East in Paradise

by Tif Marcelo

  He shrugs, then smiles. “Eh. It’s nothing I haven’t experienced with drill sergeants.”

  I wince. “They were that bad?”

  He shakes his head, then nods.

  I break into laughter. “Yeah, they were. God, I’m so sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I’ll just have to take the leftover shreds of my pride and have Granny sew them back together. What matters is we passed and things are good so we can keep going with this . . . arrangement.”

  “Exactly. And the good news is you’ll only have to survive my dad through the summer, just until we”—I air quote the next words—“ ‘break up.’ ”

  He nods, but just before he turns, I reach out and grab him by the forearm, provoked by his expression. I slink in between him and the door. “The way you’re looking at me. What’s up?”

  “Truth, right?” He expels a sigh.

  “Yes, absolutely.” The tone of his voice is worrying, and I draw my arms into my body. Mitchell is anything but dramatic.

  “I know it was me who roped you into this plan, but after meeting your father, I feel like an asshole.”

  “Whoa. Why?” When he doesn’t answer right away, I nudge him gently on his belly. “Speak, you.”

  “According to your father, I’m apparently the person who’s going to corrupt you and break your heart.”

  I tilt my head up at him and roll my eyes, just to punctuate how I think the notion is silly. “Really.”

  “I defended myself, knowing I’m lying to him . . . anyway, you and I know the truth, and we have a deal and that’s all that matters.”

  My body relaxes against the door, and a tender feeling sweeps over me. Mitchell’s got more thoughtful and serious under his mellow exterior than I’ve given him credit for. “Aw.”

  An eyebrow flies upward. “You didn’t just aw at what I said.”

  “Awwww.” I lengthen the word. “I can’t help it. That was so sweet.”

  “Look, I know we’ve only been, um . . . together . . . for a short time, but here’s what I get from you. You might not care about everyone else who’s watching, but you care about what your family thinks. Deeply. And for some stupid-ass reason, I care about how they think of me, too.” He reaches around me for the doorknob.

  But I don’t want this conversation to end. After all of the touching, the holding hands, his physical closeness, the kiss . . . it doesn’t make sense for him to clam up. Now that he’s dealt with my family, and his concern for me and for us is genuine, I can’t let him walk away without explaining himself.

  “Is that the only reason?” I clutch the front of his shirt with both hands, to center him in front of me. The action is both spontaneous and intuitive from being in front of the camera, from being together every day. Still, heat rises to my cheeks because this feels real.

  He shakes his head. “I want to prove him wrong. I want to show him I’m not going to hurt you, because you do deserve better. Under other circumstances, this might have worked somehow, if I got over how much of a pain in the rear you are, or that we have a business relationship. But whether or not I convinced him tonight I’m not some jerk is moot. He’ll witness our breakup in August along with the rest of the public and he’ll be right. I’m the fucker who’ll break his baby girl’s heart.”

  My breath leaves me, thoughts halted on one sentence. “What do you mean, this might have worked?”

  He leans in, then props his arm behind me on the door. The sweep of his smoldering gaze brings up a delicious shiver that begins from the inside out. I hold my breath to still the yearning in my core. “You can’t tell?” he asks.

  “What?” My voice is a whisper. Has he heard me talking to myself? Did he hear me argue with the devil on my shoulder?

  “That I want you. That I can’t get enough of you during the day. When I’m away from you, all I want to do is get back, right here, so I can find a reason to touch you. That I want to wake up with you in my arms again.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs, and as it drops to the base of his throat, I swallow in perfect timing.

  I shouldn’t reciprocate. This, I know. What we have is technically fake.

  Oh, but the heat between us isn’t fake, it’s not contrived by the camera, and he’s just confirmed it.

  His face falls in my silence. “I’m gonna go.”

  A rush of panic sweeps through me. I was just processing the information he threw at my feet. He can’t say that and just up and leave. “Were you going to let me answer?”

  Confusion flashes in his eyes. “I didn’t ask a question.”

