by Ash Harlow
I know all of this because the guy who ferried me over on the boat gave me a scenic tour with full commentary. I didn’t ask for it. At that stage, I could barely speak. I’d flown from LA to Auckland, then squeezed myself onto a light aircraft to get down here. I’d scarcely stopped moving since I’d decided to get away, and I certainly didn’t feel like making friends with someone who clearly enjoyed talking.
All of this has become immaterial because I have to decide if it’s safe enough now for me to stay.
A light’s come on in Stella’s cottage. It’s that creamy soft glow that comes from a paraffin lamp rather than electricity. She shouldn’t be up there alone in such primitive conditions, but I’m the only threat on the island and I have no intention of harming her.
Far from it. I want to protect her, and the best way to do that is to either work out how I can conceal my identity, or leave this place.
I return to the house. On the bench is a plate of mussels in a deliciously fragrant sauce. There’s bread wrapped in a cloth keeping warm. Stella’s half-drunk glass of wine has a drowned fruit fly floating in it. I pour it down the sink, grip the bench and try to pull myself together. My appetite has gone, but it feels somewhat rude to not eat after she’s prepared this meal for me.
I grab another beer from the fridge, take the plate of mussels and sit at the large table. And tonight, unlike the previous nights here, I feel alone.
The usual insects batter the window, attracted by the light. They hit the glass like hailstones, and in the morning, there’ll be a number of them, on their backs on the veranda, skinny legs slowly lifting and falling, like a drowning person waving for help. The first morning I put them into the garden, but they didn’t survive.
The mussels are the best I’ve ever eaten and it’s easy to finish the entire plate. When I’m done, I find my guitar, switch off the lights and stretch out on one of the many window seats, where I can see up to the cottage. In the dark, I play the same chord structure, over and over. It’s been in my head all day, and in bringing it to life, I find a sense of release, of opening the valve and letting some of the steam free.
I’m playing it to Stella. It’s the first time I’ve picked up my guitar since my tour ended and I left LA. Having no desire to play was the kick in the ass that pushed me to leave. The cottage goes dark. Stella must be heading for bed. I keep watching, continue playing, charging it up—blues, indie folk, heavy metal, classical—trying to find a style that works for the mood I’m in. A few words from the thoughts in my head become lyrics, and I throw Stella’s name in at the end.
I imagine her beneath me in bed as I drive my cock into her, capture her whimpers and cries with my mouth. Taste her skin, spending an hour kissing her neck and shoulder so that when I slip my fingers between her legs, she’s ready to come. She doesn’t know what she’s given back to me, but I want her so fucking hard. I want to go to her now, in her broken cottage, and carry her back here and keep her with me.
Fuck. This must be jet lag or exhaustion making me think like this, but I can’t deny she’s the first woman who’s stirred anything in me for a long time.
4 ~ STELLA
The dawn chorus, particularly in spring, is one of the joys of being on Ahunui. Little has disturbed this island for centuries, and we’re blessed with an abundance of songbirds, some rarely found on the mainland.
I lie in bed, identifying the different calls I’ve been able to distinguish and name since Granddad taught me when I could first talk. I slept soundly in spite of the tension yesterday evening with Reuben. There’s a section of people who don’t like having their photo taken, but Reuben’s reaction was one of the more extreme I’ve come across.
When I left him last night, I walked slowly up the track, wondering if he would call me back to tell me he’d overreacted. I’d hoped he would.
There’d been a spark between us, and I’d felt it more than once throughout the day. When I caught him watching me, he was slow to drag his gaze away. How much should his erratic moods concern me?
It’s only the two of us on the island and he could chop me into pieces and bury me in the bush. A large part of my life is nomadic, and friends are used to not hearing from me for weeks if I’m involved in a project. Nobody would even know to search for me.
But I don’t get that type of vibe off him.
Sexy, commanding, virile? Most definitely.
Axe murderer? No.
And no shit, when I saw the equipment he was packing when his underwear got soaked in the surf yesterday, my bikini bottoms got soaked, too. And that was no wave. Well, not one from the ocean. That was a wave of desire, a surge. Make that a tsunami.
