All I Do: Paradise Beach #3

by Lush, Tamara

  His hands work into my hair as he silences me with a kiss.

  “Hey,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Hey, I’m not seeing anyone else. I don’t want to, okay? Just you.”

  He kisses me softly.

  “Just me?” I whisper.

  He nods against my mouth. “Why would I want anyone else when I’ve got the perfect arrangement with you? We’ve got our pact. Our pact is perfect.”

  I nod. Is it, though?

  For some reason, the pact feels perfect when we’re together like this. It’s when we’re apart that the pact seems like a rotten, stupid idea.

  I shove my doubts aside and accept his fervent kisses, wrapping my arms around his neck and straddling him. I’d changed out of my shorts and T-shirt when I got back from my ill-fated bike ride to the bar, and am just in the flimsy dress I wear around the house when I’m hot and relaxed.

  “Missed you,” I murmur.

  Remy’s hands press against my back and trail down to my ass. He growls as his fingers slip under the dress and find my bare ass.

  “No underwear? That’s sexy as hell. Babe, I’ve missed you, too.” His voice is hoarse, desperate, as he kneads my butt cheeks. “Let’s add to the pact. I don’t want to go more than a couple of nights without seeing you, okay?”

  “That’s now a part of our pact?” I grind against his erection.

  “Yeah. That’s definitely part of the pact.”

  He sucks in a breath when his fingers find my core. I shift away from his face so I can look into his eyes. My lips part as he slides a finger inside me. Why does he have to be so handsome?

  His other hand comes around to my front, caressing the top of my thigh. He stops between my legs, his thumb grazing my clit.

  “Ohhh, fuck, Remy, yes. Right there,” I whisper. He knows I love this. Knows I can’t resist him when he’s touching me with both hands. When he’s filling me and stroking me.

  “Why would I want anyone else when I have you? Look how fucking beautiful you are, Leilani. So wet and perfect.” His thumb circles my clit and I whimper.

  “Let me see your tits,” he rasps.

  I pull the top of my dress down. Remy’s somehow able to suck on my nipple and finger me with both hands, all at once, and all I can do is hold on to his longish, dark hair and ride the waves of pleasure until I shatter.

  * * *

  It’s two hours later and we’re in my bed, naked, after two rounds of amazing sex. The first time was fast and furious. The second, he carried me into bed and I got on top. It was everything I love about doing it with Remy — it was languid and sensual, equal parts dirty and sweet.

  And now we’re exhausted.

  “I heard from Damien today,” he says softly.

  Whoa. This is out of the blue.

  “Oh yeah?” I roll to one side and prop myself up on my elbow. Remy rarely talks about his twin brother, and I’m eager to know more.

  “Yeah. He’s in Rome, with Kate. He looked good. Better than he usually does when he’s on assignment.”

  “How much longer does he have?”

  “Six months. I hope to Christ that when he comes back, he stays for good. Maybe Kate can talk him into living a normal life outside of a war zone.”

  “I’m sure she can.”

  “We all worry about him.”

  “I can’t even imagine. You’ve probably worried about him for years, no?”

  “Yep. Ever since he went into the Marines.”

  I brush his hair off his forehead with my fingers, and he shuts his eyes. “Did you ever consider joining the military?”

  “Thought about it. But fishing was always my thing. Always knew I wanted to fish as a career. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Fishing as a career?” He opens his eyes.

  “No. I mean, I’m a mermaid, so what do I know?”

  He grins. “I love that you’re a mermaid. Did I ever tell you that? How proud I am of you?”

  “Thanks,” I whisper, kissing him on the cheek.

  “And don’t you worry about me being with anyone else. If the time comes when I feel I need that, I’ll make sure you aren’t blindsided, okay?”

  A lump forms in my throat, and I try to swallow it. “Okay. Are we adding all this to our pact?”

  “Yeah. We are. We’re just making the pact better.”

  “This is like the Treaty of Versailles. Only on Paradise Beach.”

