Paradise Forbidden

by Natalie E. Wrye

  “I’m pretty good, actually,” I respond. “And I guess I have you to thank for all of that.”

  “Not a prob. Really, no sweat, man. I mean, my mom thought it was pretty dangerous to go out looking…” He throws a glance at his mother, who is in the corner of the room, folding the makeshift mat on which I slept.

  “We saw your flare. You’re a lucky guy; we might have ignored it if Kat hadn’t suggested we go after it. She flew into a panic when it lit up the sky. We carted you back on a wagon that we attached to my dirt bike. It was wicked,” he continues on, grinning mischievously, to the chagrin of his slightly frowning mother.

  But I barely hear anything else.

  Because my heart gives a loud thud at the sound of Kat’s name, and now it is beating with a rhythm that I’m sure doesn’t occur in nature. The front door opens again, and I almost believe that I will be saved from my rising anxiety attack until I realize that the person now entering the room is none other than Kat herself.

  Her face is twisted into an unspoken grunt as she lugs two large pails into the room and sits them down carefully on the floor. Her ears must have been burning because she looks up directly into the face of Viho who is still saying her name, and then her stare diverts and smacks right dab into mine. Her glacial eyes are wide and penetrating.

  Something unseen takes place within our silent exchange because then I hear Ama and Viho speak in hushed voices with their native tongue and suddenly shuffle out of the room, away from Kat and me.

  An already taut thread within me snaps and before I know it, I am abruptly stomping towards Kat, who releases her grip on the now-insignificant buckets of water at our feet. She backtracks slowly, reaching for the door through which she just entered. I follow closely behind, as she walks outside towards the side of the cabin.

  I stop Kat from going any further, grabbing her arm and enclosing her against the wooden side of Ama’s house. I use my good arm to trap her between the wall and myself, still afraid that if I let her out of my sight for a second that she will disappear.

  Through my rising rage and the strain that’s in my throat, I can only voice the one word.

  “Explain,” I say, looking down into her crystal eyes, using the heat from my own glare to melt the ice that resides in hers.

  She relents, blurting the words unexpectedly. But in place of articulating her words, she is tumbling over them: spewing them from her lips in a dizzying rush that I hadn’t quite expected. I stand as still as a statue while Kat rambles without a taking a breath. I don’t breathe, either; I just listen.

  “Ok, so I came all the way out here to Tennessee to follow a lead on an article that I had been writing. Ama and her son, Viho, were those leads, and I had a rendezvous scheduled with them at a diner outside of Tellico Lake, but then I fell asleep on the bus without calling the diner.

  “The accident happened. And you… you happened.” This draws my attention, making my chest squeeze uncomfortably.

  “Nothing worked out like it was supposed to. I… I wanted to do a ton of things, but I didn’t.

  “And I decided to take the trip here without telling you, so I lead us here the whole way, and I wasn’t sure if we’d make it, so just in case it was a dead-end, I decided to leave you somewhere safe and go it alone. I kept traveling until I got close enough to luckily run into one of Ama’s neighbors here, and he brought me to Ama, so there. That’s the truth. That’s all I got.”

  I pause before making any moves, affording my brain the time to digest everything that Kat just told me. Her sentences weren’t really sentences at all, and every detail that has just come out of her mouth has been part of one long, unending string of words that is cut abruptly short.

  I take a deep breath before speaking. I suspected as much when she began telling the story, and yet, I am not placated by it in the least. My fury is just as strong now as it was yesterday when I woke up abandoned in an empty tent.

  I smack a raw hand over her head against the wall, but she doesn’t flinch, and I launch into an indestructible tirade against her.

  “Are you fucking insane, Kat? You’ve risked everything! My life. Yours. We could have died! We should have died. We’re lucky as hell to be alive, no thanks to you.

  “I never knew anyone who could be as goddamned irresponsible as you are. You don’t think shit through, do you?! You’re reckless. You’re careless. You’re hasty. No wonder you lost that goddamned writing job.”