The move he pulled in the kitchen when I fed him the tuatua, when he grabbed my wrist, sucked on my fingers and licked my thumb? Just thinking about it again heats me right to simmering point. One touch and I’m ready to bubble over for him. I lay in bed last night, reliving that moment, feeling his mouth on my fingers, taking the whole scene further as he lifted my sweater, pushed up my bra and sucked on my breast. Then his hand, a long, slow stroking of my belly, each time getting nearer the button of my jeans until he slipped it free, lowered the zipper and dragged my jeans down past my hips.
And I’ve got a fist in his hair as he goes to his knees, taking my underwear to my ankles.
I had fantasy sex with Reuben before I went to sleep, again when I woke around two a.m. A third round right now would be taking it to obsession. As it is, I’m going to have trouble looking at him without blushing.
We did stuff last night, Reuben Whoever-the-hell-you-are, that would blow your mind.
I take another fast and cold shower, put the coffee pot on, and sit down to make a list of all the things that need doing. Apart from suffering through mugs of instant coffee, Reuben was fine before I got here. If I get the maintenance chores done, perhaps he’ll agree to keep the garden watered for me, and I can leave him to himself on the island. From last night, I get the feeling that’s what he’d prefer.
My career plans won’t be helped in any way by hanging around mooning over the mystery guy. I doubt I’ll ever be offered an opportunity again like the one I have with the gallery, so that has to be my focus. Plus, money. Right now, I need to earn.
First, I check the garden and give the seedlings some words of encouragement and a good feed with a mix Granddad makes up. It’s basically a seaweed soup that steeps in buckets for months before bottling. He calls it Neptune’s Gold, and he’s got bottles of it lining the shelves in the garden shed. I dilute it in a watering can and soak the plants. It’s pungent, but it boosts the plants like nothing else I know.
I can tell by my phone that the Wi-Fi isn’t set up, so I head up to the house to find Reuben. I plan to assure him his privacy is guaranteed and that I can be out of his way and off the island inside three days. It’s not going to give me the opportunity to photograph some of the places I wanted to out here, but I can wait until he leaves, then come back and do that.
Inside me is this little worm of disappointment wriggling about in my stomach, because a lot of me wants to get to know him better. He’s scorching hot. There. I’ve thought it, so it’s true. Once I’ve returned to the mainland I’ll probably spend a week coming up with ways I could have better dealt with this situation, ways I could have actually got to know him. Fate might have thrown us together, but it’s going to have to give things a hefty nudge to get the connection happening.
I don’t want a connection. I have to remember that.
I step onto the veranda. The door is open, so I call out to him.
He replies, but I’m not sure if he said ‘Coming’ or ‘Come in’. I’m still hovering with indecision, shuffling from foot to foot when he appears.
Sweet mother of God, he’s fresh from the shower, wet hair, beard damp, and he’s only wearing a towel. I don’t even have the manners to look away because this is a vision, and I’ve already got a good idea of what’s barely hidden beneath the strip of cloth around
his waist. It’s mouth-wateringly large and ready for action.
I wonder if he’d like a good morning kiss, or a re-enactment of one of the fantasies I had last night. There’s the one where I dropped to my knees, and his towel will be so much easier to remove than his imaginary fantasy jeans were. I swallow past the thick lump in my throat, and I’m still staring, biting my bottom lip so that my chin doesn’t hit my chest.
His mouth widens to a slow, sexy smile.
I’ve got to stop gawking and start speaking.
“Reuben, hi. Um, so there’s these things. You have Wi-Fi. No, what I mean is you don’t have Wi-Fi now, but I can set it up for you. And the water pressure’s a trickle in the kitchen. Maybe the filter. I’ll check. Except, the water pressure might be low everywhere, in which case, it’s the pump. I’m not so good at pumps. Water pumps, I mean.” Oh my fucking life, I’ve lost my mind. My mouth has taken off and I can’t stop it. “Is your shower okay? At least you’ve got hot water. Well, I guess you have. I’ve got a plan—” My words fire at jet speed because he’s walking towards me, still wearing the towel and the sexy grin, and my feet simply won’t obey me when I send the signal to move.
