by Lexy Timms
Elena simply sat and stared. It wasn’t a friendly stare.
“There is a…” Tina looked at her coworker helplessly, raising her hands in a universal gesture of frustration that needed no translation.
“Pool,” Elena provided, her voice sullen. If looks could kill, Brant had no doubt he’d be awaiting the arrival of the local priest for last rites.
“…a natural pool a few hundred yards from here,” Tina said, then hesitated a moment as if weighing every word very carefully. “Anyone could stall like that; you know that. It was—”
“Just tell me where.” If Brant ground his teeth any harder, he would undo several years of orthodontia. Not that he cared right now.
Tina straightened her shoulders and proved that she, too, could clench her jaw. “First turn in the driveway, it goes left, you go right, through the brush, listen for the sound of the water.” She spat every word.
That makes two I’ve alienated…
Brant glanced uneasily at Elena, who was still looking at him as though she could potentially shoot daggers in his general direction. Not with her eyes, like in sappy romance novels. Actual daggers.
Okay, so make that three.
With a low growl, Brant pushed off from the counter and spun around. The door between the patient wing and the lobby slammed shut behind him. Or at least whooshed dramatically, since it didn’t seem inclined to slam.
“Calm yourself, Doctor,” Carmen said from her usual perch across from the wall. It was hard to remember she’d half run to the scene of the accident and had worked harder than anyone during the rescue. She had seemed to be everywhere, providing bandages or a splint, giving aid and compassion in equal doses. Now here she was, once more the rough-hewn, impenetrable barrier.
Brant stopped and spun on her. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and he knew it wasn’t, but the anger held his reins now and he needed to fire at someone. If Bell wasn’t handy, then anyone would do. “Don’t tell me to calm myself, Nurse,” he said levelly. “I don’t work for you.”
“Nor do you work here, Doctor,” she spat back at him, undaunted. Her gaze never left the wall. “From what I hear, you’ve resented every moment you’ve spent here so far.” Her gaze shifted and Brant felt the weight of her stare. “You don’t have a say here, Doctor. Keep that in mind.”
Brant clenched his fist and relaxed his hand again. It wasn’t going to do any good to argue with her; the battle was already lost. It was none of her business anyway, truth be told. He turned and stormed out of the building in silence.
You don’t have a say here. The words echoed in his ears. The tone she took, like he was an arrogant child, a fool. He HAD a say, an important say. Doctors had to adhere to a certain standard. No matter how shocking or disgusting or squeamish, a doctor was called upon to tend to the sick. Someone who couldn’t do that shouldn’t be a doctor It was that simple.
He stormed down the drive to the curve indicated, and looked dubiously at the thick vines and large, broad leaves that obstructed his path. Taking a deep breath, he pressed through and began batting leaves and flying bugs and who the hell knew what else.
The jungle didn’t much care for him either, and he was more than happy to solve everyone’s problem. All he needed was to make a damn call. The resort had to have working phones; it was an expensive place filled with wealthy indolent vacationers, so of course there were phones. Probably internet, cable television, and all the things that made life worth living.
He slapped at a broad leaf and it rebounded and slapped him back across the face—hard. He flinched and checked himself to see if his cheek was bleeding, but the same leaf kept getting in his way like it was sentient. In a fit, he grabbed the branch it grew on and tore it free of the plant.
He cursed. He figured he was lost, would never be found again, would end up in the belly of a… whatever was stalking around out there.
He heard someone moving ahead of him.
“There you are!” he hissed.
He saw a brighter area, a lessening of the thicket, and made his way in that direction. The last of the heavy leaves parted for him, and a cool breeze assailed him. The clearing stretched out in dappled shades of filtered sun, light dancing off the pond that dominated the area. Trees stood around the pond like sentinels; the jungle became soft grass and then loam, as if the jungle tiptoed to the water’s edge.
There was a large boulder to his left, a massive flat slab that broke through the swath of green like a great ship plying the jungle sea. In this idyllic and peaceful oasis, perched on the stone, Melissa Bell stood, the sunlight behind her accenting every curve and rise and crevice.
She wore very little, and what she had on was wet. She looked like a barbarian goddess, an Amazon sentry. Her legs were longer than he’d realized, her waist trim and her breasts heaving under the slight sport top she wore…before she scrambled wildly for her clothing, somehow sliding into the pants of her scrubs that left her lower half covered, but not erased from his memory.
Brant had no memory of climbing the rock. He slipped. She steadied him. But how he managed to stand before her he didn’t know. The rock wasn’t that tall, just a good jump from the ground, but he could’ve floated there, or simply stepped and been transported.
Then he’d noticed her scar.
The marks that traced from her shoulder and from the middle to her chest and promised to meet at her left breast were angry, vicious, dreadful, beautiful. She was the most beautiful, wondrous, sexy thing he’d seen in years.
He was staring. He knew he was staring. He couldn’t stop. It was as if his entire life had led to this moment, to this realization. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried.
Not that he tried.
With reverence, with trembling hand, in that place where the water held its breath and the jungle waited in anticipation, he reached out to touch something breathtaking.