  “Yes, you did. You asked if I could tell, and no. I couldn’t. But it’s because I’ve been too busy . . . trying to get you out of my head.”

  The air between us becomes heady and thick. But a slight upturn of his mouth breaks the ice, and I’m sucked into those eyes of his. “This might be the first time we’ve agreed on anything right off the bat.”

  “What do you think we should do next?” I pull him flush against me, knowing what I’m asking for, but I don’t care anymore. The weeks of being at odds with him melt away. He braces my waist with one hand, already familiar with the curve of my body. It takes every part of me not to shut my eyes as I feel his erection against me.

  “I know what I want.” He glides a finger against my jawline, up to my ear. “Can I kiss you?”

  Pleasure thrums through me. His question is the straw that breaks my resolve. I’ve wanted to kiss him again, to taste his lips and pick up where we left off from our first night together. “Just because you asked. Yes.” I sip in breaths as his lips feather across my cheek and earlobe, down my neck. His hair brushes against my chin, his nose following, lips coming to hover millimeters above mine.

  “You and your attitude,” he whispers, and dips down to lick my bottom lip before taking it whole.

  Holy hell. The hunger I’ve kept hidden rises in waves as we kiss, and our hands work overtime as they seek every opportunity to discover one another. The kiss drowns out my conscience and snuffs out the logic of why we shouldn’t be doing this, how us being together will lead down a messy road.

  Damn the pressure of the camera, of the money, of his and my differences. Right now, all I want is Mitchell’s bare skin under my fingers. I want to delve into him and know more about what makes him tick. I want to take another risk—I want to see if our kiss wasn’t a leftover consequence of wine goggles, if the charge between us wasn’t just made up by me.

  I unbutton his shirt while he peels off my flannel top so I’m left with a tank, and he carefully removes our microphones. He sets them down on a side table, though we drop the rest of our clothes like trail markers as we fumble our way to the bottom of the stairs.

  He lifts me up by the waist. Our lips pull apart, and in a gymnastics move I haven’t attempted since I was eight years old, I wrap my legs around him. At the connection, desire surges through me, from my toes to my core, to my lips, and I lower my face and kiss him again as he slogs up the stairs, one hand on the banister and another under my ass.

  “I’m at the end of the hall,” I say into his mouth, amped, though my imagination has already beaten me to it. Lust and impatience have taken over all logic, and as I squeeze my legs tighter, he pushes my bedroom door with a foot, groaning as both hands squeeze my flesh.

  He gently lays me down on my white down comforter. He props himself above me by his elbows, breath heavy. “Someone’s a little excited.”

  “No one’s ever carried me up a flight of stairs before.” I pad my fingers on the vein that popped on his forehead, and I track the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The pulse in his neck keeps time with my pounding heart, and this spurs my appetite for him. He’s showing me a truth now—this fascination, this urge, this craving I harbor for him is mutual. And God, I love that. “You get an A-plus for effort.”

  “Not fo
r execution?”

  I crawl to the top of the bed, to my pillows. “That’s still to be seen.”

  18

  MITCHELL

  “You’re talking to a summa cum laude.” I crawl onto the bed like a lion on the prowl. My voice comes out hoarse, animalistic, though I’m willing myself to exercise control.

  She bites on her bottom lip. “And that’s supposed to mean what? You’re up to the challenge?”

  My vision hazes much like I’m drunk on my father’s aged zin, so high from the possibility of being with her and in her. “I won’t have to rise to it—I’m the one who’s going to set the fucking bar for you.”

  I hear her take a breath. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her back so her face is below mine, black hair in a halo around her head. But she’s no angel, because her eyes are dancing, daring my next move.

  Damn, the woman won’t stop. Her attitude won’t quit; she refuses to submit.

  And it fucking turns me on.

  “I’m going to kiss you again,” I growl. “And I won’t stop with your lips or your neck. No, I’m going to taste every part of you, and I’m going to take my sweet-ass time. After tonight, you’re going to beg to give me that A.”

