Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  I hoped, for whatever reason, that Paul was part of the motivation for Stewart’s decision.

  “Yes. It’s not that he doesn’t care for you—”

  I turn to her and lift my hand, stopping her worried attempt. “I know. You don’t have to explain. Stewart’s work is who he is. Paul being brought into the situation makes the decision easy for him.”

  She looks at me carefully, and I can see the confusion in her eyes. “So… you’re fine with this.”

  I swallow, folding over the hem of the blanket. “This situation has always had an end date. In a way, I’ve been preparing for this for a long time. The fact that they’re brothers…” My voice fails for a moment, and I reach for the glass of water, taking a sip before continuing. “Stewart’s relationship with Paul is more important. Have they spoken?”

  She nods. “They haven’t reconciled, but I think it’s possible. They’ve both held a lot of anger toward each other for the last ten years, and I think this situation… it’s caused them to let that go. Not that Stewart really has time for family, but...” She smiles. “Paul is feeling very grateful to Stewart right now.”

  “For me.”

  “Yes.” She looks at me with the same direct stare that Stewart uses, one that seems to peer into my soul and strangle the truth from me. “Is that who you want? Paul?”

  I sigh. “I’ve asked myself for two years which one of them I would choose—if put in that situation. I love Paul. I love our life together. We fit in a way that’s easy. Seamless.” I can feel my hand start to tremble and I slip it under the blanket. “Stewart is the opposite of me. He gives me a different side to life. I’ll miss that part, that intensity, that fire. But just because I’ll miss it doesn’t mean it’s meant to be my every day. I don’t know if I could handle him every day. And I would never be happy with being second to his work. And I could never ask him to work less. You know him. His work… it’s his breath. He has a fire for it, it’s what makes him tick.”

  I reach up to run my left hand through my hair, then flinch when I realize that it is gone. “I don’t know if I would have ever willingly walked away from Stewart—but this is what’s best. I know that. I love Paul. It wasn’t really ever fair for any of us—what was going on.” I blink, realizing suddenly that tears are welling, and embarrassment seeps through me at the weakness. I wipe at my eyes, avoiding her gaze. “I just want him to be happy,” I whisper. “I hate the thought of him being alone.”

  Her arms wrap around me, and the strength of them is comforting. I relax in her embrace and let the tears, and the guilt, flow.

  Stewart never came back to the hospital. Every time the door opened, or I heard a voice in the hall, I expected it to be him. But he never returned.

  They release me a week later, at a point where I’m trying to rip the IV from my arm and biting the heads off anyone but Paul or Dana.

  I finally realized where I recognized Dana from, and her face turned bright red when I brought it up. Over hospital Jello and shit coffee, we laughed over that afternoon at the bookstore, and she told me the truth. How she’d watched me. Suspected me of some master plan. How she hated me from afar. She apologized, though none was needed, and we’d hugged. And then she paid me the nicest compliment I’d ever gotten.

  “I see why they love you. It’s hard, while in your presence, not to love you.”

  I’d blushed and taken a sip of coffee to disguise the reaction, thinking about how vile I’d been since waking up. How she was able to see any redeeming qualities was a shock.

  But today, finally, they put me in a wheelchair and take me out to Paul’s Jeep, parked at the curb. The wheelchair is unnecessary; I could have cartwheeled out of there. But some hospital policy requires it, and I’m only too happy to oblige. Anything to speed my exit. Anything to get me out of the sterile environment and back into beach air and sun.

  Paul lifts me from the chair despite my protests, taking advantage of the act and brushing his lips over mine. “I love you, Maddy.”

  I grin at him. “I love you, too.”

  “I’m so happy you’re coming home.”

  I don’t know if he is referring to my near-death experience, or the fact that I am now fully his, without a second man hovering over our relationship. But either way, I’m happy, too. More than happy. I’m anxious for our new life together. And yet, there the guilt is. Leaning onto my shoulder and whispering in my ear. Every smile, every burst of happiness seems to be quickly accompanied by a twinge of guilt. I’m coming home to Paul. I’m making a life with him. Stewart will be alone. Twinge.

