Welcome to Paradise

by Rosalind James

  “I want to . . . I need you to . . . touch me.”

  “We can’t,” he groaned. “We can’t. Not here. We need to stop. We’ve done too much already.” He lifted his mouth from hers, but didn’t move her from his lap. Didn’t seem any more able to let go of her than she was able to leave him.

  “We could be quiet, though,” she pleaded. “Just do it . . . fast. And quiet. Up in my loft, maybe. They won’t follow us up there. Please, Gabe. I really want to. I need to.”

  He smiled a bit at that. “When I make love to you,” he promised, “it’s not going to be quiet, and it’s not going to be quick. It’s going to take a long time, and you’re going to be loud.”

  She dropped her gaze, looked down at her hands, ran her thumbs back and forth over the short nails. Stared down at them as she spoke. “I don’t think so. Because what Scott said . . . It’s been a long time since it was good for me. And that might be . . . me. I’m not sure I’m very good at it anymore.”

  He covered both her hands with one of his own, stilled her restless thumbs. Waited until she was looking at him again.

  “That’s OK,” he told her gently. “Because I am.”

  He had left her, finally, of course. Had had no choice. Had walked her back to the cabin, let her go inside to dress. And had gone back and spent a good half hour chopping wood, the hard physical exercise the only cure available for what ailed him. Well, that and a dip in the frigid water of the swimming hole. If there’d been a cold shower available, he’d have tried that too.

  Stanley had helped with dinner. He and Kevin had caught a good mess of trout during Mira’s . . . bath. Together with the carrot cake, they’d managed a pretty credible birthday dinner for her. Had sung “Happy Birthday,” and kissed her, and told her she was special. And she had cried.

  Now, the others had climbed into the loft, and she had picked up her lantern, lifted her skirts in preparation for climbing her own ladder.

  “Good night,” she told him softly. “Thanks for my birthday.”

  Gabe glanced up, confirmed that the others were out of sight. Stu was in the corner filming, but that was too damn bad. Mira was right. Who was really going to be upset that he’d kissed a girl out here? He took the lantern from her and set it back on the table. Put an arm around her waist, felt the unyielding shape of the corset instead of firm, warm flesh, and ached for the day he could hold all of her. He’d take what he could get now, though, since he had no choice. And that was a kiss.

  He felt her soft mouth opening under his, accepting him, welcoming him. Shoved the other hand into the hair at the back of her head, clean and soft since her bath, pulled her even harder against him, and deepened the kiss. Her arms came up to hold onto his shoulders. Then one hand was stroking the back of his neck, and she was kissing him back with way too much passion for a woman who’d just told him that she wasn’t good in bed. She was going to be good. And she was going to be his.

  He pulled away from her, finally, breathing hard. Heard the murmur from above, reminded himself that this was being recorded, and knew they had to stop, right now. While they still could. He stepped back, saw her parted lips, her flushed cheeks and luminous eyes in the soft glow of the lamp. Then, with the last of his willpower, stood and watched her climb up the ladder. Watched her go to bed alone.

  In his own loft, he pulled off his boots and socks, his shirt and pants, with a few jerky motions, hung everything ready for the morning. Eased himself under the blanket next to Stanley’s still form, already deep into the sleep of physical exhaustion. He turned and looked across the scant few feet that separated their sleeping quarters from the other loft.

  And there she was, just like every night, tormenting him. Her shape, silhouetted against the thin sheet in the lamplight, as she took off her clothes.

  He had always felt guilty when he watched her like this, and thankful at the same time that Stanley was too much of a gentleman to look, and that Kevin couldn’t care less. But tonight, knowing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, he lay on the rustling, prickly mattress and drank it all in without remorse. The movements that, he could tell, meant she was unbuttoning her blouse, then the drape of it falling off her shoulders, her arms reaching to hang it on its nail. Unfastening her skirt now, the change in her silhouette as it fell to the floor and was hung up in its turn. Her arms moving, unhooking the corset, he knew. He shifted, the hay crackling beneath him, was grateful for the heavy breathing that meant Stanley remained asleep, as she lifted the heavy thing and hung it with the rest of her clothes.

