Welcome to Paradise

by Rosalind James

  Oh, yeah, Gabe thought as her fingers worked the belt buckle. He’d take this. She knelt over him, the gaping neckline of her dress revealing her gorgeous breasts, and he reached for them, ran his hands over her, felt her still at the sensation.

  “You’re distracting me,” she complained breathlessly. But she still managed to undo the buttons on his Levi’s, pull down his boxer briefs to free him.

  “It’s not a race,” he promised, giving her nipples a tweak that had her gasping. “Distraction is allowed.”

  She shoved his T-shirt up over his chest, leaned over him to kiss him there, ran her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, her touch, as always, igniting him. And then she was moving lower, forcing his hands to slip from her breasts, until she was poised over him, her hand gripping him, stroking him.

  “Remember what I told you?” she asked softly.

  “Uh . . .” He wasn’t sure he could think anymore. All his brain cells seemed to have migrated south.

  “You’re supposed to tell me,” she reminded him. “What you want me to do. Everything you want. Because that’s what I’m going to do for you. Whatever you want.”

  He’d told her once, he remembered dazedly as she obeyed every gasped command, that he was going to drive her up slowly, until she was grabbing his hair, begging him. He’d done it, too. And now she was doing it to him. His hands were wrapped in her hair, and then he’d stopped giving her instructions, because he couldn’t talk anymore. If she didn’t stop right now, he wasn’t going to be able to do anything else. And he needed to do something else.

  “Mira. Stop,” he ground out. “Stop.”

  She came up on her hands, looked at him. And he almost lost it right there at the sight of her soft mouth, the lust and longing in her eyes.

  “The condom,” he remembered. “Put it on me.”

  She reached for it, unrolled it onto him. He put his hands around her waist, dragged her towards him.

  “Ride me,” he told her. “Now.” She settled herself over him, and he felt her stretching, taking more of him, until she was fully impaled, and he was already halfway there.

  He’d had enough of the dress, he decided. He grabbed a handful of cotton in each hand, pulled the thing over her head, tossed it aside. And then she was naked, and she was on top of him, and her breasts were in his hands for him to use. To hold, and fondle, and take into his mouth, exactly as he pleased. And oh, the sensation as she slid over him, the sight of her wriggling, finding the spot that worked for her, rubbing herself against him, beginning to pant.

  “You like that?” he asked. Her hands were on the ground now as she took him even more deeply, pushed herself fully onto him, rose again.

  She couldn’t answer, he saw, and he felt the power of it surge through him. He reached a hand down for her, found the spot, began to rub it himself, send her higher.

  “Ah . . .” She was getting louder as he went on, her movements slowing. “I can’t . . . I can’t keep . . .”

  “You can’t move, can you?” He kept his hand going, saw what it was doing to her. “You need me on you? You need me to fuck you?”

  “Yes,” she moaned. “Please, Gabe. Please.” Her face was twisted with passion and effort, straining towards fulfillment, her hair in wild disarray around her.

  He pulled her off him, pushed her onto the blanket next to him, face down. “Get on your knees,” he told her. “Put your elbows down.”

  He rolled over her, the constraint of the clothes he still wore only increasing his excitement. The sight of her naked bottom rising towards him, her legs apart, her head resting on her hands, telling him he had to have that. And that this was going to get rough.

  Then one hand was on the ground, the other rubbing her hard from in front, and he was taking her with a ferocity he’d never experienced. Aware, in one part of himself, that she was climaxing, feeling the pull of it around him, hearing her cries as if from far away. But he was someplace else. Someplace that was all darkness, all need, all possession. Driving into her as she lay sprawled, pushed down beneath him now. Mine, he found himself repeating with each savage thrust. Mine.

  And when the wave rose, higher and higher, took him in its grip, tumbled him over, he was the one who thought, for one wild, impossible moment, that it was going to kill him.

  “Some picnic,” she got out, struggling to her hands and knees, feeling wobbly and uncoordinated, once he had rolled off her to lie on his back, breathing hard.

