Desire and the Deep Blue Sea

by Olivia Dade

  After washing his hands, he wet a washcloth in the sink and unearthed a bottle of blue gel from his toiletry bag. Then he returned to the bed with the aloe and the cloth, unsealed the bottle, and crouched in front of her.

  He held up the washcloth. “May I?”

  Her throat dry, she nodded.

  Lightly, he dabbed at her nose with the cool, damp cloth. “I didn’t think the aloe would work as well through a layer of sand.”

  Speechless, she stared at him as he tended to her, dabbing until he was satisfied that he’d removed the grit from her skin. After squeezing a dollop of gel onto his finger, he spread it over her nose in gentle taps, and she sighed at the immediate relief.

  He capped the bottle and remained crouched in front of her. “Better?”

  God, he was a sweetheart of a man.

  “Better. Thank you.” She bit her lower lip. “I just don’t know about this place, Thomas. I know it sounds horrible and ungrateful and selfish, because we’re getting this trip for free, but—”

  “You’re not horrible.” He rose to his feet and sat next to her on the bed, that hair-dusted thigh of his only inches away from hers. “You’re under no obligation to like anything, Callie, ever. Not even if it’s free. Not even if other people like it. Your feelings are your feelings.”

  Why did that statement, firm but softly spoken, make her eyes sting?

  If she could tell anyone, she could tell him. He felt…

  Well, he felt safe. In a way Andre never had, even at the beginning.

  “It’s just…” She studied the frayed hem of his olive-green shorts, unable to meet his gaze. “I have issues with anxiety sometimes. So it can be hard for me to tell if there’s really a problem, or whether I’m just overreacting to something.”

  He touched her forearm with a fingertip. “I had no idea.”

  “I try to keep a handle on it.” Raising her chin, she issued her plea face-to-face. “Please don’t say anything to anyone at work.”

  “I wouldn’t. I promise.” His dark brows had drawn tight in concern. “I’m just sorry you have to struggle with something like that, because it sounds difficult and”—he paused—“disorienting, I guess. Maybe isolating too, if you don’t think you can tell anyone.”

  Her next breath came without as much strain.

  He got it. Maybe not completely, but the basic contours of the problem.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “All those things.”

  His little nod of acknowledgment somehow eased her breathing even more. “So tell me what’s worrying you, then.” He fell back on the bed and braced himself on his elbows, giving her the superior position. Somehow, she didn’t think that was a coincidence.

  She turned her head to track his movement, and there he was, his body spread out almost flat next to hers, his chest a warm, solid expanse beneath that thin blue tee. A display of masculine beauty in recline, lean and muscled. A temptation for her curious fingers, which twitched to explore the terrain.

  But she and Thomas weren’t there yet. Might never be there. So she needed to keep talking, if only to distract herself.

  “I feel like we’re at risk of being sacrificed to some parrot overlord or becoming Stepford Wives.” She frowned, considering the matter. “Stepford Parrots, I mean. Everything is just so…controlled. Rehearsed. It makes me uncomfortable. And I get the sense that Parrot Cay keeps a very, very close eye on its guests. I don’t like feeling watched all the time.”

  He flopped all the way to his back and rested his head on his palms, his elbows splayed to the sides. “I can understand that.”

  She waited a minute, but that was all he said. He didn’t tell her to get over it. He didn’t tell her she was mistaken or stupid. He didn’t even ask her to justify her statements.

  The relief of it stunned her. So much so that she flopped down beside him, onto the pillows, his elbow next to her ear.

  So much so that her racing thoughts cleared, and she could dig a little deeper.

  “But I’m not even sure those are my main issues, really.” She let out a long breath. “I guess I don’t like being watched by the camera crew all the time, either. Especially since we’re lying, and I’m worried about getting caught. I’m worried about putting you in an uncomfortable position, and I’m worried about what we’ll be expected to do to justify receiving this trip. And it’s hard for me to be in an unfamiliar environment, especially when I’m already tense.”