  Her chemise fell around her unconstrained with the corset gone, and she bent to slide off her drawers, put them on their nail. And then, he knew, she was wearing only the chemise.

  He’d already seen her in it, he reminded himself. What he was looking at now wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen, and held, and touched. But the memory of the wet, transparent material clinging to her body didn’t help one little bit. He could almost feel, still, the curve of her round bottom nestling into him, her firm breast under his hand, her moans into his mouth in response to his kiss, his touch, and he all but groaned aloud in his turn.

  He had a wild, passing idea of climbing quietly down the ladder again, and up to her. And was forced to dismiss it. These damn mattresses. And the thought of the other men just a few feet away. Way too close. Way too public. He could be quiet, and he could keep her quiet if he had to. But neither of them could possibly be that quiet. Not this first time. Not if they were doing everything he wanted to do.

  And meanwhile, he was remembering just how uncomfortable high school had been. The hours of kissing and touching in the car with Candy MacFarlane, parked on the street up from her parents’ house. Tongues, and lips, and hands. And the ache he’d carried away from those marathon sessions. At least he’d had a damn bedroom, and a little privacy, to deal with the situation. What did he have here? The world’s most persistent hard-on, that was what. And nothing in the world he could do about it.

  By the Creek

  “Man, it’s hot in here,” Gabe complained on Friday, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “I think I’d rather be plowing.”

  “Tough,” Mira said with a little toss of her head. “Time for you to find out how hard women’s work is. You volunteered for laundry duty.”

  “You know why I volunteered. Time alone with you, whether it’s hot or not. Well,” he amended, “it’s always hot.”

  She laughed, ludicrously cheerful considering that she was standing in the steamy kitchen sorting dirty clothes. Just because they were, for once, out of camera range. Danny couldn’t film in here, complaining that the steam fogged up his lens. Which meant that she and Gabe had privacy to talk, at least. Something that had been sorely lacking since their little shaving party. Danny hadn’t been happy about that, and had made sure ever since that either he or another cameraman was shadowing them at all times.

  “Underwear first,” she told Gabe now, lifting a pile of whites and dumping them a garment at a time into the kettle he was tending.

  “I wish I didn’t think that was as close as our underwear was going to get while we’re out here,” he said with a regretful sigh and a sideways grin as he saw her chemises entering the kettle.

  She paused, arrested in the act of adding clothes. Then screwed up her courage and made the suggestion she’d been thinking about for days.

  “Well, you know,” she said, carefully not looking at him as she added a couple pieces of men’s underwear, “there is one place I have privacy. Zara asked Danny right at the beginning, that first day when we went down to the swimming hole, remember? When you guys told us to go clean up?”

  “I remember,” he said. “What did she ask him? I’m starting to get a really good feeling about this.”

  She laughed. “Stir those, and keep stirring. And she asked if they were going to film us down there too. And he said that was off-limits, just like the other day with my bath. So maybe you could . . . sneak away, while I’m down the
re. And we could . . . do something. Or a few somethings.”

  “It’s awfully risky, if they notice,” he objected. “And I don’t have any condoms out here.”

  “OK, if you don’t want to,” she backtracked immediately. She’d been too forward. She should have waited for him to make the next move after all. “I just thought . . .”

  “Wait, now. Hold on,” he said in alarm. “I want to. Are you kidding? You know I want to. I just need to figure out how to make it work, make sure Danny doesn’t catch on. Because I meant what I said before. I’m not going to let you get on film like that, even if they don’t show it all. Because you know that’d be one hell of a storyline. And I am not having sex against the garden fence,” he said sternly. “Not in front of Danny, at least, I’m not. You can put that right out of your mind.”