  Kat inhales sharply, and I regret my words instantly, silently chiding myself for resorting to such a low blow. But I’m mad. Goddammit, I’ve never been so mad in all of my life. She closes her eyes for an instant, and when she raises them once again, there are tears on her lashes, chunky drops of water that cling to the dark hair, making them appear large and spiky.

  It’s the first time I’ve noticed her appearance since seeing her again, and now I let my eyes get their fill of her. Her hair is deliberately mussed, the long waves tossed back and separated as if she’s run her fingers through them. Her cheeks are flushed, and her skin is tanned from the extra exposure to the sun.

  Her nose is slightly red, and her lips – those lips – are caught between her teeth and are so bright that they almost glow against the background of the setting sun above our heads.

  I squint my eyes, trying to harden my resolve.

  “I could wring your neck right now,” I growl.

  “Yes.”

  “Choke the goddamned life out of you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re too stubborn for your own fucking good. And I’m tired of this shit, Kat. I’m done playing games with you.”

  “I get it,” she says finally, dropping her gaze back to the ground, causing my eyes to do the same.

  It gives me the opportunity to take in her entire frame, and I’m able to skim my eyes all the way down her delicate neck past her perky breasts and down to her tiny, bare toes.

  Heat crawls up my chest and I feel it fan its way to my face. I’m so angry. So fucking angry. I open my mouth to launch into another diatribe when instead I grab around the nape of Kat’s neck and plant her lips where my next words were going to be.

  Nothing – no anger, no rage – can replace the irrefutable relief and gratitude I feel to see that Kat is alive. I used my anger to mask it, but I am suddenly jolted with such a sense of overwhelming joy that I must do something to express it fully.

  Kissing Kat is the only thing I can think to do.

  I put my lips where her teeth just were and suck her bottom lip into my mouth, wanting to see if her taste matches its cherry color.

  I release the lip, choosing to focus on angling my mouth over hers until I hear her moan which causes a shudder in me. Her tiny pink tongue enters into the recesses of my hungry mouth, and she strokes my lethargic tongue with full caresses that make my cock harden without mercy. I grind my lips and hips into the hollows of her body, pressing her length-wise against the outside wall of the sturdy, wooden house.

  I want her clothes off. Right now. But she’s still swathed in a t-shirt and jeans and I switch hands to put my injured hand at her waist while the other hand crawls lower. I unfasten the button on her jeans and squeeze my hand beneath her zipper to cup her mound with four able fingers.

  I could get better leverage if I lower my own body, but I can’t. I can’t stop kissing Kat like this. I can’t stop teasing her with my tongue, sucking in her muffled moans.

  I use my thumb to stroke at the soft hair between her thighs. The padded part of my digit continues to search until it finds its intended target. I circle my thumb around her clit with a soft, smooth pressure, and I feel her wetness on my palm, prompting my hand to keep going, to keep moving so that I can push her to the brink.

  The word “Trevor” escapes from her lips, and I freeze immediately. It floats on a sigh from her mouth that is so soft that it is almost imperceptible, but I hear it, and I almost can’t take the well of emotion that starts to rise from some unknown depth
. I am way too affected by such a simple act. The hell is wrong with me?

  I don’t even have time to withdraw from our kiss before the front door of the wooden hut swings open and I hear a heavy footstep land. Kat and I shoot apart like opposing magnets, separating ourselves quickly as to avoid detection from either Ama or Viho.

  I am the first to look up towards the doorway, and I find Viho there: his face curious, but confused. His steps are tentative and awkward; he’s not sure what he’s walked in on. But when Kat rushes past both of us and into the house, I watch some understanding dawn on his jovial face, and he widens his eyes in surprise and returns from where he came.

  The door closes behind him, and I smack the wall in front of me, the frustration building once again within me, made stronger and more solid by the sexual tension that’s laying each additional brick.

  I contemplate the magnetism between Kat and I, pondering what exactly it is that brings us together. We’re not really opposing poles: more like exact replicas of each other, and every scientist knows that comparable magnets aren’t supposed to align.