There were other marks, equally vicious, deep tears he remembered seeing in her hip and left thigh. It was tragic, it had to have been painful, but there was beauty to it, too, a dreadful beauty that spoke to him, like a painting that, once seen, would never be forgotten.
The slap against his cheek stung, brought him from his reverie. He looked into her eyes, the flashing brightness of her anger, the tightness of her jaw. “Fuck you,” she said. It sounded almost like a sob.
“Mel,” he said in a whisper, “you’re beautiful.” He reached for her again, his hand going to the strap of her bra on the left side. His eyes never left hers. His touch was gentle, sure, but he looked to her for her permission, for her objection.
The brightness of her eyes changed from anger to something else. An unshed tear welled, and vanished just as suddenly.
His hand gently traced down her shoulder, pulling the strap of her bra lightly along. It slipped off her, falling against her arm, the bra falling free.
To his eye, the breast was mangled. It was the same size and shape as its twin, but to a trained eye it was obviously an implant. Whatever had happened had taken the breast, and not in a neat or clean way. She was torn, ripped. Destroyed.
The mark that trailed down to her hip was the same. One hand skimmed the waistline of her pants, sliding them from her body. There was small divot where some muscle mass no longer existed to fill out the skin.
The pants tangled around her feet and she stood there before him, not in a swimsuit like he’d initially thought. Shivering slightly in wet underwear, her eyes wide and uncertain, soft protests falling only once from lips that quivered.
He searched her eyes. Looked for permission and found it, in the trembling hope that lay in the dark depths. He nodded once, refocusing on the hand that rested on her hip. He slid the fingers upward, until his thumb traced the lines on her breast, the underside where it rose from her ribs, then retraced the route downward. His hand moved around to her side, stopping at the wet panties, the hand cupping her ass, feeling the warmth of her just beneath his fingertips.
When the
other hand came up, he was longer interested in scars. The breast, the hip, the old injury held no further interest for him. Not in that moment. He reached for her. Pulling her toward him.
Only this time, he hesitated. Unsure. This whole moment held a certain kind of craziness. How must he look to her, leaping angrily upon this boulder, stripping her of her clothes, her defenses? Touching those intimate parts that she kept hidden from the world.
She’d already slapped him once. What gave him this right, here, to take this step?
His head had lowered almost of its own volition. His lips hovered over hers. Yet he waited.
This was her decision.
Then she whimpered. A soft sound, born not of protest but of need.
She grabbed him and bruised his mouth with hers.
Chapter 10
He was touching her breast. It wasn’t the first time it had been inspected or examined. Doctors at the hospital where she’d ‘gotten better’ had lined up to squeeze and touch. Hell, the hospital she’d been taken to was a ‘teaching hospital,’ and right behind the doctors came a whole slew of interns and students, all groping and grabbing and squeezing the breast that wasn’t there.
It wasn’t lecherous. It wasn’t even sexist, save for the fact that men by and large don’t have the same breasts women do. In a way, the whole thing had been made worse because it had been clinical. Here was a damaged piece of her body, stitched and sewn together. It wasn’t her they’d examined; it was the skill of the doctors and the horrific ruin they were interested in. After so many men and women had pawed at her, it felt like she wasn’t even there anymore.
Brant’s touch was different.
She stood perfectly still, like a deer in the headlights. Like earlier, but different. She knew she’d gone stiff, and tried to break from the frozen tableau, but she was focused on trying to breathe. He wasn’t examining her as a doctor. He was touching her in the way a man touches a woman.
He’d called her beautiful.
He was looking at the horrible scars that tore across her stretched skin and called her beautiful. Of course, he was lying. He was just trying to get into her pants. He felt pity for her. He was laughing at her, setting her up for some great joke. A million thoughts raced through her mind as she just tried to remember to breathe in and out. Yet…a part of her desperately wanted him to believe she was beautiful.
He’d touched the scars reverently.
What if he means it? Oh hell, what if he actually means it?
He was a plastic surgeon. He was probably figuring out how to fix her, how to restore her beauty and save her from the ugliness of her body. He kneeled, staring at the crisscrossed lines. She readied herself for another blow to force him off her, to break him from the pain that still marred her.
And then he rose and looked her in the eyes.
Oh, shit. He meant it.
He thought she was beautiful. She could see it in his eyes. She stood on the rock, the part of her she hid, the marks she kept from ever seeing the light of day exposed to the air and to his gaze. More vulnerable then she’d been since…she couldn’t place a time or a date. It had been so long.
Brant pulled her to him. He’d kissed her before. She nearly grinned as she noticed he still wore a bruise from her last reply.
Yet here he was again, slower, gentler, letting her have the final decision. He looked down at her; was he really so tall? How had she not noticed that?
She stared back, falling into his piercing gaze. His hand touched the small of her back.
Dr. Melissa Bell had come to Belize three years ago. Her love life, such as it had been, had cooled long before that. It had been a very long time since a man held her, possessed her like this incredibly hot man wanted to do.
And now he stood here, hesitating?
She grabbed his head and pulled him down to her.
It was a mistake. It wasn’t going to end well, but she didn’t care.
Beautiful.