  “You won’t let me forget that, will you?” she teased, light with relief. “We could keep some clothes on, maybe. Just in case. But I need it. I need it so much, Gabe. If you want to think about what we could do, what would work . . .” She stopped, feeling a lot hotter and more breathless than the steam in the kitchen could account for, that mood of recklessness coming over her again. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll go take my bath like usual today. And if you want to, you can come . . . surprise me.”

  Gabe saw her leave for the creek that afternoon carrying her towel and comb, casting one last look behind her as she passed the corral. A look that, he thought with a tingle of anticipation, was meant for him alone. He’d thought he might just spontaneously combust this morning, the heat in the cabin combining with the heat inside him to bring him to incineration point. Had done the laundry with her, scrubbing every item on the washboard, working the mangle, laughing and talking. And, on another level, thinking about what she’d said. Had watched her work, the sweat standing out on her forehead and upper lip, soaking through her cumbersome, unattractive clothes, and had never wanted anybody more.

  He waited another five minutes, then gave a nod to Stanley and made his way to the creek, to a sheltered spot downstream of the swimming hole. He’d already changed into his last set of clean underwear, and he’d decided he was going to wash first himself. But he was going to do it fast, because he needed to be with her.

  Five minutes more, and he was walking along the opposite bank, back upstream. Looking through the trunks of the cottonwoods lining the creek, searching for the spot.

  And there she was. He stopped short, arrested at the sight of her, sitting naked on a boulder in the creek, shivering a little. Rubbing the soap between her hands, then setting the precious white bar down next to her, raising her hands to wash her hair, her head back. And her breasts . . . He’d seen them before, he reminded himself. But not like this. Not wet, jutting out as she arched her back. Not naked, and gorgeous, and fully revealed to him.

  As he watched, she stepped off her boulder, down into the deepest pool. Stood facing him, still without seeming to notice him in the trees. And slowly lowered herself, ducked her head, rinsed her hair again and again.

  Climb out, he prayed, feeling more like a Peeping Tom than he ever had in his life. Watching her through the sheet was one thing, but this . . .

  But as she finally finished rinsing out her hair and stood in the shallows, picked up the soap again, and began to rub it over her body, her breasts, between her legs, he realized, his heart hammering, his breath coming short, that she knew. She knew he was here. That he was watching. And she wanted him to see.

  As she reached a soapy hand between her legs, Mira was astonished at her own daring. She hadn’t seen Gabe, but she knew beyond a doubt that he was watching her. She had known the moment he’d arrived. She could have acknowledged him. But instead, she was . . . performing for him.

  She kept her hand moving, slick with soap, between her legs, enjoying the sensation as she explored. It had been so long, and it felt so good. And the knowledge that he was watching as she did it . . . that made it feel even better. She moved the other hand over one breast, then the other, languidly stroking, circling her nipples, trapping them between soapy fingers. Finally turned around, ran both hands over her bottom. Spread her legs a little, and drew her hands down between them, oh so slowly. Bent forward a little to give him the best possible view, and did it again. If that didn’t bring him out of hiding, she didn’t know what would.

  She turned again, saw that she’d guessed right. Because he was coming out from behind the trees, exactly where she had known he was, his eyes never moving from hers as he approached.

  He stopped at the edge, five or six feet from where she stood below him. “Time to rinse off,” he said, his voice sounding deeper than ever. “Because I’m coming over there.”

  She stepped into the deep pool to obey, rubbed her hands over her shivering body to remove the soap, watching as he bent to untie and pull off his boots and socks, then stood again, his hand on the top button of his shirt.

  “No. I want to do it,” she told him. “Come here and let me.”

  He smiled, rolled his pant legs up, picked up boots and socks and crossed downstream of her, at the stepping stones. Walked around to her where she had come to stand in the sunny, grassy patch at the edge of the creek, toweling her hair dry.

  “I’ll do that,” he said as she picked up her comb. “But first,” he sighed. “Just in case.” He picked up the clean chemise she’d laid nearby, pulled it carefully over her head, settled it around her as she lifted her arms through. Then took her comb from her hand.

