Free Passion's Mistral by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page A

the rays.
    Silkie crooked her finger at him but he didn’t move. Instead, he turned his head toward another young
    man coming toward the tent under which Silkie was sitting in her low-slung canvas chair.
    “Oh, shit,” Silkie said as the next man approached.
    Though this man was built as beautifully as any naked man could be, he seemed to be deliberately hiding
    his scrotum from Silkie’s view. When he lifted his penis upward, the bottom of his fist obscured the area
    she needed to see. When he shifted the penis from side to side, he once more covered the spot. After
    several attempts to get him to allow her full view of his scrotum, she finally had to say the words, “I need
    to see the scrotal sac, sir!” Her face turning bright red as he looked down at her, amusement glittering in
    his gaze.
    Very slowly, he cupped his member with his fingers, closing each one like an accordion over the swelling
    shaft. Even more slowly, he lifted his cock straight out and upward, arching his hips toward her so she
    could get a good look at his balls.
    Silkie was only a foot away from the young man’s family jewels and though they sparkled brightly, they
    were not the gems for which she was searching. She looked up and shook her head.
    He stepped back as though stung by her reaction.
    “Oh, no!” she said, unthinkingly reaching out to grab his naked hips. “I just meant you weren’t…I mean
    you aren’t…” She felt the heat flowing down her neck. “You’re quite nice but—”
    He jerked out of her grip, lifted his head in the air and stomped off.
    “Damn it!” Silkie groaned. She hadn’t meant to hurt the young man’s feelings. She knew all too well how
    fragile was a man’s ego when it came to his penis. She looked helplessly toward the man who was still
    watching her. He had not moved.
    “I didn’t mean to suggest he wasn’t sexy,” she called out. “He is way more man than I’ve seen in a long
    time but—”
    The man from the night before stiffened, lowered his arms and turned his back to her. He, too, walked
    off as though she had insulted him. The white of the scar on his back was in livid contrast to the bronze of
    his tan.
    “What the hell did I say?” she yelled and remembered Julian St. John telling her not to speak to the
    helpers except to tell them what to do.
    Hot, angry, thirsty despite the bottles of spring water Henri Bouvier had provided for her in ice-filled
    tubs, Silkie threw her hands up and decided to call it quits. Five penises was enough work for one day!
    “There are thirty helpers at the Cay,” Dr. Carstairs had informed her.
    “At this rate, it’ll take me all week to inspect every cock here!” Silkie mumbled to herself as she stomped
    through the hot sand. She was longing for that wonderful spa tub and a few Bloody Marias to make her
    forget all the sausages she’d been forced to stare at.
    Julian slammed his fist against the doorframe hard enough to splinter the wood. Shaking his hand at the
    pain, cursing beneath his breath, he flopped down in his chair and thrust his long legs out in front of him.
    “Devlin Parks is way more man than you’ve ever seen, eh?” he sneered, cradling his injured hand against
    his chest. “Well, baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”
    “Steve is on vacation,” the young man who served her supper informed her.
    Silkie was disappointed. Not wanting to encounter Mr. Suppertime—as she had labeled him—she had
    decided against room service although she would have preferred to eat alone in her room. She handed
    the menu back to the waiter. “I’ll have the lobster Florentine.”
    “Excellent choice, Miss. And what kind of dressing for your salad?”
    “Blue cheese and a carafe of white zinfandel with the meal.”
    “Certainly. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
    Silkie smiled and looked around her. There were several other women dining in the Sea Crest Room that
    evening but none she had met, although one she thought looked vaguely