  “That wasn’t exactly in the plan,” he agreed after a moment. “Come here.” He pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her, lifted his head to kiss her. “You OK?”

  “Mmm.” She nuzzled the salt of his neck, felt the pulse galloping there as he began to put himself to rights. “But I’m hungry.” She laughed against his skin, felt the answering chuckle rising from deep within him. “And I want some more wine.”

  “You might like doing it with clothes on,” he said once they were seated, decorously dressed again, eating Alma’s chicken sandwiches and drinking wine that went instantly, gloriously, to their heads. “But I like you naked best. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  “I noticed that you preferred that,” she agreed, reaching out a bare foot to rub it against his. “And I like it when you take my clothes off.”

  “Remind me to do it more often, then.”

  “OK,” she said agreeably. “Do it more often.”

  He laughed. “I’ll be doing it as often as possible from now on, believe me. And that’s a conversation we should have too.”

  “What? How often you should take off my clothes? Every day, please. Or more. I’m easy.”

  “You are,” he said, leaning over for another kiss. “Lucky for me. But no. I meant, how I’m going to keep you around to do it in the first place. How tied are you to staying in Seattle?”

  Her heart began pounding for a different reason now. “Uh . . . What are you asking me?”

  “Whether you’d consider moving,” he said promptly. “I’ll do long-distance if we have to. And I know it hasn’t been long. I’m sure right now, but I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready to make that kind of change in your life.”

  She felt the familiar rush of disappointment. Well, what had she expected? That he was going to propose to her after knowing her for two months? That would be way too impulsive for both of them. They needed time together back in the real world, to make sure it was right. And knew all the same, all the way to the bottom of her heart, that she was already sure. That for her, it was right, and it always would be.

  “I’d consider moving,” she said cautiously. “I need a new job anyway, since I already quit on camera. Something new to do that doesn’t involve airplanes and hotels.”

  “Maybe we could both move,” he suggested. “I’ve been thinking, while I’ve been out here.” He began to laugh. “Well, some. I’ve been a little distracted, a lot of the time.”

  “What’s distracted you?” she asked with a smile.

  “You,” he said with another kiss. “And you know it.”

  “But in between imagining you naked,” he went on, “and a few other things I may have mentioned, I’ve been thinking about going back. About how I want it to be when I do. I know I want you to be there, but there’s more too. Something about pretending to be a homesteader, imagining these people risking everything to make a life out here, has made it easier to think about the risk I really want to take. To open up my own practice, do it my way. And to do it someplace else. The main reason I live where I do is to be near my family, especially Alec. But I’m wondering, does it have to be right in the Bay Area? Could it be someplace less crowded and busy?”

  “Well, it had better be someplace with people who hurt themselves a lot doing sports, and can afford to do something about it,” she said. “That might narrow your choice a bit.”

  “See,” he said, “that’s why I need you, to help me do the analysis. And we need to find someplace that’ll work for both of us.
Can we take some time and do that, do you think?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” she pointed out, “I’ll have all the time in the world. I’m going to be at liberty the moment I tell my boss I’m not coming back. And you’re right. I’d like to live someplace where there are . . . birds. And sky.”

  “I mean,” she elaborated with a little laugh, “there are always birds. Pigeons, anyway. And obviously there’s always sky. But someplace where you can see the mountains, do you think?”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” he agreed. “Someplace where we can both see the mountains.”

  “But I won’t live with you,” she found herself adding, “if that’s what you’re asking. I can’t play house with you on some kind of trial basis, trying to fit into your life, trying to figure out how to be what you want so you’ll want me too. I just can’t do it. It would hurt so much.”

  “Oh, Mira.” He began to reach for her, seemed to realize for the first time that he was still holding his sandwich, and set it hastily down. Pulled her into him and held her close.