  That was the central irony, wasn’t it? In her desperation to seize a sandy, sun-soaked week of recovery from the work and stress of the last few years, she’d invented a relationship with Thomas. But—perhaps fittingly—both the lie and the television show enabling the trip had transformed it into an additional, potent source of worry for her. Maybe for him, too.

  Her throat had gone tight. “All this is just…”

  He waited patiently, without trying to fill in the words for her.

  “It’s a lot,” she finally said. “It’s a lot to handle, especially for someone like me.”

  The rooms in the hotel must be well-insulated, because she couldn’t hear anything for a few seconds but the whoosh of the air-conditioning and her heartbeat.

  In the fraught silence, her thoughts spiraled.

  Maybe he hated being put in this position. Maybe all her complaints, all her worries were too much for him. Maybe this entire trip had been an enormous mistake from the beginning.

  Then he levered up on one elbow and looked down into her eyes, his lean face solemn. “Two things. First, you never have to worry about putting me in an uncomfortable position. I don’t suffer silently, and I’d be more than willing to talk to the HATV crew if either one of us had concerns about what was happening. In general, very few things make me uncomfortable, so please stop devoting headspace to that issue.”

  She raised her brows at him.

  He sighed. “Sorry. I imagine that’s easier said than done.”

  “Yup.”

  His dark curls had rumpled in the island breeze, and flecks of sand shone on his cheekbones as the rosy light of the setting sun filtered through the gleaming windows and washed over his face. The creases across his forehead indicated his concentration.

  On her. He was focused on her with such intensity, she wanted to bask in it.

  “Which brings me to my second point.” He leaned over a bit, until just a thread of his grassy scent sent her pulse wobbling. “What do you need from me?”

  He was in the edges of her space now, his face in her vision and his body a protective bulwark beside hers, and she couldn’t answer his question.

  Pretending to be a couple today had proven easier than she’d anticipated. So easy she couldn’t tell the difference between what was genuinely happening between them and what was happening for the cameras, yet another reason for her confusion and concern.

  But they were alone now, with no cameras and no boom mic and no producer. No tight-smiled tour guides or animatronic parrots with glassy eyes.

  And he was still just as gentle. Just as attentive. Just as…

  She could say it, if only to herself.

  Just as loving.

  So what did she need from him?

  Everything. She needed everything.

  But right now, everything would also scare the hell out of her, and she knew it.

  His gaze skirted the length of her on the bed, just once, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then he clarified himself, his voice a husky rasp, a flush cresting his cheekbones. “When you’re worried, do you need me to reassure you? Do you need me to try to fix whatever problems you might have? Or do you just need me to listen?”

  Oh. That question she could answer. And she loved that he was asking it. That he didn’t have any preconceived ideas about how to deal with her worries, and he was letting her guide him in such an important matter.

  There he was, asking for direction in the hopes of pleasing her. His eyes intent on her and her alone.

  She shoul
dn’t think it. She really shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help it.

  If they made love, would he be as attentive? As eager to please?

  It was her turn to swallow past a dry throat. “Just listen, please. Thank you for asking.”

  His blue eyes had turned nearly incandescent with heat as they studied her expression. Then, in one jerky motion, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing away from her.

  “Do you feel any better?” Thomas’s voice was rough. “Or do you want me to contact the crew and tell them we need more time before dinner?”

  To her surprise, she actually did feel better. Even though they hadn’t actually solved any of her problems, the simple act of discussing them had settled her. Eased her more comfortably into her own skin.

  Or maybe she was simply distracted from her worries by sheer animal lust.

  “Much better.” She laid a hand flat on his back, and his breath hitched. “Because of you.”

  “I’m glad.” His breathing had become audible in the room, his triceps bunching as he gripped the edge of the bed.

  If she didn’t want to push this further, she needed to let him go.

  So she did, the loss of contact an ache.

  They sat in silence for a minute.