  I’m beset with satisfaction when Bryn shivers underneath me. Point: Dunford. And when she spreads her legs open so I can rest between them and press against her heat, satisfaction turns into anticipation.

  Starting at her brows, I plant kisses down her face, embedding my fingers in her hair until a mewl escapes her lips.

  “Oh, Mitchell.”

  I smile against her neck. “That’s all I want. For you to moan my name.” My tongue finds its way to her earlobe, circling it once before nipping it gently. I trace the outline of her flower tattoo down the back of her neck. Her legs swing wider to accommodate the increased pressure I’m placing against her, and I watch her eyes roll backward with pleasure. My lips trail to the notch just above her breastbone, and this becomes a milestone.

  From here, it’s all downhill, in all the best ways.

  I cup her breasts over the thin fabric of her tank. Her nipples pebble against my touch, drawing my thumbs to them. They graze over the stiff peaks, and she responds by arching her back.

  “You like that?”

  She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip and nods. I follow my fingers and close my lips over her breast, lick against the fabric, while my other hand cups and squeezes the other breast. While her fingers thread into my hair, I run a hand around the bottom hem of her tank, enjoy the silk of her skin. Gently I raise her tank over her head, and watch as goose bumps pepper her exposed skin, up to her dark brown nipples.

  I don’t realize how ravenous I am until I take a nipple into my mouth. The rhythm of her breaths becomes my metronome as I rush through wanting both, licking one nipple and then the other, and back again, and then slow down to take my time. I listen for her gasps of pleasure, the growls that escape her throat.

  Her body is perfect and beautiful, a river of soft skin, curves, and muscle. She smells like the garden and a hint of citrus. “You’re fucking amazing.”

  I’ve never met anyone like her before—someone who could drive me to confusion one second and have me mesmerized the next. She pushes me to the brink of frustration, but I can’t get enough of her. From here on, I know this contact won’t be enough. I’ll want more. I’ll want her, totally and completely.

  Bryn must like what I say, because she lifts my face to hers and crashes her lips against mine. Our tongues vie for domination—even while kissing, her competitive streak doesn’t falter. Her fingers trail down to the waistband of my jeans. They flip the button off, and my zipper opens against the strain of my erection. I feel the slide of her skin against my sex, her firm grip on me.

  She speaks into my mouth. “What are you grinning about?”

  “You can’t just let me take care of you.” I stop her hands from spurring me further, pull them so they’re above her head. I run my hands down the back of her jean-clad thighs, my fingers pressing against where she’s burning hot for me.

  She wiggles against me, as expected. She hates being called out. I take advantage of the momentum and flip her so she’s on top, straddling me. Her hair drapes over her shoulder, ends covering the top of her breasts. She’s even more stunning from this view.

  And my erection has her full attention, with my jeans low, front wide open. Eyes flashing, she leans down, hair covering me, her fragrance a canopy. I breathe in her scent, take in her lips as they work magic on me, punctuated by a slow grind of her hips. It’s me who groans now, but this time, it’s a plea.

  Okay, her on top has to happen again, and often.

  My body rises as she grinds down into a rhythm, while her lips move under my chin. Holy shit. She’s going for it . . . under, to my Adam’s apple, up to my earlobe, to my spot.

  I suck in a breath. “Fuck. Bryn.”

  My heart pumps like a turbocharged engine. My hands maneuver her hips, cup her ass, and squeeze. My fingers crawl into the waistband of her jeans, and in one pop, set the button free. It’s as if these jeans have a life of their own, because they wiggle down as we grind, so the curve of her ass shows, and just beyond her shoulder, I see it working over me, rising, rotating, until I can’t stand it any longer. I lower her jeans and palm her soft skin.

  “Oh yes,” she purrs.

  I turn us to our sides to rid ourselves of these clothes, but just as my hand slides below her navel, she stills.

  And it’s like someone turns up the lights a little bit brighter.

