by Cathryn Cade
"You want me to lay you back in this bed and fuck you," he said, his voice rough. "Keep that up. You wanna go to sleep...better get over on your side of this bed."
She actually considered it, for one crazed instant, what it would be like to sink down into those arms again, to put her mouth on his and have him take over the kiss, have him roll her so his weight and muscle bore her down into the bed. Let him do what he wanted with his big, calloused hands and the rest of his body, what she might want too, if the rest of it felt like that almost-kiss.
God, what the hell was she thinking?
"Um, sleep. Yeah, we should sleep." She scrambled backward, away from him, clear to the other edge of the big bed, and lay down. Staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she blew out a shaky breath, and wondered how she was ever going to go back to sleep with him lying so close.
On the other side of the bed, had she but known it, he lay and wondered the same thing. How was he gonna sleep with the worst—or best—hard-on he'd had in months, maybe years?
They were both asleep in minutes.
Sometime in the night, he turned toward her, and she moved toward him. Her foot touched his, and her ankle draped over his. His hand touched her arm and cupped it. She tucked her torso against his brawny arm, her head on his shoulder, and slept with his heat and strength cradling her, his breath ruffling her hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Moke Ahuelo woke for the first time in his adult life—sober, that is—with a woman sleeping next to him. Sleeping on him, in part. She was all snuggled up to his side, holding onto his arm, with her leg draped over his like he was her body pillow... or her lover.
He stared at the top of her silky, tousled head. Flexed his arm in the incredibly soft, hot cradle of her tits, and flexed his foot under the hobble of her ankle. She drew her foot back, then sighed deeply and slept on.
Huh. This was new. Being a Flyer, and he guessed half-decent looking, he had more than his share of women. But he was no T-Bear, falling for every pretty woman that came along. Moke let them know the score up front, that fucking was all it would be. After that, they were done, and no staying the night, or expecting him to be there next time they showed at the club.
Last time he woke up with a woman—actually there'd been two—he'd had the granddaddy of all hangovers, and bite marks on his chest and ass. He'd drunk strong coffee, showered and headed straight for the nearest clinic to get tested for STIs. Which he did regularly anyway, but that had seemed like a great time to make damn sure he was clean.
This time, he wanted more than his next breath to take this embrace a lot further. He wanted to slide his hand up over Shelle's bare thigh, and in under her little shorts, to where she was soft and wet—okay, and time to get up. Because his cock, already stiff with morning wood, was all but standing up and begging him to take what he wanted, and work really, really hard until she wanted it too.
Instead, he rolled away and sat up, then lifted his arms in a mighty stretch, groaning as the joints in his back popped. He heard her soft gasp of surprise, and rose, looking back at her over his shoulder.
Bad move, kanaka.
Lying there in a graceful, relaxed curve, most of her bare to the morning light, she looked like all kinds of warm, sleepy temptation, her mouth an 'o' of surprise, her big eyes still heavy with sleep, and all of her laid out like a breakfast special.
"Morning," he grunted, and walked away.
He made it into his own room without meeting Lele, who thank God was a late riser.
He shut his door behind him, and headed for the bathroom. He'd showered last night, hadn't planned on it this morning before a hard, sweaty day's work at the property. But if he didn't soap up and stroke little Moke, he wasn't gonna be fit to show himself in public.
Shelle stared after Moke as he walked out of her borrowed bedroom.
Her brain still fogged with sleep, impressions took the fore. Her arm was still warm where his big hand had held it. Her ankle still held the impression of his foot. And she still felt his warm, steady breaths in her hair. The bed was still warm where he'd lain.
And, most of all, she'd slept through the rest of the night without so much as stirring, without a remnant of a dream. She was rested and—okay, not exactly peaceful. More like ready...ready to use her healthy body, to exert—with him.
Because, before he'd turned his back on her, before he'd rolled out of the bed they'd shared, she'd seen the impressive shape rampant in his flimsy gym shorts. Moke Ahuelo woke up raring to go.
