Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  “I want to be with you, Tristan. For now. For today. I don’t know what I’ll want tomorrow, and that’s what scares me, that life is changing daily—and fast.”

  “Then we’ll take it one day at a time. I want to spend the day with you too.” Especially now, seeing her wet from the ocean, soaked with rain droplets snaking paths that converged into one stream between her breasts, arms and legs alight with goose bumps.

  I stepped into the shed, pulling her in with me. We were spiraling down a black hole that was hard to escape from. Her nipples were hard from the cold, pushing through the wet fabric, and I was in no position to deny them the warmth they wanted. Sliding the triangles of her bikini top to either side, I squeezed her firm breasts, lowering myself to suck and flick her nipples with my tongue. Each action caused her to moan and my groin to strain against my shorts.

  Her hips moved against me, her core hot and searching for something to quench it. Above us, the rain pounded the tin roof of the tiny shed, as we moved in rhythm full of sweat, salt, and fresh water. “I have no fucking clue what you’re doing to me,” she groaned.

  “I have no fucking clue either, but I want anything you have to give me, Paris. I can’t get enough of you.”

  “Good, because I have so much to give,” she whispered, almost in tears. This sex was just a conduit for whatever emotions she was feeling. Vulnerable, open, giving, she was. I sucked and nibbled at her hard pink nipples, moving from one to the other, squeezing them together and giving attention to both almost at once. “I don’t care anymore about anything. Just please…don’t stop, Tristan. I need this.”

  She did need it—both the physical side and the emotional too. Paris had been holding back for way too long. Her hips pushed against me, eyes closed, face tilted to the side. She pushed down her bikini bottom, reaching for the hard bulge inside my shorts, her body wanting to take control. I didn’t care that this had begun and escalated quickly. I didn’t care that we weren’t thinking things through. Being impulsive was sometimes what we needed. Moments like these fucking rocked. I wanted nothing more than to make this overworked woman come and come hard.

  And what better place to do that than on my face.

  I dropped to my knees, pressing my cheek against her lower belly, taking in the scent of her skin with my arms wrapped around her hips. I knew how this looked, like I was adoring her, and though I normally wouldn’t let my guard down this way, with Paris, it felt right. Like something we’d always done. We just clicked—a feeling I hadn’t had since Kaitlin during those first years of UM. Before I became who I am now. Before I hardened to love, thanks to Kait’s denying me, before I learned to keep sex to business exchanges only.

  I wanted to melt into Paris’s body. I wanted to look up and catch her countenance twisting in pleasure. I wanted to taste the secrets between her folds, the ones I was dipping my fingers into, feeling her slippery skin through wetness. When I touched her most sensitive spot, she arched her back and pushed into my hand, exposing that fleshy nub which begged for my tongue. I gave it to her. Of course I did. It was what I wanted too, to press my tongue flat against her while watching her face intently.

  God, she was hot.

  Though she was taking it slow and rubbing her clit against my open mouth in slow circles, I wanted nothing more than for her to let go, to grind her whole pussy against my face in unrestrained abandon. I licked and sucked at different angles, searching for the perfect combination for her, slipping my fingers into her and feeling her muscles squeeze.

  “Come for me, Paris,” I muttered, my tongue and mouth working together to catapult her into a frenzy. “On my face…I’m waiting.” The humming words only added more vibration to the mix.

  “This usually takes me a while…” She grabbed my head, smothering my happy face further into her sweet, wet folds. “But you got me, Tristan. You got me good.”

  Chapter 9

  This had never happened so easily before. This particular act, in this particular position. But Tristan knew just what to do. He was sexy as hell, sweet but naughty, so very into me, and seeing his face between my legs, looking up at me with those spectacular green eyes pushed me over the edge, I came hard. Against his face, just like he wanted me to.

  I cried out, not caring if anyone could hear me, because what the hell—we were in a shed anyway—far from the main beach and hidden in an empty rainforest, caw of birds, humidity and all. Fingers curled into his hair, gripping, as I writhed in circles, trying to extend and make the waves last so good and long. God, I loved him, loved him, loved him for doing this to me.