  He laughs and tickles my stomach. “Exactly. And same goes for you. If I’m not enough for you, if you want someone else, just let me know. ‘Kay?”

  I nod, and Remy sighs, shutting his eyes. I notice that the muscle in his jaw is bunching and twitching.

  “Oh, Leilani. My mermaid unicorn girl. I expect you’re going to break my heart, babe. One of these days, you’re going to want a husband, and kids, and something stable. And you deserve all of that, and more. You deserve the universe.”

  I nestle into the crook of his arm and sling my bare leg over his. He’s right. Someday, I probably will want a husband, and kids, and something stable. Maybe someday soon. I’m already thirty years old.

  What I don’t understand is, why can’t I have those things with him?

  Chapter Twenty

  LEILANI

  “You nervous?”

  Remy stretches his arm around the back of my chair. We’re at the Chamber of Commerce’s annual dinner, held in a giant, peach-and-gold accented ballroom at the Paradise Beach Resort.

  “Let’s see. There’s a chance we could win, I’m in your family’s resort for the first time, and we just stuffed ourselves with filet mignon. And I’m dressed up in an actual dress and heels for the first time since, well, that other Chamber meeting. So, yeah, I’m a little nervous.”

  “You’ve got this. We’ve got this. You gonna eat that cake?”

  My gaze goes to the mini, chocolate Bundt cake sitting in front of me. Normally, I love chocolate and cake is my weakness. But tonight? My stomach churns with anxiety.

  “No. Go ahead.” I inch the plate toward Remy.

  “Thanks, babe. Didn’t eat enough today when I was out on the water.” He tucks into the dessert. He’s always ravenous after a day of fishing, I’ve noticed.

  My nerves aren’t only due to where we are, or the possibility that I might be called up to the stage to speak in front of all these people if we win the contest.

  No, they’re also because of the man sitting next to me, the one who’s wolfing down cake like a person just released from jail. Tonight, he’s in actual, adult clothing — a dark blue suit and white button-down shirt that’s open at the neck, no tie — and he’s heartbreakingly handsome. The most beautiful man out of the hundreds here.

  And I’m definitely in love with him. No question. It’s become painfully obvious. I’ve been thinking about this ever since we had that conversation in my house, the one where he said he’d give me plenty of warning if he wanted to be with anyone else.

  Since then, he’s treated me so tenderly, as if I’m breakable. His words have all been gentle and complimentary. He’s brought over two more bouquets, fixed my kitchen sink, and ordered my favorite pizza.

  Twice.

  So, what’s the issue, I keep asking myself.

  Why are you creating problems where there are none, my rational side wonders.

  If something seems too good to be true, it probably is. The wary, broken part of me repeats that phrase like a mantra. I've even written both sides down on a list. The pros and cons of Remy. Then I burned the list.

  Now that the mentor contest is coming to a formal end, I fear that it will also be the end of us. Irrational, I know. Probably I should just tell him that I’m in love with him and let him sort out the rest. Voicing my boundaries aloud after years of emotional abuse is difficult, though. Like swimming through mud — slow and dirty. That I don’t want to feel like I need a man like my mother always does complicates matters.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a woman from the Chamber says from the stage at the
front of the room. “Welcome to the annual dinner of the Paradise Beach Chamber of Commerce. Tonight, we’ll be handing out various service awards, and giving one new business a prize of ten thousand dollars.”

  Everyone claps, and my stomach constricts into a tighter knot. I only half-listen for the next thirty minutes, partially because I’m trying to calm myself by breathing deeply, but also because Remy’s so close that every time I inhale, I get a whiff of his delicious cologne.

  By the time the contest award is announced, I’m somehow sweating like crazy while my mouth has gone bone dry. All this people-ing isn’t for me, and I’m second-guessing all of my decisions up to this point. What if I’m like this in the bar? Or will I be more relaxed because it’s my own space?

  “And the winner is…” the woman on stage says, fumbling for an envelope, “Leilani Kostas, the owner of Mermosa.”

