When the waiter was finished announcing my lunch, he made a short bow, asked if I needed anything further, and then—when I shook my head—left me to my food.

I stared at the lot of it, not sure where to start. My stomach rumbled in protest at my indecision.

I’d just decided to begin with the soup when Patricia re-emerged from the bathroom and strolled toward me with smart steps. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding rose and lavender essential oils to your bath.” She stopped at the edge of my table and began spooning peppermint tea into the steeper. “Please don’t hesitate to call upon me during your stay, Ms. Catrel. Our team’s sole purpose is your comfort while you are here with us. Since you’re traveling without your own team, please think of me as your personal secretary.”

“Uh, I have no…team.”

“That’s no matter.” Patricia gave me a warm smile and a little nod. She then turned and exited through the bedroom door, calling as she left, “I shall return in a half hour to unpack your things and then again at two for your appointment.”

A few minutes later, I heard all of them file out of the suite and the door close with a soft click.

Then, feast before me, warm bath next on the agenda, I was alone.

***

I decided I could really get used to being pampered even if that meant having to endure increased levels of human interaction. I stuffed myself. It was shameful. But I wanted to try everything, and everything tasted so good. The only item I finished was the yogurt. It tasted more like a custard than yogurt, and I feared I would go into withdrawal when I returned to New York.

After gorging myself, I sent a quick message to WriteALoveSong. Before I’d left New York, I told her I was going to be out of town for a few weeks for work, but I promised to message as often as I could. So I fired off a fast note.

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just arrived and ate my weight in breakfast foods. You may not hear from me for the next week as I digest all these waffles.

I was surprised when she quickly responded:

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Ohhh… waffles! What did the hipster glass of water say to the ice cube?

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: …oh no… what?

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I’m you before you were cool. Have fun on your trip!

I rolled my eyes and chuckled despite myself, typing out a speedy, Farewell for now. After switching off my phone, I waddled to the bathroom and disrobed, climbing into the most luscious bath of my life. Really, there was no other word for it. It was luscious.

The water was still hot, and I discovered why when I was fully immersed; the porcelain was heated. As well, the bubbles were miraculous and never seemed to diminish or fizz out.

Patricia knocked on the bathroom door to announce her presence and alert me to the fact that she was unpacking my bags. I thought about sending her away, but the luscious bath and sumptuous lunch made me feel lethargic and amenable to being spoiled. So I called my acknowledgment and relaxed.

It was in the bath that my thoughts invariably turned to Ronan. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, when he would be back. I also realized the ramifications of the single-bedroom suite and the single king-sized bed.

A surge of anxiety at the thought of sharing the bed with Ronan was followed by a surge of something else, something altogether more pleasant and dangerous. This, of course, made me think about Ronan undressing me as I slept this morning, his large, powerful hands pulling down my jeans as I lay limp beneath him….

I closed my eyes, indulging myself in the fantasy of Ronan undressing me completely; in the fantasy I was still limp, but I was awake. I touched my breasts lightly as I imagined him slowly slipping the straps down my shoulders, unhooking the clasp at the front, and revealing the expanse of my skin to his eyes. I imagined him lowering his mouth to me while the back of his fingers caressed a light path from my ribcage to my stomach then lower, into the waistband of my pink lace underwear.

My hand served as a substitute for his, and I touched myself, enjoying the slippery softness of my skin, feeling myself and knowing that this was what he would feel, wondering if he would be pleased with the slopes and curves of my body and all its secrets. I imagined his eyes on me, devouring the sight of my nakedness as he left a trail of wet kisses between my breasts, lower to my belly button, until finally—

My musings were cruelly interrupted by another knock on the door. I yanked my hand away, splashing water and some of the miraculous bubbles onto the marble floor then sat upright in the tub.

I glanced at myself; everything below my shoulders was still neatly hidden beneath a layer of white foam. “I—uh—come in. I’m nearly finished.”

My exhale was unsteady, my heart beating excitedly, and I knew I was flushed with the evidence of my almost orgasm. Hopefully, Patricia would assume the blush was caused by hot water and not hot thoughts.

But it wasn’t Patricia at the door. It was Ronan.

And he wasn’t exactly dressed. He was wearing a towel around his narrow hips, a glimpse of swim trunks visible, and nothing else.

I gawked at him—this being my first time seeing his body live, in person, and not in the static pages of a magazine or pixelated on the Internet—and knew nothing virtual or imaginary could come close to the reality of that chest and torso. He was all rigid muscle and sharp angles. A tribal tattoo of some sort snaked up his hip, originating from beneath the towel and spiraling up to his ribcage and chest. I wanted to trace it with my fingers, the curling lines. I wanted to press my mouth against it and taste his skin. He looked like he’d be hard to the touch, but I knew he’d also be warm.