  And when it was over, Tristan Giovanetti—aye, aye, Captain of the Booty Catcher—remained there still, kissing me softer now, turning to the left and gracing my inner thigh with a light kiss, then turning to the right and gracing my other inner thigh. He reached up to take my hands and pull me onto my knees. The kiss that ensued was deep and passionate, and tasting myself on his lips sent fire brewing in my body again.

  Good GOD Almighty, that was intense.

  The deluge outside kept on and on. I found myself wishing it would never stop raining. There was no reason to leave and risk getting wet when we were doing a great job of that all by ourselves. And here I’d mocked a fantasy vacation on Sorendi Isle in my contest essay.

  “How was that?” Tristan scooped my face into both hands again. Each kiss was a bullet to my self-control. Bam…pow…boom! You’re dead, Paris. Aww, poor Paris, she died tonight.

  “Fucking amazing.” The words slid out on my breath. I was spent.

  “I like when you say fucking.” He sucked in another kiss and bit my lip, his hands roving down my back, gripping my ass cheeks hard, as he shook them up and down.

  “Fucking, fucking, fucking,” I said in time to his shaking.

  He gripped my shoulders and spun me around to face two coils of musty ropes hanging on the wall. “Cheeky girl.” The ropes were all I had to hold onto, because I knew what—or who—was coming, and I knew this would require two hands to steady me. “Fucking perfect. Going to finish what we started on the boat a few nights ago before you flipped face up.”

  “Oh, you mean when my ass was in the air?” I teased, pushing my bottom toward him. “I bet you kept thinking about that for days.”

  “Four days, twelve hours, and…fifty-three minutes.” His fingers slid up and down my soaked pussy, then two fingers slipped in and he began a steady rhythm in fucking me strongly. And quickly. “And you’re getting it again.”

  Holy shit, this man.

  I grew wet again, and pressure was building. If he kept it up, I might just bless him with a rare occurrence that had only happened once before in my lifetime when Ben and I started dating—two-for-one orgasms. “Only problem is, I don’t have a condom this time. But I can run over to the boat and get one.”

  “Hmm…” Last thing I wanted was for him to run off right when all I wanted was to feel him filling me up, gripping my hips and pounding into me. I was still on the pill for cycle purposes anyway. “You would tell me if I should have reason to be concerned, right?” I managed the most serious tone I could in this position.

  “I get checked a few times a year,” he said, “and besides, I’ve never gone bareback with anyone else before. Not since my girlfriend in college. I never trusted anyone.”

  “Why do you trust me?”

  “I just do.” There was no other reason, no hidden agenda. I knew where he was coming from. I couldn’t explain it, but I just felt it would be alright with Tristan. “You would tell me too, right?”

  “Most definitely. There’s no reason to worry.” I turned around just in case he didn’t already know I was being sincere, took his face into my hands the way he often did with me, and pressed my lips against his. I inhaled his scent, a mixture of my essence and his, salty ocean and sweet, pirate gold.

  Before I had the chance to think about it, the niceties were over, and my hands were pinned behind my back. I spun to face the wall ropes again. Little
by little, his grip on my shoulder blades pushed me down, so my head came to rest on a wooden stump. What the stump was for, I had no idea, but I slipped my arms out of his grip and held onto it like a lifeline. I understood his request—he wanted me down, submissive, receptive to what he was doling out.

  “I’m sorry, have I misbehaved?” I almost chuckled, though a part of me told me I shouldn’t. There was still the slightest chance that Tristan wasn’t the nice man he’d billed himself out to be. He might’ve been dangerous, and it was precisely that thought that fueled my desire.

  “You think this is punishment?” His hands lightly slapped my cheeks, as he spread them apart, slid the length of his hardness along my soaked lips. I shook with every second he made me wait. “No, Paris, this will be your reward for being a good girl, for coming on my face like I asked you to. You’ll be thanking me by the time we’re done.”