  “Oh,” I whisper, as all the breath leaks from my body. I shut my eyes and shake my head in disbelief as the woman talks about how my bar and the project guided by Remy — and my business plan — were the best of the bunch.

  “Innovative, irreverent, delightful. That’s what the judges said about Mermosa,” the woman says.

  I hear Remy’s laugh, and feel him wrapping his arms around me.

  “We did it, babe. You did it. I did nothing. It was all you.”

  There’s clapping, and yet, I don’t move. It feels too strange, like I’m underwater and weighted down by a particularly heavy tail fin. One made of cement.

  Am I actually good at something other than swimming and being cute?

  “Babe, they want you to go up and accept the award and the check. C’mon. I’ll go with you.”

  My face is mashed into Remy’s chest, and I pull back, opening my eyes.

  “Okay,” I murmur.

  I’m clutching his hand as he and I walk the few steps to the stage. Thank God we’re at a table close by, otherwise I’d probably collapse on the way. Remy points to the podium and lets go of my hand.

  With trembling legs, I make my way up the two steps. Why are people still applauding? Is this real?

  The woman hands me an envelope and gives me a quick hug. Her gesture to the microphone indicates that I’m expected to say something to the room.

  I inhale. “Thank you to the judges for this award. Wow. I never dreamed we’d win. Not with the amazing competition we had.”

  My gaze sweeps around the room and my stomach twists into a knot. So many people, looking right at me. Somehow, I feel more vulnerable now than when I swim half-naked in a mermaid pool. Weird, right?

  What do I do with my hands? I lift them in the air, then drop them onto the podium.

  “Wow. Um. I’m not used to this. I’m a mermaid.”

  The audience laughs.

  “I mean, I used to be a professional mermaid. Up at Weeki Wachee. Now, I’m a business owner, which still feels really weird to say. Maybe I have a bit of imposter syndrome.” Oh Jesus, what am I talking about? “Ah, well. I wanted to thank the judges and most of all, thank my mentor, Remy Hastings. He’s been a sweetheart throughout this whole process, and I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  I turn in Remy’s direction — or at least where I last saw him, because I can’t quite see anything in focus — and force a smile. “Thank you.”

  Mercifully, people begin to clap and I take this as my cue to step aside. Still quivering like a piece of underwater grass in a hurricane, I manage to climb off the stage without falling. Remy’s there to put his arm around me.

  “You were amazing, Leilani.”

  “Yeah, right. Can we go to the bar?”

  “Sure. Anything you want, beautiful.”

  We walk to the side of the room, and then to the back, where the bar is. More awards are being announced, and no one’s paying attention to us. At least I hope not.

  I order a gin and tonic.

  “Oh God, that was so difficult. I must have looked like a lunatic, stammering and sweating.”

  “No, babe. People loved it. They loved you, Leilani. Everyone loves you.”

  I look over at Remy, and he’s giving me that earnest look of his, that adorable, little boy expression.

  Everyone loves me, but him.

  * * *

  An excruciating hour and a half later — and after tossing two gin and tonics down my throat — Remy threads his fingers in mine and pulls me down the hall of the resort.

  I scowl. “The parking lot’s not this way.”

  “I have a surprise.”

  He leads me out a door and through a courtyard that’s landscaped with massive, tropical bushes, the kind with leaves as big as pillows. With a flick of his thumb, he punches in a key code and we enter another part of the resort.

  “This place is massive,” I say, taking in the arched doorways and beautiful photo prints hanging on the walls.

  “Doesn’t seem so to me, I guess. Probably because I grew up here. Spent my days here after school as a kid, worked here during summers doing landscaping. At least until I started fishing. Then I’d take guests out on the water.”

  We’re strolling down yet another corridor and Remy stops at a bank of elevators.

  “How old were you when you started doing that?” I ask, following him into an elevator.

  He punches the fifth-floor button. “Fourteen, fifteen. My brothers all mowed lawns and did other menial labor. But I was like a tour guide. Fun as hell, taking old rich dudes out on the water… Yeah, I’m glad Max bought the place and didn’t sell it to a stranger. My heart’s here, you know?”