“Stop.” He presses a finger to my lips, and I want to open my mouth and suck it. “Before you say anything more, I want to apologise for being so rude last night, Stella. Can we begin again?”
I’d reply, but, you know, there’s still the issue of the finger that’s pressed against my lips, so I nod.
“Good, you can speak now, but damn, you Kiwis talk fast. Maybe slow it down a little, and try one topic at a time. I’ll do my best to keep up.”
“You look great in that towel.” What the fuck? Where did that even come from?
“I’m hotter without it.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” My feet have reconnected with my brain, and to save myself any further embarrassment—because my mouth has yet to catch up—I make a beeline for the kitchen sink and the troublesome water filter in the cupboard beneath. Except Reuben goes to move at the same time, and we collide, and I stumble, reach out to steady myself, and catch hold of his towel, which comes away in my hands.
“You just couldn’t take my word for it?” Reuben’s got a look on his face like he’s just won the lottery.
“Your word for what?” I look at him, at his face, because I’m not going down there, no matter how much I want to.
“That I’m hotter without the towel.”
“Oh, that,” I say dismissively as I march off into the kitchen. I crouch down at the cupboard and peer into the gloom beneath the sink.
Reuben joins me.
“What are we looking at?” he asks.
His voice has dropped an octave, and it’s slick and sexy. He smells of soap and something else. I think it’s testosterone. I like it. “I’m checking the water filter,” I explain. I was hoping for a business-like tone, but I’m squeaking. My thighs ache from crouching, so I place the towel on the floor, kneel and lean in. I get hold of the fastening at the base of the filter casing and try to unscrew it, but it’s tight. “Bastard thing,” I mutter.
“Let me help.”
Reuben’s hand joins mine around the casing, and our forearms brush, sending a zing through my body. I clearly haven’t been close enough to a man for a while, because my body totally overreacts to every move he makes. Together we unscrew the filter. Well, Reuben does. My hand just stays for the ride. With an extra jiggle, the filter comes free.
I sit on the floor as I pull it out, Reuben sitting beside me.
“Bravo,” I exclaim, and wave it in the air. Of course, I’m sitting alongside a completely naked god-like man. He’s huge, all of him, especially his cock. I want to touch him.
“You’re still naked,” I say in an appreciative whisper.
“Because you stole my towel, and now you’re sitting on it,” he whispers, too, mimicking me.
My low-level interest in photographing the human form has heightened to Everest-like proportions.
I jump to my feet and pick up the towel. When I go to hand it to him he just stands there, arms outstretched, no inclination to take the towel from me.
“You took it off, you put it back,” he says with a wink.
For the sisters of the world, I steal a look. Not a glance. A good long look, and today my eyes have special powers because that glorious cock starts to move of its own accord. Up.
Oh. Shit. Now I’m a snake charmer.
It’s a shame, but if that thing gets any bigger, it’s going to need some attention. I reach the towel behind him, and this is where our size difference comes into play because I have to get close to do it. I pull it tight around his waist and try to tuck it in, but there’s no ignoring the tent pole that brushes against my stomach.
“I’m really sorry about that,” I say.
Reuben tilts his head. “About what?”
“Your, um…” I wave my hands in the general direction of his groin as if I’m trying to shoo it away.
“Take no notice,” he says. “It’s been doing that since it saw you in the garden yesterday.” Then he turns on his heel, and I watch his fine ass leave the room.
I grab the filter and put it on the bench. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve got to get off this island and away from Reuben as soon as possible. He’s done something to me, because I never behave like this.
I pull the filter out of the casing and it’s caked in grit. Some filter. A small stone has lodged in the inflow pipe, which I manage to remove with a fork. While he’s out of the room I decide the previous ten minutes never occurred. They’ve gone from life completely. I find a new filter in the pantry and I’m fitting it when Reuben returns. Sadly, he’s clothed. No, that’s good.
