Pleasing Her Seal. Anne Marsh

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      “Do you want it to be?” She returned her attention to the contents of the box. Unfortunately for her curiosity, he’d left the BDSM arsenal in the hotel gift shop.

      “You don’t want to play games with me, sweetheart.”

      She shrugged. “Don’t be so sure of that.”

      “I always win.” Even before BUD/S training, he’d learned the value of winning. Older sisters were merciless when triumphant.

      “Don’t be so sure of that, either.” She grinned cheekily at him. “Your pancakes are bubbling. Even I know that means it’s time to flip.”

      Shit. He rescued the pancakes, turning them over and adding the chocolate chips, before setting out a plate.

      She watched him work, swinging a bare foot. She pouted. “You’re not eating with me? Because it’s just wrong to ignore chocolate chips.”

      Silently he added a second plate to the counter. Guess he could be tempted after all.

      * * *

      MAYBE SHE COULD blame Fantasy Island. Maybe the place simply had sex in the air, like perfume at the mall. Or maybe Maddie was just lonely. That last option wasn’t her favorite, but she had to admit the possibility. Her recent dating history consisted of long stretches of drought peppered with spectacular failures. Since working from home on her blog ruled out a workplace romance, she’d had to rely on the guys she met at weekend weddings. While she found a guy in a tux as hot as the next woman did, she’d also discovered that a tux was a version of dating wallpaper. The sexy suit covered up a wealth of issues. She didn’t need another DIY fixer-upper man.

      Been there, done that.

      A year ago, she’d naively thought her then boyfriend had been on the proposal train. Unfortunately, the special dinner she’d anticipated all week had turned out to be the breakup dinner. He’d picked up the check, though, after explaining that he’d accepted a work transfer to the other side of the country—and that he thought they should take a break while he “got settled.” She’d ordered both the lobster and the Kir Royal cocktail. Three times. The rest of the night had been a mindless blur, although she’d apparently drunk texted her sisters the sorry details of her sex life. Twelve months later, she still hadn’t lived those texts down.

      Hot vacation sex with Mason might seem like the best of ideas, but it could all too easily end like her last relationship. Being the punch line in a bad joke wasn’t funny. At all. She had an adjective for every finger on her hand for wrestling Mason into bed: risky, impulsive and...tingly. While she’d enjoyed the casual postwedding hookup, Mason was dangerous to her peace of mind. Once might not be enough with him.

      Maybe it was all the weddings. Thirteen of them in eighteen months. Once upon a time, weddings had been her favorite way to spend a Saturday, but she was tired of standing on the sidelines. Tired of watching other people hook up and live out their fantasies. She didn’t need a groom of her own, but a man? Temporarily? That worked for her. Where was the harm in borrowing Mason for the rest of her vacation? The hunk definitely brought out her inner tease.

      Bad Maddie.

      He was big and built, powerful shoulders flexing beneath his white T-shirt. She had no idea how he stayed so pristine in the kitchen. There wasn’t a smear of flour or chocolate on him anywhere she could see. It was like her own personal challenge to see if she could crack his stoic surface and mess him up. Only in the best possible ways, she thought virtuously. Nothing mean or petty. Just...sexy.

      God, was he ever sexy.

      And that was before he said the magic words. “Strawberries or whipped cream?” The smile quirking the corner of his mouth was downright naughty. “Or both?”

      “You have to ask?” Because, seriously, was there more than one possible answer?

      “A vote for both.” With a flourish, he spread strawberries over the topmost pancakes and followed with whipped cream, and not the kind from the aerosol bottle. Nope. He had a fancy stainless-steel number that promised all sorts of dairy goodness. There was definitely something to be said for a man who cooked. He picked up the two plates and nodded his head toward the small table. “Sit down.”

      Fresh whipped cream was a motivator. She hopped off the counter and sat at the table.

      He wasn’t much of a talker. He didn’t open up and tell her all about himself, or even share the usual dating details like favorite movies, favorite songs or favorite sexual positions. Instead, he sat there and listened. She told herself that wasn’t a turn-on, but really...yeah. It was.

      “What made you decide to blog about weddings?”

      “I was laid off. I knew how to type.” She wiggled her French-manicured fingers at him. “And I had a stack of wedding invitations as high as Bill Mountain.”

      “A fresh start.” He nodded grimly, as if he understood, although she had to wonder what he’d ever failed at. He seemed pretty darn perfect to her.

      She and failure, on the other hand, were BFFs. She’d been an executive assistant before the software start-up folded. No Silicon Valley billionaire had crossed her path, although she’d had a few conference room fantasies to go with a social life that consisted of online dating, dating apps and friends of friends. She gave good first dates, but guys didn’t call back. Or email back, text back or IM her back, and it was partly her fault. She knew what she wanted in a man and she knew she had things to offer. He’d be honest and reliable and, when she was around him, she’d feel safe enough to be herself. He’d like her first, and then he’d love her. In exchange for all of himself, she’d offer up all she had. She definitely wouldn’t have sex just because or to cross the next step off in some dating checklist. But even if she was looking for Mr. Right, she’d also settle for an attractive Mr. Right Now as long as he came with an orgasm for two.

      “Bills are an excellent motivator,” she admitted softly.

      He laughed. “Yeah. Electricity and running water are kind of addictive.”

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