  “Did you know that the founder of Parrot Cay, Weebly Dixon, had a pet parrot he trained to eat from his mouth?” When he spoke again, Thomas sounded more like himself, amused and calm. “He left all his money and property to her, much to his widow’s dismay. And the parrot’s name was—”

  “Don’t tell me.” Callie groaned. “Birdie. Of course.”

  “There were unsavory rumors. Rival developers called Birdie his Parrot Paramour.”

  Callie thought for a moment. “Shouldn’t she have been his Bird of Paradise?”

  He looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Nice.”

  He’d been offering similar tidbits for her amusement all day, products of the research he’d done for their trip. And now that she wasn’t hustling to serve a growing line of patrons as he slowpoked his way through the archives, she could remember why she’d once sought him out at every opportunity, eager to hear whatever fascinating or funny story he had to offer.

  Today, she’d noticed something new about him. Whenever she laughed, he did too. And every time, he ducked his head in the most adorable way. As if he were hiding his amusement from the world and keeping it private, only shared between the two of them. But then he’d sneak a glance up at her, as if glorying in her hilarity. As if he’d worked for it and was proud of it.

  Maybe he had. Maybe he was.

  This particular story, though, had served an additional purpose. Distraction.

  And distraction was welcome, because soon they’d need to wash up and leave for dinner. They’d chat and eat and film some bits for the show.

  Then they’d come back to the room. To the king-sized bed. Alone.

  And she had no idea what would happen then.

  Four

  Thomas made his escape in the pre-dawn darkness.

  Last night—his first spent beside Callie—he’d rushed to shower before her, donned a tee and pajama bottoms, and burrowed under the covers in deep, feigned sleep before she’d emerged from her own bedtime routines in the bathroom.

  He’d kept his breathing steady and his body motionless, even when he’d heard her quiet whisper of his name. Even when he’d felt himself sinking into the hazy pleasure of sharing a bed with Callie Adesso, the woman he desired with shocking urgency.

  Unprecedented, all-encompassing urgency.

  He’d only had a handful of women in his life and his arms, and he’d cared about them. But despite his best intentions and efforts, they’d always drifted away from him. Because, they said, he’d drifted away first. Into his own thoughts and ideas and interests. Into a headspace where he didn’t pay attention to them, to anything, the way he should.

  Or maybe drifted away wasn’t the right description, since they’d told him—and he knew they were right—he’d never really been present. Not as they’d deserved and needed.

  He’d grieved. He’d been ashamed. He’d been lonely at times and resigned to more loneliness to come.

  He hadn’t known how to fix whatever was broken inside him.

  But when he’d met Callie, the click had almost been audible.

  There was no subject that would banish her completely from his thoughts. No mental games that could engross him so wholly that he would forget her existence for hours at a time. No distraction from her presence.

  Especially now that they were sharing a bed.

  He couldn’t focus on anything but the soft whoosh of her breathing. The heat that radiated from her lush body and gathered beneath the covers. The citrusy smell of the hotel-provided body wash, which had turned warmer and more alluring as it mingled with her own scent. And, when he’d woken in the middle of the night, the pale gleam and abundant curves of her velvety flesh by moonlight.

  Her sleeveless, floaty nightgown might have been born from his fantasies. And in her restless sleep, she kept kicking free from the covers and sprawling across the bed in disarray, that nightgown bunched around her round thighs and climbing.

  Ever-changing and ever-fascinating in sleep, as in wakefulness. He should’ve known.

  Still, he’d turned his back to the sight and gripped the edge of the bed to ensure he didn’t move closer. And he’d made sure to rise before her, get dressed in the dark, and leave the room before she could awaken.

  At this time of the morning, the hotels halls were silent, and the camera crew was nowhere to be found. The lounge chairs by the shore were empty, the golden sands empty of anyone but a few employees raking bits of errant seaweed into piles. No doubt seaweed was not considered parrot-tastic enough to tolerate.

  Also, he was pretty sure he could spot one of the costumed parrots in the distance, partially hidden behind some palms, its beak pointed his way.