“All fixed,” I say in a neighbourly voice. Then I duck under the sink and work my way as far as possible into the cupboard. Sometimes my small stature is a blessing. Hopefully he’ll be gone by the time I emerge. Eventually I get the filter connected, but when I go to back out I see Reuben’s naked feet close to me, so I ask him to give the tap a try.
There’s a splutter, a couple of spurts, and a lot of gurgling before the water flows.
“Plumbing, another superpower,” Reuben says.
“It was nothing,” I say. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just clean up.” That’s the signal for him to go, but he misses it. I wonder if I can stay in the cupboard all day, but he asks me if I need help getting out. I’m about to tell him I’m good when I feel his hands on my hips. Holy shit. I jump, bang my head, curse, and am hauled out of the cupboard by the strongest pair of hands that have ever touched my body.
He releases me the moment I’m standing. I know I should be relieved, but I’m somewhat disappointed.
“What did you hit?”
I rub the sore spot on the top of my head and he leans in and gives it a kiss.
“Kisses are the best medicine,” he explains.
“Yes, doctor,” I reply, and scoot to the other side of the kitchen. “Wi-Fi next,” I announce, and immediately my jovial island buddy stiffens, and not in the good way that happened when he was naked.
“I don’t need it,” he says.
“Hmm. But I do.”
“What for?”
“Launching rockets into space. What do you think it’s for?” Sexy scowling should not be possible, but somehow Reuben’s managed it. “Look, I need email contact for my job. The Wi-Fi connection is here in this house. It doesn’t emit death rays. To be honest, it’s barely capable of emitting a signal most of the time.”
“Fine. Just don’t spend all day on it, reading me bullshit from gossip sites.”
He’s glaring at me like he’s waiting for my assurance. I ignore him and unpack the modem. “I can promise you I have better things to do with my time than that. Anyway, it’s only for a couple of days. Once everything’s running smoothly here, I’ll get off the island and leave you to it.”
I thought that should have had him leaping for joy, but his look darkens
. Man, he’s hard to please.
5 ~ REUBEN
I’m deeply unnerved by the idea of Stella leaving. I shouldn’t be. I wanted a place to myself, but somehow she’s burrowed into my head and I want to know her. All of her.
My guitar’s still in the sitting room, and I grab it and take it to my bedroom before she notices.
“Wi-Fi’s on,” she calls out.
At some stage through last night I got the idea that I wanted to tell her who I was. I wanted to march up that track and bang on her cottage door and explain why my life was so fucked up. I tried to play it out of my system but in the end I tossed my guitar aside and sat in the dark, staring up the hill. Eventually, I made it to bed and all I could do was think about fucking her, and the confusing thing is that I don’t want to fuck her out of my system, but into it.
I need her to know me as the person I am right now. Not the person I was a month ago. Again, this morning I was prepared to tell her who I was, but now, with the Wi-Fi on, she’ll look me up and read all the bullshit about me, and that will colour her opinion, even if she says it won’t. You can’t unsee something, or unread it, the same as you can’t unhear a song.
“I’m going to catch some fish for dinner, do you want to come?”
She’s a fucking hunter-gatherer. I don’t think a woman’s even cooked for me in the last few years, yet alone gone to the supermarket and bought some food. They meet me, they guess my worth, and they expect to be eating at the top table in the best restaurants. Any less, they pout.
I have to shake this mood and go and fish with her. I’ve also got to stop being such a shit around her and trust her more, because I’ve only got a couple of days to convince her to stay.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her.
She’s gathered together rods, a couple of low beach chairs, buckets and a box filled with hooks and stuff. On the beach she tips the bucket towards me, revealing the crabs she got yesterday when we were digging for tuatua. In a deft move she whacks one, hooks the meat out and baits the hooks. I think I fall in love with her right there. Then she shows me how the reel works, because, no, I’ve never fished, okay? We walk together into the tide to cast our lines. Thankfully, mine reaches the same distance as Stella’s, but that’s more to do with brute strength than technique.