  I’m the North to her North: the South to her South, and there’s no reason that the two should ever be drawn together. Nature should ordain that we never attract to each other in such a forceful, meaningful way, but we do… and the contradictory behavior of our involvement scares the hell out of me.

  I can just hear Chris and Griff now.

  “Think with the head above your neck and not the one below your belt. You’re in lust, and nothing else. You get off on the fucking challenge. She’s just a ball-breaker, and that makes you want her even more. Quit chasing after these beautiful and shallow broads.”

  Well, that last comment would come from Griff.

  But that’s the hitch. Kat is not one of those “beautiful and shallow broads” that Griff, Chris and I used to bed: one of those Caroline-type ex-cheerleaders with a penchant for Jaguars and jewelry.

  If she were gorgeous and vapid… or maybe even unattractive or uninteresting… but no…

  The universe had to make her stunning and funny and intriguing. Stupid, petty-ass universe. Just my fucking luck.

  I set out on a solitary trip, and Kat falls out of the sky and into my lap. And now I can’t stop thinking of ways to put her there… literally.

  On the bus, I was attracted to her, but now I am almost bound by her. This is dangerous. I can’t afford to feel for her this way. I thought wanting to fuck her would be an issue… but that, most definitely, is not the case.

  I want to lay her down and caress her small, curvy body with my tongue. I want to hear her sweet whispered whimpers in my ear. I want to plant my face between her thighs and dig my fingers into her writhing and rounded hips.

  I no longer want to fuck Kat; I want to make slow passionate love to her.

  And that… well, that’s an entirely different thing altogether. If it’s possible, it’s actually worse: probably the worst thing I could ever want in all of my twenty-seven years of living.

  By not wanting to fuck Kat, I’ve wound up fucking myself.

  ***

  Kat

  I can’t get my clothes off fast enough.

  Two seconds after barging back into the house, I run directly into Ama. I’m so flustered that I can barely say the words “bathroom” before she catches my drift and moves to the side, giving me space to head there undeterred.

  She calls Viho over, and he drags the water-filled tub out of the room and through the back door to be tossed. Meanwhile, Ama heats up additional water for a bath on my behalf.

  I wait silently in the room alone: too afraid to run into Trevor out there, too scared to even risk a second encounter. He will kiss me again; I know it. And I won’t do a damn thing to stop it if he does.

  When Ama returns, she lets me know that dinner will be served shortly. She leaves behind a tanned smock similar to her own for me to change into. I accept it graciously, closing the thick curtain divider behind her as she exits.

  I undress slowly, thinking about where Trevor’s hands have just been. I lean into the hot vat, hoping the water will sear away all the wanton desire that still simmers on my skin.

  I dip my hair into the tub and remember what it felt like to have Trevor clutch it in his hands. I scrub my waist and recall the feel of his fingers trailing down my side.

  To make matters worse, I’m talking to myself. Correction: I’m talking to parts of myself, those certain non-verbal body areas that have no business responding. I tell my vagina to put a lid on it, and she suggests a Trevor-shaped cap. I can’t win.

  Every thought, every touch makes me think of him, and by the time I climb out of the newly ice-cold bath, my body is ten times hotter than it was when I first entered.

  The smell of hot food slams into my nostrils the second I make my way out of the bathroom, and I am enticed into Ama’s den with a seduction that is as carnal as any sexual temptation. It’s been so long since we’ve had any real food, and my mouth waters at the mere thought of the taste.

  I swear to God: a little drool almost manages to escape when I turn the corner and see a bowl of stew in Trevor’s hands, his mouth open and laughing, his legs crossed Indian-style on the intricate floor rug.

  In that moment, I can’t tell what I want more, but then Ama looks up at me, and I realize that I’ve been standing over all of them without making any move to join the dinner that is being shared in close communion.

  Bandaged ankle and all, I sink to my knees awkwardly in front of the only open bowl, trying every possible trick in my book to avoid Trevor’s hot glare. Fortunately for me, when I finally get settled, it’s story-time, and Ama wastes no time launching into an entertaining spiel.