  The elevator door slides open. Yeah, his heart’s here, on the boat, fishing. Everywhere but with me. And that’s the way it’ll always be.

  I follow him to a door and he swipes a card key.

  “I thought,” he opens the door, “we’d have a little staycation tonight. I got us a suite. Check this out.”

  He flicks on the light and I enter, taking in the lavish suite. It’s almost as big as my house, and much prettier. Everything’s done up in white and bright green. I peer into the second room, the bedroom, and Remy comes up from behind, sliding his hands around my waist.

  “Thought it would be nice to spend the night somewhere different. And now we have a lot to celebrate.” He presses his lips to my neck, sending tingles flowing through my body. “So fucking proud of you, babe. You killed it tonight. Knew you would. Your bar’s going to be the most popular place on the island.”

  His hand goes to my hair and clasps a fistful, pulling softly so that my head drops to one side. His touch never makes me feel afraid, and I shut my eyes and try to let the pleasure take me away.

  “Been thinking about doing this all night,” he growls into my ear. “That little dress of yours is so fucking hot. Please tell me you’re not wearing panties.”

  I allow him to move me forward, into the bedroom, until my knees hit the mattress. My hand lets go of my purse and it lands with a soft thud on the plush, golden carpet.

  He rakes his hands down my front, then places his palm on my back, gently pushing me forward so I’m propped up on my hands, ass sticking out.

  He lifts my dress and I hear him inhale sharply.

  “Fuck, look at this.” Tonight, I’m wearing a white, lace thong, and I feel his finger trace the fabric, down my crack. “Open your legs a little more, babe.”

  I comply. His fingers graze my core, then slide my panties aside.

  “How are you so fucking beautiful all the time?” he murmurs, sliding a finger inside me, coating himself with my wetness. “And how is it that you’re so responsive to me, always?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question a lot.”

  He slides his entire finger in, wiggling, and I whimper. I’m already throbbing and aching with need for him, and yet.

  Yet.

  It doesn’t feel right.

  Not tonight, when I’ve had a little too much to drink.

  Not tonight, when I’ve been nervous for hours and my stomach is st
ill jumpy because of winning the contest.

  Not tonight, when all he wants is to screw and all I want is to tell him how much I love him. What would happen if I told him? Would he laugh? Be upset?

  Or would he reciprocate? Maybe…

  I squirm away from his expert hands, tumbling onto the bed and into a sitting position. My hands go to my navy-blue dress, pulling it primly over my knees. His eyes widen, probably because I hardly ever turn down sex. Okay, I've never turned down sex with him.

  I gulp in several breaths, and not just because I’m turned on. The times I’d tried to talk about my feelings or concerns with Brent, he’d flown into a rage. Will Remy do the same? Crap. I’m so awful at this, at voicing my emotions. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I dove into a new relationship too quickly.

  I’d been so sure of myself when we met that day at the marina…

  “Remy.” My voice is faint, faraway. The time has come. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  He sits next to me, an astonished expression etched into his face. “Wha-why?”

  “I need to be honest with you about something.”

  His brows lift. “What?”

  “We need to stop this.”

  He grins that lopsided, casual grin. It’s maddening. “What? Stop having awesome sex?”

  It occurs to me that neither one of us is particularly good at communication. I’m scared of conflict, scarred by my previous relationship, and unsure of myself. Even winning the contest tonight has triggered anxiety and a racing heart. Some screwed-up fear of success, maybe?

  And Remy? He’s not exactly mature. Responsible? Yes. Knows how to please a woman in bed? Absolutely. Knows what to do when his friend-with-benefits is hyperventilating and emotionally losing her shit?

  Not so much. His eyes flit wildly around the room.

  “No. We need to stop seeing each other. I don’t want just a sexual relationship, and I’m trying to draw boundaries.” The words spill out. “I am drawing boundaries.”