Proximity (11 page)

"At the wedding, when you're waiting at the end of the aisle dressed in your tux with the guys all around you," she crawled over him dressed in only her panties and enjoyed his gaze ogling her bare breasts, "you can wonder if I'm still playing a game of chicken."

He laughed. "Get down here and kiss me. We both know neither of us is ever hitting the ditch."

"Do we?" She arched an eyebrow, refusing to comply to his demand, and unsnapped his jeans without breaking eye contact. She peeled his jeans from his long legs before running her fingers lightly over his skin as she crawled back to straddle his hips. "I." She kissed his lower abdomen and rubbed her hand over his erection that tented his boxer briefs. "Love." She licked the center of his chest while pushing his shirt to his shoulders. "You." She devoured his mouth with all the pent up desire she'd always felt for him, but had been too afraid to express.

"You love me." He grinned against her mouth as his hand claimed her breast. Squeezed.

With a smile she slid away from him, pulled his boxer briefs down his hips while raining kisses over his inner thighs. She slid her hand over his penis.

"Savannah, not to sound like a wimp or anything..."

"Too late." She knew she needed to treat him tenderly because of his injuries.

He tugged on her hair and pulled her up until they were eye-to-eye and lip-to-lip. "I want you naked and fucking me. Just go easy, okay? Never tell anyone I said that."

Laughter danced between their mouths as they kissed, eyes wide open in the well-lit room. His fingers slid beneath the lace panties before sliding inside of her. His left arm moved, the cast rough against her skin as he adjusted their position so he could feast on her breast.

She gripped the headboard and tipped her head back, content to let him touch her any way he wanted. She tilted her head back, enjoying the heat of his mouth on her nipple and the thrusting of his fingers.

When his hand squeezed her ass and he moaned something incoherent against her skin, she moved down and kissed him again with all the love she felt in her heart. No more hiding or holding back.

She gently pushed his shoulders back onto the mattress before sliding herself onto his erection. She eased herself over him, savoring the slow invasion of her body inch by inch.

"I love you so much," he said, his uninjured hand sliding over her abdomen.

She rode him hard, arched her back, closed her eyes, grabbed his thighs with her palms and moved with primal instinct as he touched her from breast to hip and back again while matching her thrusts with his own.

In perfect synchronicity—just like when they dived—always matching each other's pace as if born to be in harmony.

Thrills that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being free to love him rocked through her body and soul. She lowered herself to him, slowing the pace, not wanting it to end, and meshed her mouth with his.

He moaned against her mouth, his hand wrapped in her hair, and his body shuddered beneath hers.

"I think we both won this time around," he whispered against the side of her face.

"Yeah, I guess we did." She folded her arms beneath his neck and lifted her head just enough to see into his eyes. "I love you. I really do."

"What a concept." His slow smile turned her bones into mush. "Keep telling me so I know it's real."

"I love you," she whispered.

"Again."

"I love you."

Their lips slid lazily together, neither ready to break their union, eyes wide open, while rain pattered against the thatched ceiling of their tree house surrounded by snapping fireflies and thunder.

The End

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Books by Amber Lea Easton

http://goo.gl/nFwdWB

Check out Duplicity, Book Three of the Wanderlust Series

http://getBook.at/Duplicity

About Duplicity

Nothing bad happens in paradise...or does it?

Lexi Dubois is in trouble. On Grand Cayman for business, she discovers the company she's been working for is funding a human trafficking ring—and the money trail leads back to her. Scared for her life, she charters a boat for a week to hide from the men on the small island who want her dead and to buy time to find enough evidence to take them down. The last thing she expects—or wants—is a torrid affair with the hot captain and dive master.

Larry Gibbon has been running a charter dive boat operation in Grand Cayman for years. He's seen it all—and done his share of creating havoc. But when a mysterious woman charters his boat for a week—alone—he has no idea what trouble she's bringing aboard.

The ocean is vast and unforgiving, but will Larry's knowledge of the Cayman Islands and Lexi's relentless determination to survive be enough to save them?