  “Will I now?” I loved the cocky side of him that emerged whenever we were intimate. Most women I knew loved a bad boy, the alpha male with a heart of gold I’d made fun of in my contest entry, but I loved a good guy. One who turned naughty when provoked, a gentleman with a dangerous side. This was Tristan.

  So much more intriguing.

  I felt the head of his cock pushing against my opening, and he slid in ever so slightly, teasing me again, making me moan and thrust back against him like a cat in heat. For some reason, Tristan rarely let me see what he was working with back there, even though I could feel it—boy, could I feel it.

  “Yes, you will. You’ll thank me again…” Then, holding onto my hips, I understood what I was about to get, and he plowed in all the way. I cried aloud, and he pulled out. “And again…” Whatever he was working with, it was thick and not too long. And the boy had a set. I could feel them slapping against me each time he plunged in deep.

  When I felt his warm, beautiful man hands curl over my shoulder, I knew I was in for it. His other hand reached around my hip, and two flat thick fingers pressed against my clit. I loved the pressure his position was creating, the deep fullness inside of me and the tension against my sensitive spot. And then, he let me have it. Though I was not usually a jackhammer kind of girl, in this case, I needed it. Craved it.

  “God, yes. Harder…” Nonsensical words were flying out of me.

  Words I’d never said with Ben, I was saying with Tristan. Openness I rarely had with Ben past our first few months together, I was giving to Tristan. This man brought it out in me, the pure lust and need, and there was something refreshing about having the blank slate to become that woman, the one I always wanted to be.

  “I think you’re about to thank me,” he whispered, breath hot in my ear.

  Each time he grunted, he knifed hard into me, and my mind blew apart and shattered. I was reaching that point, and so was he. With each powerful thrust, he created a sweet, beautiful circle with his fingers, so our bodies danced together in unison. His free hand explored my back and ass, contoured every curve and appreciated the skin I’d always had trouble feeling comfortable inside of. “You’re beautiful, Paris. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know you like it.”

  “I don’t like it—I love it.”

  Right when I reached back and gripped his hips, haunches, his ass, pushing him harder into me, he moaned loudly and gave it to me all the way to the hilt, holding himself there as he spilled into me while saying things I couldn’t piece together, about love, being amazing, and no other woman…

  Even after he was done, he managed to stand me up straight and massage my breast with one hand while continuing his circles with the other, dipping into my reserve of wetness for lubrication. “Can you do it again?” he asked.

  “I’m almost there.”

  “Give it to me, Paris. Leave it all behind, all the shit, and just be present. Be here with me.” His circles were smaller now, faster, more intense. His full voice spoke into my ear. I opened up to anything and everything, the rain, the thunder, his heartbeat pounding against my back, his voice as unencumbered desire.

  Reaching down to cover his fingers with mine, the dual pressure of our fingertips doing the trick, sending me into a tunnel of brilliant white light. Tristan spoke to me, though I couldn’t decipher his words. All I heard was his voice, the urgency, his lightly accented tone, the love and care with which he spoke. He waited for my waves to ebb back, and then he turned me around and kissed me. Not a deep, searching kiss, but a sweet, slow one, of gratitude. Though for what, I didn’t know.

  He was right—I should be the one thanking him. He’d awakened me from a very long, very sad slumber. “You’re amazing,” he whispered against my cheek.

  “No, you’re amazing,” I said.

  “No, you are.”

  “No, you are.” We giggled like schoolchildren. So stupid, so funny and adorable all at the same time. I didn’t want to say that I loved this man, but holy shit, I loved this man. Loved all the chances I’d missed that he represented, the intimacy I’d always craved but never achieved with Ben.

  We slumped to the ground and waited for the rain to stop. I may have fallen asleep listening to it, sensing the cool Caribbean breeze blowing through the shed. Our moment of peace was disrupted by a sudden vibration. Tristan’s phone ringing. He took one look at it, and I glanced at it too without him noticing.

  Natasha calling.

  Natasha? Wonder what their affiliation was.

  He didn’t answer. “Go away. I’m busy,” he laughed, and I silently gave him points for not picking up. After the phone stopped buzzing, a text chimed in. I didn’t want to be nosy, but when he lifted it to read, he didn’t exactly hide it either.