And everything in her that was female approved. And craved. Her pussy clenched, her breasts tightened, and her thighs pressed together as she imagined holding him between them, imagined taking him deep where she craved, and riding him until they both found release from craving.
She moaned quietly, and rolled to slip out of her bed, and pad into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
He hadn't asked if she'd like him to stay and help her quell her craving—fine. Forget him and his big cock. She could find her own G-spot, thanks.
And she did, in the shower, which meant that half an hour later, she ran downstairs humming to herself under her breath. She wore her cut-offs, an old Mariners' tee, and her hair caught up in a ponytail.
Moke was already in the kitchen, seated at the kitchen island with a steaming mug of coffee, and a big bowl of granola and fruit. He turned as she entered the kitchen, lifting his mug to take a drink. His hair was bundled at the nape of his neck in one of those man-buns that looked so sexy on fit guys. He wore a faded Harley tee and shorts.
He gave her a bland look and lifted his chin. He looked relaxed as if he'd never had that hard-on she'd glimpsed as he rolled out of bed...
Oh-hh, right. He’d ‘showered’ like she had.
She jerked her gaze from his and made a beeline for the coffee service station, luckily out of his line of sight, because she was blushing like a freaking virgin.
She selected one of the hand-thrown blue-and-green mugs with as much care as if she were making a purchase, then added some cream, a packet of sweetener, and filled the mug with dark, strong coffee. She also took time to take her first sips before turning back to the island, and Moke.
"What are you up to today?" she asked.
He spooned up a big bite of granola. "Heading up to my family property to work. Clearing out weeds and shit, like I said."
Shelle nodded, then took another sip of strong, smooth, slightly sweet coffee. Mmm-mm.
When she looked up, he was watching her. "You still want to help?"
He wanted her company? She made herself shrug casually. "Sure. I can do that." At the thud of bare feet on the stairs, she turned. "Wait, what about Lele? Is she coming too?"
"She has a job," he said. "Right, cuz?"
"Right," Lele agreed breathlessly, breezing into the kitchen while fastening a dark uniform blouse and shorts. Her long hair was still wet. She wore sneakers on her feet, and had a flowered backpack over one shoulder. She grinned at them both. "Bye, Shelle. Don't let Moke make you sweat too much. I'll see you guys this evening...maybe. Depends if I get a babysitting job."
Shelle smiled back, because who could resist? "Bye, Lele. Thanks for hanging out with me."
“Bye, Shelle.” Lele gave her an exuberant hug. "It was fun! Bye, Moke. Mama says don't you leave without coming to see her."
"I won't." He rose to give his cousin a careful hug, and she hurried out. The front doors closed behind her.
Shelle and Moke looked at each other. She was going to spend the day with him, alone. Her tummy felt funny, but it wasn't fear fluttering there, it was...anticipation. Weird.
"Have some breakfast," he said. "We'll head out when we're ready. Nobody watching the time clock but us."
"Okay." She climbed onto the stool next to his, and served herself a bowl—much smaller than his—of granola with sliced banana and mango. It was delicious, and she ate every bite.
While she ate, she watched him pack up a cooler with fruit,
cold barbecue chicken, rolls and water. He tossed a bag of potato chips in, and closed the lid.
They locked up the house and drove the red truck back up the hill to the Mamaloa Highway. Moke stopped at the grocery store in one of the little towns on the way, where he bought her a pair of work gloves. Then he eyed the rack of straw hats. "You need a hat," he told her. "Keep the sun off your head. Don't want you getting heat stroke."
Shelle chose a wide-brimmed straw hat with a fake concho hat-band. It fit just right. He nodded his approval, then handed her a garish pink tee from the next rack. On the front, a cartoon hula dancer cavorted under the words 'Big Island Girl'. "You want this too?" he asked innocently.
She wrinkled her nose. "Ah, no thanks. Hard pass."
"Huh. Picky." His eyes twinkled as he hung the shirt back on the rack. "Okay, I need some big garbage bags and shit. And some cookies. You pick the cookies."
She followed him into the aisles. "What kind do you like?"