  Paul sets me in the front seat and buckles the belt around me, his normal scent of ocean and sunscreen replaced by hand sanitizer and ivory soap. I’m suddenly anxious for us to swim. To wash away all of the last four days and literally dive back into our old world.

  “Paul,” I say softly, and his head turns quickly at the words.

  “Yes? What’s wrong, are you in pain?”

  I smile to appease his worry. “No. When we get home, I want to go down to the beach. Just to see the water for a moment.” To smell it. To taste it on the air.

  He smiles and leans forward to give me another kiss. “If that’s what you want. I’ll do anything you want.”

  Anything. It’s true. The last two years have taught me that. Anything. It’s a heavy word when used correctly. A word that can hold unknown possibilities.

  56

  Venice Beach, CA

  It is good to be back. To step from the jeep and walk on my own. I stretch in our carport before turning to Paul, seeing him round the Jeep, his gaze intently examining me, looking for some sign of physical weakness. I grin and shoot him a look he knows, a look that leads to ditched clothes and feverous hands. He returns the smile, relief crossing his features, and reaches for me.

  I awkwardly dip around him, dropping my bag on the concrete, and make it into the sunshine outside our garage. “Uh-uh,” I click my tongue at him. “Ocean—now.”

  “I want you, now,” he growls, stepping out of the darkness, his hand catching my sundress and tugging on the fabric until I am against him. “Seeing as you seem to be back to normal.”

  I grab his hand and tug him along the alley. “First, the water.”

  He wraps an arm around me and presses soft kisses on my head as we walk down a broken sidewalk we have traveled countless times before. A block from the water, when we round a corner and see the glint of afternoon sun reflecting off the waves, he bends, catching me off guard, and swoops me into his arms, smiling down at me as he moves.

  “I don’t want you to trip in the sand,” he explains.

  “Uh-huh,” I tease. I twist and point to the water. “Take me in.”

  His gaze moves to my bandage, and I roll my eyes.

  “Not underwater. Just a little bit.”

  “It’s cold out,” he warns. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  “If I’m too heavy just say so.”

  His hands tighten on me and he tilts back his head and laughs. Such a beautiful sound, and paired with that huge smile I have missed. My heart tugs and I inhale the salt air deeply, beaming out of pure joy. He walks toward the water, smiling down at me, and I can almost see the stress as it leaves his body. He pulls me to him for a kiss, then carefully wades into the water.

  “Sure you want to get wet?” he warns.

  My hands tighten around his neck as a gust of cool air blows across the water, sending a spray of water against my side. “Never mind.” I shake my head to free a wet strand of hair and take another deep breath. “This is enough. I just missed it.”

  He kisses the top of my head. “I know. Me too.”

  A wave approaches and he steps back, stumbling a little until we reach firm sand. There, he carefully lowers me to my feet. Someone from the water calls out my name and I turn to see a group of surfers wave, a chorus of hands moving above bright boards. I wave back, then laugh when the surf hits, another blast of spray coating my yoga pants and
T-shirt.

  Paul tugs at my hand. “How ‘bout you let me take you inside? Let the shower warm us up?”

  “Or something else.” I smile suggestively.

  “Or something else.” He grins, and I squeeze his hand tighter.

  57

  VENICE BEACH, CA

  The house is just as I remember it, and I feel a burst of shock at how much has changed in our world since I last walked through these doors.

  “Come here,” he whispers, adjusting the thermostat before leading me into our bedroom and pulling me close. He rubs his hands over my arms and steals a quick kiss as he yanks at his shorts and drops them to the floor.

  Wow. Anyone who thinks water causes shrinkage has never met this man. At least, not this man at this moment in time. He is, despite the smile he shoots me, raring to go, and I am suddenly warm, my skin tingling, the heat between us erasing anything else.