  She laughed a little shakily, sat back and picked up her glass again. “Sorry. Blame the wine. I didn’t realize it was going to come out quite like that. I was just going to say, I’ll move. I’ll help you do your research, and I’ll find a place not too far away from wherever you end up. I have to live someplace, after all.” She swallowed against the bleakness of it.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he protested. “I want to know. I’ve always wanted to know, but you’ve never seemed to want to say. But I want you to tell me. Because we all have scars, you know. That’s just being human. It’s OK to show me your scars, and let me help you heal them, just like you’ll be helping me heal mine. It’ll always be OK.”

  She looked at him searchingly, felt the emotion tightening her chest, her throat at the look in his eyes, the understanding she saw there. It really was, she realized. It really was OK to show him.

  “You mean,” he prompted gently, “that’s how it was for you. With your parents, growing up.”

  “Yeah,” she said, staring down at the blanket, studying the plaid pattern, blue stripes on a cream background, as if she were memorizing it. She picked at a ragged edge, wanting so much to tell him, to explain it to him, but unable to meet his eyes. “When everybody has this fancy new life, you know, and you’re just a . . . a leftover from the old life, and there isn’t anyplace you belong, no matter what you do, how hard you try. Anyplace you fit, where they . . . want you. Where if you were gone, they’d miss you. That they’d say,” she said, her voice breaking a little despite her best efforts, “where’s Mira? It’s just not Christmas without Mira. It doesn’t feel right without her here. Without her at home with us.”

  “So I’ve decided something too,” she said fiercely, looking up at him, keeping her voice as even as she could, despite the treacherous tears that insisted on rising, threatened to spill. “I’m not going to be that person anymore. I’m not going to be wishing. I’m not going to hang around, trying to keep you happy. Hoping that if I try hard enough, if I can somehow please you enough, you’ll love me enough to want me forever, like some sad, desperate stray dog who’s trying to be good so I won’t be sent back to the pound. I’ll live near you. And I’ll love you. But I won’t live with you.”

  Critical Moments

  Gabe scraped the razor over his throat and chin with the inadequate aid of the small age-spotted mirror hanging over the cabin’s bathroom sink. And thought about Mira, everything she’d revealed to him yesterday, the raw vulnerability she’d exposed. It was as if she had opened her chest, showed him her beating heart. He’d held her, kissed her, told her he loved her. Had wished he could go back and erase her past. Had wanted nothing more than to promise her a shiny new future. How could anyone who’d been given the gift of Mira toss it away like that? he wondered, angry all over again for her. He just couldn’t wrap his head around it.

  He finished shaving, put the razor and shaving cream neatly back into the medicine cabinet. Held onto the chipped porcelain sink for a moment, looked at himself in the mirror. At the man who was going to be doing his best from now on to deserve her trust, her loving heart.

  “Your turn,” he said, coming out into the bedroom again. “Although you look perfect to me now.”

  She smiled ruefully, got up from the bed where she’d been reading, already wearing the yellow dress she’d had on the first time he’d seen her, hanging a bit loosely on her now. Her hair pulled back on one side, the waves falling to her shoulders.

  “That shows what you know,” she said. “I’m not going back on camera without makeup. Not for the grand finale and my first time in the jury box. And not sitting next to Chelsea and Melody, I’m sure not.” She came to him, reached up for a kiss that had him pulling her against him, forcing her up on tiptoe.

  She dropped to her heels again, ran a soft hand over his smooth cheek. “I think I miss the stubble,” she decided. “It’s a good look for you.”

  He laughed. “It’s a little bit caveman, though. And I’ve probably presented that side of myself enough on the show, not to mention to you. I do have a professional image to maintain, you know. It’d probably be a good idea to look a civilized, twenty-first century man at least once, instead of some kind of half-barbarian on testosterone overload.”

  “I predict,” she said, her hand on his bare chest now, “that your . . . image isn’t going to suffer one little bit from being on this show. And that every woman within a hundred miles is going to have an unfortunate sports injury that requires your immediate attention once this thing airs.”

  “Alec’s the good-looking one,” he reminded her, watching her from behind as she walked into the bathroom to begin the all-important makeup process. One of his favorite views. Well, that and the front view.

  “Maybe so,” he heard just before she closed the door. “But he’s not the sexy one.”