"Anything," he called over his shoulder. "Long as they're good."
"That narrows it right down," she mumbled, pausing to peruse the stacks of brightly packaged cookies and snacks. There were many Asian snacks she'd never heard of, like Pocky or Umaibo—which turned out to be rice wafers. Best stick to American-style.
The macadamia nut sandies looked yummy, and so did the chocolate coconut rolls. She chose a package of each.
And he seemed to approve, since he nodded for her to put them on the checkout belt with his cleaning supplies and garbage bags. "Give her your hat," he said.
"Oh, gosh," Shelle said, reaching up to take the hat off. "I forgot I had it on. I don't really need—"
"Yeah, you do, haole girl." Moke took the hat and handed it to the checker, a plump Hawaiian woman who smiled at them both.
"You part Hawaiian?" she asked Shelle curiously as she handed the hat back.
"No," Shelle said. "Part Navajo."
The woman nodded. "So you native girl. It shows. Mahalo, you folks have a nice day."
"Mahalo."
Shelle held her new hat on her lap as they drove on.
"Navajo, huh?" Moke asked as they headed on up the highway in a string of traffic. "That your mom or your dad?"
"My dad," Shelle told him.
"Where's he live?"
"He's dead—they both are."
"Sorry to hear it," he said. "Who's this Vicky you're here to see? Your auntie?"
"No," she said. "One of my foster moms. The best one." The one who'd given a defiant teen the tough love she needed, and broken through to the frightened girl within. The one who'd taught her to dream big, and then work for those dreams. Which Shelle hoped she got to keep on doing—although if she didn't figure out her situation pretty soon, her schooling was going to be messed up big time. She might be on break now, but school would be starting again in a few weeks. She had tuition to pay, and books to buy.
He nodded, and said no more until he slowed the truck and pointed toward the ocean. "Here's our turn."
Shelle looked, but saw nothing but open space through the trees lining what looked like the lip of a cliff.
Then they swooped off the edge of the world
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Shelle let out a shriek of fear as the truck dipped nearly straight down.
The narrow road before them wasn't really perpendicular, but it sure as hell felt like it to her.
The ground leveled off. They slowed and turned off the road onto a narrow dirt track that angled down through a grove of trees.
Shelle sucked in a deep breath, and smacked Moke on his massive arm, hard. "You asshole!" she cried. "You could've warned me! I thought we were gonna die."
He was chuckling to himself. She smacked him again, then shook her hand, which stung from hitting that hard swell of muscle.
"You still alive though?" he asked as he braked in the shade of the trees. "Yeah, looks like it to me."
She huffed. "You're lucky I didn't pee my pants. Try explaining that to the rental company."
His nearly silent chuckle turned to laughter. "Nah, I got a bunch of strong cleaners in the back. Anyway, we're here."
Shelle looked through the windshield of the truck, and immediately forgot her irritation with him.
Before her lay a tropical vista. A small clearing framed with trees held a small shack to the right side, and a scramble of garden around it. Every bit of ground was covered with lush growth, except for the brown dirt of a parking area alongside the shack, and a pile of black garbage bags nearby.
And beyond, under a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, lay the sea, a vast spill of azure sparkling under the sun. The water was dotted with occasional boats, most of them white. To the west, the horizon was a soft line of clouds. The trees around the clearing rustled and danced, a living frame for the view.
"Oh, Moke," she breathed. "It's beautiful."
"Yeah," he said, his voice strangely heavy. "It is."
Then he opened his truck door and slid out. Shelle tore her gaze from the view and got out too. Plunking her new hat on her head, she walked around the truck to join him. "So, what are we doing?" she asked.
He was frowning again. "You can, uh, work outside with me, or in the house—if you want. But I'll warn you, that's a real mess." He handed her a broom and mop to carry, and hoisted the bags of other supplies.
Shelle followed him toward the shack. Typical of local homes of any size, it was surrounded on the near and ocean sides by a lanai. Although, she wasn't going to be leaning against the supports holding up the tin roof. They looked like a shove would bring them down.