**The Wanderlust Series consists of stand-alone adventure romance novels. Occasionally, characters from previous novels may make a cameo, but each story truly does stand on its own merits.

Read Duplicity, book three of the Wanderlust Series

http://getBook.at/Duplicity

While you're waiting, find all of Amber Lea Easton's books at
http://www.amberleaeaston.com

A peek at the sizzling best selling romantic suspense novel,
Riptide
, set in Grand Cayman. A story of betrayal, trust, revenge, and love under the Caribbean sun.

  Riptide—a stretch of turbulent water in the sea, caused by the meeting of currents or abrupt changes in depth. Also called rip current, a strong current, especially one flowing outwards from the shore, causing disturbance on the surface.

Chapter One

Lauren couldn’t go fast enough to drown out the doubts that screeched in her brain. Water sprayed her face as she steered the Jet Ski into a sharp turn, arm muscles quaking with the force of her grip on the handlebars as she drove full throttle. Wet hair smacked against her face and neck. She tasted salt on her lips. The sun burned her bare skin. Her legs held firm as the Jet Ski went airborne before landing hard against the surface of the crystal clear Caribbean Sea.

Every instinct screamed mistake. Taking a leave of absence after the attack had made sense, but now, no matter how she looked at it, retreating to her brother’s house on Grand Cayman equaled running away.

She hated thinking of herself as someone who ran away.

As a news anchor in Atlanta, she’d been accustomed to reporting the news rather than being the lead story. She simply hadn’t been able to handle the spotlight shining so brightly into her private life, or seeing judgment—whether real or imagined—in everyone’s eyes. Barely out of physical therapy, she’d attempted to go back for a few weeks after being released from the hospital, but the camera’s red light had seemed accusing. Murderer, it blinked at her. Murderer.

Self-defense did not and could not justify her actions, at least not to herself.

Shaking her head to silence the relentless thoughts, she aimed the Jet Ski back toward Seven Mile Beach where her brother’s bar, The Lazy Turtle, rested between two hotels along curving white sand.

Cursing under her breath, she steered sharply to avoid running over a lone snorkeler who’d swam far beyond the reef. Dangerous territory. Idiot. She shot him a look over her shoulder as he raised his head from the water, spit out his snorkel, and shouted something that was lost in the wind. Moron.

Beaching the Jet Ski, she waved toward the attendant. Her entire body shook from exertion. She’d needed a good dose of adrenaline after her plane ride to the island. With a nod toward the attendant, she pushed damp hair from her face and twisted it into a knot at the base of her neck.

Lost in her own thoughts, she ignored the man’s small talk. She pulled a sundress over her head to cover up the black one-piece swimsuit. Bikinis had once been her preferred swimwear choice, but this provided the logical solution to conceal the evidence of violence that scarred her from beneath her left breast to her right hip bone. If the wound had been a half an inch deeper, she would’ve died, or so the doctors had said. Then again, she had died. Died and been brought back...although she sometimes wished the paramedics hadn’t been so good at their job.

Memories of that night repelled her. She hated feeling as if the word ‘victim’ had been tattooed on her forehead. Forcing the thoughts to the darkest corners of her mind, she put one foot in front of another and marched through the sand.

She tugged at the hem of her linen dress, peripheral vision taking in the flip-flop wearing customers lounging around the weather-beaten deck of her brother’s pride and joy, The Lazy Turtle. Not making eye contact with anyone, she found an empty stool and looked for her brother, Austin.

They’d stopped here on the way from the airport because he’d had to take care of business. The impromptu Jet Ski ride had been her way of passing time while his “one minute to check on something” had turned into an hour.

She folded her hands on the surface of the bar and coached herself to relax. Unwanted images slammed through her brain. Blood roped her skin and striped the tile beneath bare feet. She shook her head again to stop the onslaught and pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose.

She craved distraction...busy work...mindless activity...anonymity. Inactivity brought back too many unwanted memories.

“Did you enjoy your suicide ride through the waves?” Austin asked. “You weren’t exactly taking it easy out there.”