  “Sit down,” he told her. She put her towel down on the large boulder, then settled herself on it, facing the creek, sensed him coming up to stand behind her. He began to work the comb through her hair, pulling out the tangles, his free hand against her neck, holding her hair.

  “The first time I saw you,” he said, “I thought what pretty hair you had. And now I like it even better. Because you look so free.”

  “Most men like it long, I thought,” she said in surprise.

  “Not me. Well,” he amended, “I like it this long. Because I like to think about pulling your head back by it,” he admitted, suiting the action to the words. He leaned over from behind her, put his other hand under her chin, and turned her head to kiss her. Pulled her lower lip into his mouth and closed his teeth over it, giving it a gentle nip. The sensation, the possessiveness of the gesture bringing her every nerve ending to shocked attention.

  “Like that,” he murmured.

  “Oh,” she breathed, unable to say any more. He let go of her hair, set the comb down on the boulder, and pulled her to stand facing him.

  “I liked your show,” he said, his hands coming down to hold her bottom, pull her against him. “I liked every bit of it. Did you enjoy doing that for me?”

  She swallowed and nodded, looking up at him. “I did.”

  “Then get me out of these clothes,” he told her. “I need to touch you, and I need your hands on me. Right now.”

  She smiled slowly. The thought that she had power over him, that she was making him as crazy as he was making her, was delicious. She reached for his suspenders, pulled them off his broad shoulders. Undid his shirt buttons, tugged the shirt from his pants, and tossed it aside.

  “Hmm,” she wondered, her hands returning to his chest as if they were irresistibly drawn there. “Undershirt or pants first?”

  “Undershirt,” she decided, feeling the force of his heartbeat under her hands. “Because I love your chest. And I want to see it.” She pulled the white cotton garment up over his stomach, up to his shoulders. Stood on tiptoe to pull it over his head, and threw it next to his shirt.

  “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to do this?” she asked, putting both palms against his bare skin, frowning as she felt him flinch.

  “Your hands are freezing,” he explained with a rueful smile, raising his own hands to cover hers. “Leave them there, though. I’ll warm them up for you.”

  He would, she decided. His skin was burning up. And he was beautiful. The
wide expanse of chest, the heavy shoulders and arms. That tattoo, running around the bulk of his bicep. The nipples, erect under her questing hands. She succumbed to impulse, pressed her mouth to his collarbone, bent and licked one of those brown nipples.

  “Shit,” he groaned. “Come on, Mira. Take my pants off. Or I’m going to do it myself.”

  “I was just warming you up,” she protested, her hands moving all the same to his buttons, beginning to unfasten them. “I had a head start.”

  “Are you kidding? You don’t think you got me about halfway there, just watching you?”

  She didn’t answer, just smiled, shoving his pants down over his lean hips, watching him step out of them and kick them aside, so he was standing before her in the cotton drawers.

  He looked around for her skirt, laid it down on the ground next to them, grabbed his own shirt from where she’d tossed it, and spread it out above the skirt. “That’s as good as I can do for a blanket. Because I need to lay you down right now.”

  He pulled her down, came down over her. Groaned a little as he covered her. Propped himself on his elbows, took her mouth again in another long kiss, felt their lower bodies separated only by the two thin layers of cotton, and thought he might lose it right there.

  He rolled to his side and looked down at her, lying there in her chemise, her wet hair spread out around her. And, finally, unbuttoned those three buttons at the top, the way he’d wanted to do every single day out here. Watched as he slid his hand inside, cupped one of those generous, firm breasts.

  “I’ve wanted to put my mouth here for so long.” He raised his gaze to hers as he pulled the strap down to her elbow, trapping her arm. Saw her eyes drift shut as his hand closed over her again. He lifted her to him, up to meet his mouth. Licked, and bit, and sucked at her there. Stayed there for a good long while, heard her sighs turn to moans, and then to little cries, then did the same on the other side. Her arms pinned, her beautiful breasts at the mercy of his hands and mouth.