  “Good. Now that Kat’s here, I can finish telling the tale. Well, it’s not so much a tale as it is the history of our Cherokee heritage.” She smiles, winking at Viho.

  She tells us a grand sweeping story about Tellico Lake, the famous body of water upon which we nearly sit, and the ancestral lands of the Cherokee that lie along and beneath it.

  She recounts stories long past of the Native American nation, touching on the Cherokee capital, Tanasi, (a word that has now become Tennessee), and its memorial that now lies just offshore from the Chota Peninsula.

  Watching Ama weave a colorful anecdote is better than live theatre, and all of us, including Viho, sit inclined in frozen rapture as we are regaled with recounts of how renowned silversmith, Sequoyah, created the Cherokee alphabet.

  By the time Ama covers stories stemming from the Little Tennessee River all the way up to the peak of Roan Mountain, the hour is late, our food is cold and half-eaten, and the fireplace’s embers are barely lit.

  After witnessing Viho’s eyes droop a little too much to pass as blinks, Ama decides to pack it up, and we help her put the food away while Viho prepares the living room floor for Trevor and my bedtime accommodations.

  We are provided with two separate makeshift mats on which to sleep, and Ama relights the fire to stave off some of the inherent chill that still lingers in the surrounding April-climated valley of the Tennessee Mountains.

  Heavy curtains divide the rooms of the small cabin, and Ama smiles at us before issuing a Cherokee “Good night” in the form of a quiet “ohs-dah-soo-nah-ee.”; she then vanishes behind the sheet that separates her quarters from our own.

  And now we are alone.

  The earlier fire that was snuffed briefly is once again reignited, and it burns with a renewed force that licks and leaps higher and higher in intensity. And I am not talking about the flame that crackles within Ama’s fireplace.

  I’m talking about the heat (that ever-present spark) that exists between Trevor and I: an all-consuming inferno that is only temporarily tempered, but never dies. Like any inferno, it refuses to be put out, refuses to be snuffed.

  Sometimes, it gives the appearance of being contained: being mitigated or diminished, but those are illusions. It burns and burns and burns… until there’s nothing
left to scorch. And then… only then… does it perish.

  Wanting Trevor will most assuredly destroy me… and despite knowing this, I cannot find it in me to care.

  We lie on mats that are only a few feet from each other, and yet it feels as if an ocean divides us. Any distance where Trevor cannot touch, caress or kiss me is too far, and any other perceived proximity just will not do.

  Our backs are to each other: me in my beige smock, him in his grey shirt and shorts. Our bodies are tense and tight: hunched and crumpled with all of the resistance that we are desperately holding onto.

  For the umpteenth time, I sneak a peek over my shoulder at Trevor, my eyes gliding over his muscled back and arms. His hand is balled: fisted at his side, and suddenly I wish it were on me. My body is overriding my brain, and right now, my overactive imagination is thinking of all the ways that Trevor can violate my reclaimed virtue.

  I realize that I’ve been punishing Trevor: punishing him for every inadequacy that I’ve felt over the past three years, every doubt that I’ve been made to feel. I’m placing the weight of my insecurities on his shoulders, and he has been made to pay the cost of every managing editor and publishing head that’s short-changed me.

  Why am I so intent on showing how tough I am? I don’t have to prove myself to anybody. I don’t have to overcompensate for years of mealy-mouth-itis.

  I’m going to work on that from now on. In fact, part of me must have been subconsciously making changes to my mental state and outlook already.

  Because as hard as it is to admit… I trust Trevor. And I haven’t trusted anyone in a long ass time. It feels different this time, more real with him… because he’s earned it.

  He’s rescued me when he could have withdrawn, followed me when he could have run. He’s never taken advantage of me, never mishandled my confidence. I trust him with my body. I trust him with my life.

  In fact, the only person that I really don’t trust… is myself.

  It’s been so long, too long, since I have wanted a man this viscerally. The last man I’ve had any type of intimacy with just so happens to be the one person on Earth that I wish would magically combust into flames.