  “Turn around, baby.” His words are soft, but I hear their directive and meet his eyes, a curl of pleasure shooting through me at the look in them. Raw need. A fire burning behind his cocky smile. This is the Paul I know, the one who expresses love best through touch, and who can barely contain his emotions in this moment.

  I turn, hearing him blow into his hands, feeling the warmth of his skin as he pulls at my shirt, his hands gently lifting the damp material off, his fingers lingering on me as they trail down my arm, as if they want every bit of me they can get. He carefully tugs at my pants, pulling them slowly down, his breath hot on my back as he exhales against my skin, planting a soft wet kiss there, my panties the next victim to his sure and unhurried movement.

  He stays close to me, unclasping my bra, his hands sliding down my back and then curving around my sides, slipping under the loose cups and cupping my breasts, squeezing them, pulling my body back against his chest, the hot line of his arousal hitting the top of my ass, my body greedy for more contact against his skin. He kisses my neck from behind, whispering my name as his hands explore my front, running over the lines of my stomach, the curve of my breasts, the hard tips of my nipples. I am suddenly needy for him in ways I have never been, needing to know that this is real, that he is mine, and we have made it through this experience intact, the proof of it hard against my backside, and I want it, him, now, in every way that I can have him. His touch slides lower, and I moan, pushing my ass back against him as his hands gently cup me, his mouth taking a delicious line across the hollows of my neck.

  “Madd, I never … you have no idea how much I love you,” he groans, grinding against me, his hands holding me in place as he pushes the hard ridge of himself antagonizingly close to where I need it.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Paul, I need to feel it. I need you inside of me.”

  “In a minute, baby.” Instead, I feel his fingers, their gentle exploration over and across my sex, and I push against him, groaning when they finally move inside, slowly sliding in and out, their maddening length and width not enough for what I need.

  I moan, my legs weakening from the delicious touch. “Please,” I beg.

  He rasps, his voice thick at the nape of my neck, his arm wrapping around and hugging me to his chest. “Tell me, Madd. Tell me that you need me.”

  “I do,” I pant. “I do. Please. Give it to me.” My legs buckle as he crooks his fingers, brushing them back and forth over my pleasure spot.

  “Only me,” he says firmly, brushing his digits in a way that makes me moan. “Come to the thought of my cock,” he whispers. “Then I’ll show you exactly what it can do.”

  I do. I push every lingering thought of Stewart out of my head, physically feel as they leave my body, and focus on Paul—my love—focus on the stiff head of him that is sliding between my legs, inches from where I need it most, so hard that it is sticking straight out. I close my eyes and think about every time he has made me moan, how his face looks when he loses control, the fire in his eyes when he watches me come. The images take me

  over the edge…

  back arching…

  stars forming…

  pleasure ripping tingling paths through my body…

  Paul’s fingers keep up the rhythm, the perfect pressure and tickle across my g-spot, every swipe bringing new life into my orgasm, until I finally sink back against his chest. I look over my shoulder and into his eyes, my drugged vision putting him in a haze of gorgeous blue eyes and five o’clock shadows.

  “Fuck me,” I croak, and his eyes darken, a devious smile of carnal possibilities sweeping across his gorgeous face.

  “We have to be careful,” he warns, moving me forward, until we are both on the bed and I am on my back and he is opening up my thighs. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

  “It won’t.” I bring my knees up and watch as he positions himself at my entrance, then lowers his chest to mine. He shifts his hips and my mouth opens in a silent O of pleasure as he pushes inside. “Please, Paul… I need you.”

  “Tell me,” he says softly, slowly pumping the head of his cock in and out, short half strokes that feel amazing, the ridge of his head scraping back and forth over my G-spot. “Tell me how you want it.”

  “Hard,” I whisper, my arousal knotting and expanding in anticipation of what is to come. He gives one hard thrust and then returns to his motion, his short quick strokes torturously perfect. A gasp, followed by a moan, spills out of my mouth and I reach back and grip the bars of our headboard tightly, digging my heels into him and fighting the urge to slam my hips against his pelvis and impale myself on his cock.

