted to enjoy being in paradise, surrounding by turquoise water, open sky and the sexiest man on earth, who hadn’t put a shirt on once since anchoring the boat sometime before noon. Which meant that he’d been all day just walking around the yacht, checking his email, making calls, cooking them lunch and dinner, as if he wasn’t irresistible already without the ridged expanse of his abs on full display.

“Molly,” he said, taking her hand in his, letting his thumbs drift over her knuckles. Then he cursed as he saw the bit of grease she’d missed under her fingernails. “Fuck, I love it when you have grease on your hands.” His eyes met hers. “Why does that turn me on so much?”

“Maybe you have an affinity for anything that could be used as lube?”

His shoulders started shaking and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He was so adorable when he laughed, so different from the cultured and sophisticated person he really was. Despite their friendship, while she was sitting on the super yacht he owned, it was literally impossible for her to forget just how wealthy he was and how far out of her depth she was. When they’d dated before, she’d been too young to really understand levels of wealth. When he’d told her his parents had family money, she’d imagined a McMansion like the ones she’d grown up around that kids whose parents were doctors or lawyers lived in. That had been her idea of wealthy and she’d still known then that she didn’t belong in that world. Amazing sex aside, she knew it couldn’t work.

Once she’d found out who his parents were and did an internet search on him it had become astoundingly clear. The Kents were, like, people-who-owned-sports-teams wealthy, who built stadiums and hospitals and schools, created and funded foundations and scholarship programs. She had no idea how those people lived, nor did she understand what it must have taken for Oliver to be on this yacht with her now, to walk away from running one of the largest investment firms in the world. There had to be consequences he wasn’t sharing with her, repercussions he was facing to follow the path he wanted for himself. She’d never truly understand his life, but she did want to be a good friend to him, to be emotional support for him like he’d always been for her.

After one night with him, every single one of her qualms about her performance in bed with Max had been quashed. Quashed so hard the little fragments of doubt had turned into diamonds. Getting him to open up was the least she could do for him.

Oliver’s thumb ran over the tip of her finger with the black mark. “I’d love to try a few items that could be used as lube with you tonight,” he teased, stroking her hand. “Maybe some bacon grease?”

She dropped his hand, recoiling in disgust. “That’s awful.”

His eyes darkened as he seemed to consider it. “Are you sure? We could both cover our bodies head to toe in it, just slipping and sliding all over each other smelling like Sunday-morning breakfast. It could be fun, Molly.”

She knew he was just being silly, but the prospect of sliding all over Oliver did send a zing of heat through her body.

Meeting his eyes, she saw the smile there and shook her head. “You’re such nonsense.”

He grinned, then pulled another chaise over to hers and extended out onto it, his abs rippling with the movement and his thick tanned thigh muscles standing out against the white chair cushion. “I am, but I’m also not the one staring at my phone. Talk to me, Molly. We’re sleeping together now, so if there’s something going on with your ex, I’d like to know.”

“Nothing’s going on, but he texted and he wants me to call him to clear up a few things.”

Oliver’s brow furrowed as he searched her expression. “You’re not thinking of trying to work things out with him, are you?”

“No, of course not,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “I just don’t know that I want to talk to him. I’m not good expressing what I feel out loud. I’m better at fixing things, using tools.”

Setting his margarita aside, Oliver flipped over so that he was on his side facing her. “Well, you don’t have to call him, but maybe it’s for the best to put a bookend on it because something is happening between us on this boat, Molly. I don’t know where it’s going or what your expectations are, but I don’t want to keep doing what we’re doing if you’re not ready or still want to give things a chance with him.” He held her eyes then. “So if you want to talk about what you want to say more with me, I’m here. I understand he wasn’t just some guy you were dating—you were going to marry him. That’s a big deal.”

“I know,” she told him, but it was really just a statement to