  By the time she came out again, he’d pulled on the white button-down shirt she’d ironed for him, tucked it into his Levi’s.

  “We’re ridiculously early,” he told her. “You’re not nearly high-maintenance enough. And we’ve both gotten way too used to getting up at five. We’ve still got an hour before breakfast. Plenty of time to climb back into bed and have some more sex to relax us first.”

  “Dream on,” she said, showing him the sassy side he liked so much. “I’m not redoing all this makeup. Come on. Let’s go see if we can get a cup of coffee.”

  He was standing in the common room, examining the old tools and firearms hung on the wall, when he heard the sound of the door opening behind him.

  “Hooray,” he began to say, turning. “Breakfast.” But it wasn’t Alma kicking the door shut behind him. It wasn’t Alma who had Gabe frozen to the spot, finding out what it meant to have your blood run cold.

  It was Scott. Nothing of the smooth lawyer left about him now. His navy blue T-shirt and jeans wrinkled, hanging on him, looking as though he’d slept in them. His expression fixed, eyes burning with fury and hatred. No rationality left. And with a semiautomatic in his wavering hand.

  He came across the room fast, stopped a cautious fifteen feet away and steadied the weapon with both hands so it pointed directly at Gabe’s chest. Gabe stared down the barrel, the hole in the ugly black thing looming huge as he imagined in sickening detail what a bullet would do to him. What it would do to Mira.

  Stay in the kitchen. It wasn’t a thought. It was a prayer. Please, Mira. Stay there. His mind was racing. How long did it take to start a pot of coffee?

  “Scott,” he said, his voice sounding bizarrely calm in his ears, a contrast to his thundering heart. “What are you doing here?” Keep him talking. That was his only hope. Alma had to come in soon. Any moment, she’d open the door, give Gabe the couple of seconds’ distraction he needed to rush the other man. Without that, the expanse of floor between them was too broad. Scott was too close to miss him, too far for him to grab.

  Scott sneered a
t him, seeming to read his mind as he kept well back, out of Gabe’s reach. “What do you think, asshole? I’m here to kill you. You and that bitch. I spent three nights in a jail cell like some kind of criminal. Three nights, just because she set me up, pushed me until I finally slapped her one lousy time. Three nights with the two of you laughing about me, thinking you’d beat me, thinking you’d won. But who’s won now? Who’s laughing now?” He laughed himself, the sound high-pitched and wrong. “Me, that’s who. Because you’re both dead.”

  Gabe caught the movement of the kitchen door to his left, just behind Scott. Kept his gaze fixed on the other man. Oh, no. Please, God.

  “Scott. Listen. You don’t want to kill us,” he said loudly. Run, he prayed. Run. Saw the door pause in its opening in his peripheral vision, didn’t dare to believe that she’d heard. “Nobody’s laughing at you. You can turn around right now and we’ll forget all about this. You don’t want to do this.”

  Scott laughed again. “Oh, yeah. I do. I really do. Where is she? Where’s that two-faced bitch?”

  “Staying with Zara,” Gabe improvised madly. “We had a fight, and she left me. She’s sleeping over there.” Keep him talking, he thought again. Give Mira time to run for help.

  “Yeah, right,” Scott scoffed. He staggered a little, and Gabe realized he was drunk. Had probably been up all night drinking, alone in his motel room, nursing his grievances. Why hadn’t he anticipated this? Gabe thought in despair. Why hadn’t he realized how far gone Scott was?

  Scott was talking again now, and Gabe forced himself to listen, to concentrate. “She’s not worth protecting, haven’t you figured that out? She’s nothing but a whore. And you know what’s really great? You don’t even have to pay her. She’s so pathetically grateful for a little attention, all you have to do is talk nice to her and she’ll fuck you. It’s so easy.”

  Gabe forced himself not to react, kept his voice level with the greatest effort of his life. “You’re right. She’s not worth it. You can turn around, walk away right now and go on with your life. But if you shoot us, you’re going to spend it in prison. It’s not worth it. No woman’s worth it.”