He’d called her beautiful.
Somehow, they scrambled down the rock to the soft loam of the jungle floor. Mel had no idea how they got there. She just suddenly realized that the ground under them was soft and pliable. His scrubs came off in her hands, her wet panties seemed to melt in his firm grasp. His mouth was hot and passionate against her neck, and she was bolder than she’d ever imagined she could be. She wanted this. She wanted him. Badly. She wrapped a hand around his hardening penis. Stroking him. Pulling him closer to her.
His hands slipped under her and curved around her ass, squeezing hard and pulling her to his strong body, pressing her against him. He was gorgeous, strong, straight, well-muscled with thick arms and a large taut chest. His face hadn’t seen a razor in several days, but the slight burn from his cheek and chin only inflamed her further.
It had been a long time, way too damn long. Her body reached for his in need, with an animal desire she hadn’t expected, dragging her along in the wake of her own passion. She wrapped a leg around him, feeling his hardness slip over her waiting center, and tried to devour his mouth with hers.
The hardness of his body was welcoming against the softness of the moss beneath her. The changes in their movements were instantaneous, or maybe the heat kept building in them till the need outweighed everything else. Or it was a dream and she’d wake any moment, alone in her hammock. Except she knew it wasn’t a dream. His strong back, his chiseled body, only he was real. In the moment, in the heat, in the carnal need, she forgot about the scar marring what was once her flesh. For the first time in years, she forgot to be ashamed or embarrassed.
When he pierced her, she cried out. It was lust and release. It was desire sated and need only begun. He thrust deeply and she wrapped her legs around him, clinging, desperate for him to go deeper, to stay inside of her, to fill her physically and emotionally, to complete the emptiness she hadn’t realized she carried within her.
Every movement of his hips, the way his mouth attacked her nape, the thrust and pull was another step to a freedom she only just realized she hadn’t had in a long time. Her fingernails dug into his back as she held on to him, pulling up around him to press herself into his chest.
She arched then, bracing her shoulders against the loam, and he leaned down and pulled her right nipple into his mouth, pressing it against his teeth. She cried out and he released her with an audible pop and moved across her chest, kissing the ruin and scars as ardently as he had the uninjured breast, and still he thrust and thrust and thrust until she felt the release, the climax mounting within her.
He shuddered against her, driving deep, tearing into her, firmly and yet tenderly filling her as she rode his spasm to her own orgasm. She cried out again, letting herself throb and pull against the hardness of him. Her body shook and her breath stopped. Her heart raced, and a part of her that had been tied in a tight knot eased just a little.
He was trembling, his face frozen in something like pain and ecstasy all at once. She watched him in wonder, even as her body jerked and spasmed around him, under him. She lowered her legs, too rubbery to stay around his waist another second.
He lay on her for a moment, panting for air. Silent as though even he was as struck dumb by the moment as she was. Still inside of her, still connected. Still a part of her, though softer now. He pulled out slowly, his breath catching as he pulled away. For a moment, she thought he would leave her there, now that passion was spent and rationality returned. She could see it in his eyes as he looked at her, that inner war or reason meeting passion sated. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him it was okay to leave, but before she could find the words he answered the unspoken question by kneeling and gathering her into his arms. Enveloped in his embrace, they lay together in the open jungle as though they were Adam and Eve in a corner of paradise.
And for that moment, the delight of two people finding each other overcame all the inhibitions of civilization. She was a woman. He was a man. That was all that mattered.
She wasn’t going to
waste this moment for anyone, or anything.
It felt wonderful, but not for long. Soon the buzzing insects attracted by their drying sweat forced them back to reality. He flicked a mosquito from her shoulder and Mel looked at him, suddenly unsure whether this was a moment for laughter or for something else entirely.
“It’s okay to speak. I won’t disappear,” he murmured against her ear, leaving a teasing kiss, more of a nip along her neck, a nuzzle, and a gentle sucking of earlobe.
All of this was suddenly too intimate and Mel scrambled away, pausing with one hand on the rock. She bit her lip, and looked down at his magnificent form for a long moment before holding out a single hand.
Whether Brant noticed that she still hadn’t spoken, she had no idea. But he took her hand and rose easily to his feet.
He followed her up the rock and then down into the water. She watched him swim a moment before she made her way back up the slippery rock. Still not talking.
Finding their clothes became something of a treasure hunt. Everything had scattered, with her panties floating in the water, lazily spinning in the current. She debated going in after them, but shrugged finally and slipped on her shoes, wordlessly shaking her head at his impractical designer shoes, all but ruined in the jungle. She murmured softly for him to slip them on, gathered up their clothing and led him from the jungle, both still naked. Finger to her lips, she pointed and led him back.
They skirted the clinic and slipped to a small cottage much like his. She hesitated at the door, then finally invited him in though her heart pounded. Somewhere a tiny voice in her head was still calling her every kind of idiot. But the sight of him in all his masculine beauty was quickly overcoming that voice, as was the memory of him between her legs. Breathless, she opened the door and ushered him in. He proceeded immediately to the bathroom, but surprisingly didn’t use it. He just made a long and careful examination of the base of the toilet.