  Her expression is a sign; the moment’s hesitation means she’s doubting how fast we’re going. Red flags flash before me as I retrieve my hand from her jeans. It’s time to think of ice cubes, sick puppies, and rotting grapes. Got to think about anything else to siphon the blood flow from my throbbing cock.

  But Bryn’s still kissing me. When she threads her fingers into mine, I realize she doesn’t mean no forever. I lay it out on the table. “I’m cool with going with your flow, Bryn.” I sweep her hair off her face, skin slick like mine. Slowing the momentum is much harder than ramping it back up, but in the end, it’ll be worth it.

  Her lips flatten into a slight smile. “This all feels so right, so natural.”

  I gauge the hesitance on her face. “But . . .”

  “But we have the show. And what if . . . what if we complicate things by doing this? We see each other every day, and while this feels like the next step, this isn’t real life. We’re an arranged couple. You didn’t know my birthday. I don’t know yours.”

  “It’s September 4.” My response is quick, despite the truth Bryn’s uttered. After a couple of breaths to ease the physical pain from our change of heart, I nod. “But I get it.”

  Going into this half-cocked might end up with all of us being hurt, and it’s not just us on the line. We’ve got money depending on it. I’ve got an entire legacy riding on this live stream.

  She gazes up at me through her dark eyelashes. “What do we do?”

  “We do the right thing, I guess. Stop.” While I could be persuaded otherwise, Bryn’s no longer feeling the urgency. Which means it’s over, for now.

  “Are we okay?”

  “Definitely.” I rake my hair to the back. Though I don’t know how I’m not supposed to kiss her right now and every single time I see her. Heaving a breath, I sit up. “But yeah, I should go before my balls fall off. Take a cold shower or pull my truck down the hill or something.”

  She grabs on to my arm, laughing. “Would it do too much damage to your balls to stay?”

  “Really?”

  “I’m behind marathoning my favorite show. Want to watch it till we fall asleep? Or is that too much? Should we not do that either?”

  The idea of having a full night’s sleep with this woman is suddenly the best second prize. “Y
ou kidding? It’s your birthday, and you can have anything you want.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we have a bowl of popcorn between us, backs against the headboard of her bed. Gilmore Girls is playing on the screen, and with the volume on high and the main characters verbally sparring, I’m properly de-escalated thanks to the G-rated action on the screen.

  Except I can’t really understand what the hell’s going on, because Bryn is that person who talks through shows. Yep, she’s the one no one likes to sit next to, the one you wish you could muzzle until the credits run. I crunch through popcorn while she speaks hurriedly between scene breaks, and I can’t tell who’s mad at whom and why.

  Still, I don’t say a word even if I have the urge to kiss this woman’s face so she will shut up. This loosened version of Bryn is hilarious and even more irresistible.

  After one episode, Bryn changes into shorts and a tank. I keep my shirt off but my jeans on. Once propped up on pillows and settled under the covers, she presses play on the next episode, and slowly we snuggle into each other. Despite the warning flags waving that a sleepover still might not be wise, the warmth of her body works faster than a tranquilizer, and I feel myself slip into what I know will be dreamless sleep.

  But before I finally close my eyes, I plant a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday, Mary Bryn Aquino.”

  Her breath is warm on my cheek. “Thank you for spending it with me, Mitchell Dunford.”

  “It’s David.” My eyelids are heavy, but I fight them for this last moment. “My middle name is David.”

  19

  BRYN

  This time it’s me who wakes first, and I open my eyes to utter beauty: a hazy light filling the room, the sight of fluttering leaves outside my window. My quilt is bunched like waves around Mitchell and me.

  I smile and squeeze Mitchell’s body against me. A week and a half ago, I ran away from this. At the time, knowing more about this man, finding out there was more to him than the superficial role he played in my life was a threat. But since then, since yesterday with my family, last night in this bed, and now this morning . . . I’m thirsty for details about him. Does Mitchell celebrate his birthday? Will I have to endure a similar interrogation from a family member of his? Those people in the pictures I found in the drawer—who are they? Those pills—does he need them? Why is he taking them?