  “Are you mine?” His voice is tight, guttural, and I smile despite myself, his pace increasing, his attempt to be gentle getting lost in the heat of the moment. My nipples brush like hard pebbles across his chest and our eyes meet as he rocks on top of me.

  “Answer me,” he demands, and I hear the hoarse edge of desperation, his need for confirmation. His short and controlled thrusts are taking me closer and closer, the intensity building in my core, and my thoughts become delirious from the sensation.

  “All yours, Paul. There is no one else. I—oh God—love you.” The words tear from my mouth as my pussy clenches, my orgasm hovering and then breaking. It is then, while my world caves in, while I am mindlessly oblivious to anything but my own ecstasy, that he stops using the head of his dick and shoves fully in.

  Fullness. The long, hard ridge of him inside me, branding me as his own, his need as desperate as mine. He doesn’t ease into the rhythm, doesn’t give either of us time to react. He just dominates me: hard, firm fucks that bury inside with every stroke, a furious rhythm of domination, his breath fast and loud, my name ripping from his lips as he takes me as his own.

  I am going to come again, the shaking of my body, the animalistic fever of Paul, a man unleashed, the level of his possession so fucking hot.

  “Tell me, Madd,” he gasps. “Tell me that you are mine.”

  I can’t. I can’t respond because my eyes are too tightly shut, my body racking underneath him, pushing harder, greedier against his skin, needing every stroke, every fuck, every inch of his thick cock as I come, a bundling outpour of muscles flexing and contracting, a scream coming from my throat, his hands loosening as I release the sound, my body growing rigid, his fucks continuing, his own climax close.

  When I come up for air, I tell him. I tell him how I have always loved him. How he has always had my heart. How now, he will be the only one in it. I look up at him, at his beautiful face, hair mussed, eyes vulnerable as he meets my eyes, relief spilling into those blue depths of perfection. He suddenly slows his strokes, the moment changing, and rolls me over, pulling out long enough to lift me above him. He kisses me deeply, murmuring soft words of love as he grips my waist and lowers me onto him, slowly and carefully, his eyes on mine.

  It feels so different without Stewart. It feels, in ways, like the first time we’ve ever made love, like every other time was a threesome with an invisible presence watching over us. Now, as I bend over him, as I lean down and kiss his lips
, I feel his relief. I feel an absence of fear, and I realize how unfair I’ve been to him. I realize how every experience must have seemed a competition, every visit I took to Hollywood prompting worry in him that I might not return. His palm settles over my heart, his touch shaky, as if he is unsure if I’m really here and feels the need to have to verify it for himself.

  I wrap my hands around his neck, lower my mouth to his. And I tell him, in between kisses, how deeply I love him. How I will never leave. How I am his for as long as he will have me.

  His hands tighten, his kisses deepen, then he closes his eyes, thrusts deep, and comes.

  58

  Venice Beach, CA

  The effects of drowning are not long-term. Head injury is a fickle bitch; it can sneak back up and knock you on your ass when you least expect it. But there is no reason for bed rest and no reason Paul has taken a month off surfing to wait on me. But… I’m not gonna complain. I want the worry to fade from his eyes. To him, my death is still too real of a possibility. Time will be the only thing to disquiet his concern.

  We sit on the couch with my feet in his hands, his fingers gently rubbing across my soles, and it takes a moment to react when my cell rings. I glance at the display, my chest tightening when I see Stewart’s name. I changed his contact name the day I returned home, the act of deleting LOVER and replacing it with his name cathartic in the transformation.

  I wasn’t sure if he’d call. Part of me has feared he’d drop in, every car engine causing my muscles to tighten with nerves. I show Paul the screen, and he squeezes my feet, moving them off his lap, and stands, bending over quickly and dropping a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll run out, grab groceries, let you talk.”

  Our eyes meet, unsaid communication flowing through them, and I thank God that I know him so well. It is all there, in the slight tightening of his shoulders, in his quick and easy smile that hides so much. Talk to him. Make sure you are making the right decision. Come back to me. I need you. I love you. I am better for you.