The front door was open. Moke set everything down on the dirty floor of the lanai, and led the way inside.
Shelle struggled to hide her dismay and disgust. The smell hit her first—spoiled food, mildew and other smells she really didn't want to think about. The place was the worst mess she'd seen since she and some other kids dared each other to go into a crack house in SeaTac. Moke's dad, or whoever had been living here was either a hoarder, or just utterly careless of how they lived.
"Told you it was bad," he said, his voice rough. "Listen, forget it. I'll pay a service to come in, swamp it out."
"No," Shelle said. "I'm here to help."
"All right, but I'm gonna pay you. I was gonna have to hire a cleaning service, probably pay them hazmat wages to clean the place. I could pay you instead."
"You don't have to—" Shelle started, then stopped. "Wait. If you were going to pay someone else anyway, sure. I can do that." Because she had to start earning some money. This way, she could help him and get paid.
She looked around dubiously. "So, what do you want to throw out?"
He snorted. "Everything. Nothing worth saving in the place anymore."
Staring at the rickety table and chairs, all as filthy as the floor, and the cheap, dirty dishes and utensils piled haphazardly on the counters and in the sink, Shelle had to agree.
One look at his thunderous frown made her decide not to ask him anymore questions just now. She had the feeling this place held bad memories for him. And the things Lele had told her about his parents, no wonder.
"Okay," she said, her voice overly cheerful. "Let me get these gloves on, and get to work."
"You sure?" he asked.
"Yep. Let's do this."
He nodded. "I'll get the garbage bags."
He brought in a box of the bags, and opened it, looking around with that dark gaze.
Only by now, she knew him just well enough to divine that behind it lay pain. Hell, probably some humiliation in there, too. "You should've seen the apartment me and my dad lived in," she told him. "Before social services came and took me away from him, that is. Didn't smell this bad, but only 'cause it wasn't in the tropics."
He blinked, as if her voice had jerked him back to the present. He gave her a long look, and then lifted his chin, acknowledging the weight of her confession.
"Better get to work, if we're gonna get this done," s
he said, busying herself opening the bottle of cleaner. "Not really room for both of us in here, you know?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Nodded, grabbed the table and chairs and carried them outside. He tossed them all on one of the trash piles, and went back in for an ancient recliner. This, he muscled through the doors and then dragged to the pile where he gave it a mighty heave. It landed upside down, and something skittered from a hollow under the cushions, chittering furiously.
"Shit!" she yelped. "Was that a rat?"
"Yeah," he said grimly. "I'll make sure there's no more inside."
He opened cabinets and stuck the mop handle into one. Finding no more squatters of the critter variety, he dragged out a rickety cot, mattress and all and tossed it. "That should be it for places they can hide," he said. "You okay to toss the smaller stuff?"
Shelle nodded. "Yup. I'm on it." She set her new hat outside on the bumper of the rental truck, and donned her rubber gloves. Then she snapped open one of the big black bags, held her breath, and waded in to start tossing things.
She had to swallow hard against a surge of nausea when three big cockroaches scuttled out of the dishes in the sink. Okay, that settled that. She'd only eat off these dishes if they went through a super-heated industrial dishwasher, like the one at the Travel Center cafe. And since there was not one, and the dishes were cheap-ass anyway, garbage it was.
Within a half an hour, she had filled two of the big garbage sacks and hauled them outside to join the pile in the drive.
Moke was attacking more weeds with a big curved knife—she thought maybe it was a machete—and tossing them on a huge pile. He must've been working up here for a couple days at least.
Back inside the shack, the stench wasn't any better, but at least she could walk around. With the dishes, empty bottles and cans and food packages gone, she filled the sink with hot water and a huge dose of the cleaner he'd purchased. Then she started scrubbing.
In another half hour, the place smelled like lemon and bleach instead of garbage and mildew. An hour after that, the main room was as clean as it was going to get, and she was sweating like a pro athlete, her shorts and tee soaked, trickles of sweat running down her face and chest into her bra—yuck!