  Mr. Giovanetti, Ms. Moreau phoned, she may be coming as early as next week.

  “Ugh,” he grunted.

  “What?” And who was Ms. Moreau? Flickers of flashbacks, from my days with Ben trying to hide text messages, sent my stomach plummeting. But I couldn’t assume that Tristan was up the same secretive tricks as Ben. He hadn’t even tried to block my view of his texts, so there was no foul play here.

  What was stranger was Natasha formally calling Tristan “Mr. Giovanetti” and the mystery woman “Ms. Moreau.” Wasn’t Natasha the one in charge here? Didn’t she run this resort?

  Suddenly, Tristan pulled up his swimsuit and tied it at the waist, grunting about stuff to do, having to go, but seeing me later. “Don’t kill me, but I have to go. I can walk you back to your villa.”

  “No worries, I know my way home.” I smiled, tracing my fingers along his bird of paradise tattoo. Where had he gotten it? What did it mean? So much I didn’t know about him and so much I did.

  “Are you going to write some more?” he asked. I nodded. “Good. Remember, work hard, play hard.”

  “I’m going to try.” I’d already played hard enough for one day. Time to be productive. If I could. There was something going on I didn’t know about, and it worried me just a bit.

  “Do it. And be brilliant at it, Paris, like you are with everything.” He kissed me quickly, and with that, he was gone.

  I was left alone wondering what the fuck had just happened. I’d casually gone out hoping to maybe run into Tristan, and somehow I’d gotten roped into scuba diving, stuck in a storage shed with a sweet, hot man, and gotten my brains fucked out of me. The boy was intense, no doubt about it, but I wasn’t sure that I minded.

  Why was he so gung-ho about me succeeding? What made him want me to have that drive when he was just a boat captain? Or was he? Note to self: I should probably ask more questions. What does he do here? Why does the head manager of this resort text him? I hated to think I’d been intimate with some random guest pretending to work for Paradise Bay. That would be a classic stupid Paris move.

  Back at my villa, I showered and set myself up with some tea and the last of the coconut macarons. I opened the shutters and let in the full sunlight, even opening the shutter doors themselves halfway to let in the beautiful view. I don’t know why, but I was feeling invigorate
d when I should, for all intents and purposes, be tired and sleepy after the late nights I’d spent writing. But there was no way I could feel down after being with Tristan. Bad side of things, though…at this rate, if I kept seeing Tristan, I would never finish The Gates of Lahore before my time was up.

  In fact, one whole week had already gone by, which sent coils of sadness spiraling through my heart. What would I do when it was time to go? Would Tristan and I just say goodbye and go our separate ways? For the first time since I’d started seeing him, that awful thought occurred to me. What would happen to us? Had I been setting myself up for hurt all this time?

  I had no idea what his intentions were, and I should probably ask. One good thing about the mystery surrounding Tristan, though, was that it made me a better writer, as I put more and more layers of characterization into my main character, Mr. Boseley, the British spy. With a glass of coconut water and some simple shrimp and pasta I’d cooked for one, I wrote well into the evening and most of the next day. I wrote until three more chapters were laid out—a lot for me all at once.

  Something was happening that I couldn’t get from writing back home. The large chunks of uninterrupted time gave me a deeper, fuller sense of my characters and storyline. Because there were less interruptions, the personality traits were flying off the page.

  I suppose I had Tristan and Sorendi Isle to thank for that. And me, for allowing myself to see Tristan when every fiber of my brain screamed to stay away if I wanted to be productive. When evening began descending, I couldn’t stare at my computer screen any longer, so I opened the vintage armoire in my villa looking for something to wear. There was a luau tonight, according to Tristan, the first social event of the week.

  Would he be there? I assumed he was, since he knew about it. What did one wear to such an event? Heels were probably a bit much. I had no idea why I’d even brought them. Opting for a pink strapless sundress and strappy sandals, I did my hair up, sprayed it, and adorned it with a shiny flowery pin. If I couldn’t dress to the nines, I would at least master the art of accessorizing.