  No matter. He suspected they saved any ritual sacrifices for the nightly Parrot Cay Spectacular, which didn’t occur for many hours yet. He should be safe.

  He reclined the chair, stretched his legs out on the cushioned seat, let the salty ocean air fill his lungs, and watched the steady rush of the gentle waves until the urgency of his need receded like the tide. In its place, reason slowly returned.

  Yes, he wanted Callie with the single-minded desperation of a sailor in thrall to a siren’s song. And yes, maybe she was beginning to want him too.

  He hoped so, given the way she’d grazed his arm, his knee, even his chest, with light fingertips during dinner. The way she’d begun focusing that hot brown gaze on his mouth and biting her own lip. Even the way she’d held his hand and nestled close to his side as they made their way back to the hotel under the watchful eyes of the camera crew.

  But that wasn’t enough. Not given the shadow of uncertainty he still spied on her face every time they moved a step closer to one another. Not given how easy it would be for them both to confuse the forced intimacy of their deception with genuine desire on her part.

  He wasn’t making love with Callie—wasn’t even kissing her—unless that shadow was gone and he knew she wanted him, not merely the man on this journey with her. If they were both obviously conscious and in bed together and she made an approach, though, he wasn’t sure he could make himself say no.

  Which was why he’d fled, before she blinked those brilliant eyes open and undid him once again. Just the thought of her turning to him, the sheets rustling in the quiet of a lazy morning, and shifting nearer with a soft smile of welcome—

  Like the tide, his need returned. That vicious ache only Callie had ever inspired.

  So he supposed he was going to watch the waves and read about a worldwide influenza pandemic for an hour or two, until he was certain she’d be awake and dressed. Until it was time to pack their bags, check out, and head to their next destination, Thongs.

  Christ, another night in bed together was
going to prove a stern test of his mettle.

  But for the chance of a real future with Callie, he could withstand just about anything. Even the brutal undertow of his own desire.

  “Wow,” Callie said. “Does that chair…”

  Thomas gave a short nod. “Yes. The seat vibrates. At different frequencies and intensities. The remote is tucked into a pocket on the side of the cushion, according to the guest handbook.”

  He’d tried reading that handbook to distract himself while Callie explored the suite. It wasn’t helping.

  “Huh.” Running a hand over its plush velvet cover, she studied the armless chair and tilted her head in what appeared to be—God help him—intrigued speculation. “I guess I hadn’t realized an adults-only island would be so flagrantly…uh, adults-only.”

  Their room, he’d found, was full of such unique features. Unique in the sense of torturous.

  Callie trailed to the bed.

  “That’s a weird design on the headboard. Not very comfortable for sitting. Why would anyone put leather loops all over—” She trailed into silence. “Never mind.”

  Clearly, he’d underestimated the problematic nature of the second island on their itinerary. But in his defense, the destination’s logo was a pair of flip-flops entangled with one another. I.e., thongs.

  He hadn’t realized that Thongs was about flip-flops in the same way Hooters was about nocturnal birds of prey. And he definitely hadn’t anticipated the wholehearted commitment of Thongs’s staff and owners to hedonism. Also to Georgia O’Keeffe paintings and leather.

  But his mistake had become evident very, very rapidly. Immediately upon their arrival at the island’s dock, in fact.

  A limousine had been waiting for them. One with an opaque glass partition the driver—after showing them flutes of chilled champagne and a crystal bowl of condoms—had pointedly raised after noting its soundproof design.

  At the last moment, she’d rolled it back down for a final comment. “Wet wipes are in the right lower cabinet.”

  Then up the glass had gone again, while Callie choked and began coughing. Thomas had closed his eyes in distinct pain while bracing her with a hand spread wide on her warm, silk-covered back. Other than those coughs, the short ride to the hotel had been very silent. But that silence had been thick. Stifling. And he hadn’t been able to force himself to move his hand, not for the whole ride. She hadn’t shifted away from him, either.