She flinched at the sound of her brother’s voice but covered it up with a forced grin. “Maybe I’m sick of taking it easy.”

“What do you think of my bar?” Austin squeezed her shoulder before sliding onto the stool next to her. White-blond hair fell against his tanned forehead and into slate-blue eyes.

“I like it. Good crowd.” Any more small talk and she would snap the head off all the tropical flowers within reach.

A man with a guitar set up under the shade of the thatched roof. More swimsuit clad customers roamed up from the beach. The smell of hamburgers meshed with the scents of ocean and flowers. Palm trees stirred with the breeze. Moist air licked her skin.

“You probably want to get unpacked, take a shower, and get settled. We’ll head to my condo in a few minutes.” He waved at a customer.

“No worries. It’s not like I’m in a hurry.” She shifted on the stool, unable to get comfortable, and looked beyond the thatched roof to the ocean. Wild energy zapped beneath her skin. Recklessness begged for release beneath the calm façade.

Damn, this had been a mistake. She couldn’t stay here. She needed to go back to Atlanta and fight to get her life back, not sit around healing or whatever other word people used to excuse her leave of absence.

  With the tip of her tongue, she absently traced the curve of her teeth, the once perfect arc now misshapen from where a fist had smashed against her jaw. She wondered if anyone would notice the indented smile, right of center.

Austin stretched his arm along the bar behind her back and studied her profile. “Relax, Lauren. It’s okay to do nothing, to not have an agenda for a few months. You’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

Her old self. The grin slipped from her lips. “I’m not sure what you expect from me here, but…”

“You’ve been through a lot, and Grand Cayman is the perfect place to heal. No one expects anything from you.” He shrugged, his nonchalant manner not reaching his eyes. “Let me grab you a drink. Sangria?”

She nodded and once again scanned the tourists lounging and laughing on the deck. Everyone seemed at ease and carefree. She envied them.

“Here you go.” He set a glass of sangria in front of her. “Chill, sis, you look like you’re about to leap from that stool and swim out to sea.”

She blinked at the drink loaded down with cherries and an orange slice. Breath caught in her throat and weighted the words she spoke. “This is a great place, Austin. The Lazy Turtle Bar and Grill…I like it. Mom and Dad would be proud.”

She meant every word, no faking it this time. At least she hoped she meant it…she wanted to mean it. Six weeks spent in a hospital with people hovering around, poking, prodding asking questions, observing, judging, and talking about her instead of to her had changed her in unexpected ways. She’d developed a knack for saying what others expected. She had become an expert liar.

“I like to think that they would’ve been proud. I didn’t exactly follow Dad’s footsteps into the insurance business.” Blue eyes similar to hers studied her face. “I miss them. I’ve missed you.”

All that remained of the Biltmore family now sat here on these stools, just the two of them united by blood but little else these days. They’d lost touch, become Facebook pals instead of siblings. Until he’d picked her up at the airport waving like a fool, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the family connection, the bond that couldn’t be broken by time or distance.

“They’d be proud of you, too, you know,” he said. “Big shot anchor woman.”

“Would have been proud. Now…not so much.” She rested her back against the bar and stretched her legs out in front of her as she faced the sea.

“Self-pity isn’t your style, sis. What happened, happened. It’s not your fault. You’ll bounce back because you always do.”

She couldn’t explain that what she felt was far from self-pity...it was some strange concoction of confusion, fear, anger, and grief. Hope battled hopelessness minute by minute.

“Can we pretend that I’m just another tourist?” she asked.

“But you’re not another tourist. You’re my sister, and I’m not about to let you—”

“I came here to escape all of the well-meaning people who want me talk about my feelings,” she said between clenched teeth.

“You need—”

“A distraction, a diversion, not serious discussions or worried looks. You promised to let me do this…this…recovery…in my own time, remember?” She hated the word recovery. She now had a long list of words she hated. Post-traumatic stress disorder topped the list, followed closely by stalker, time, healing…the list kept growing.

“It’s okay to let people help you.”

“Stop watching me like I’m about to break into a million pieces.” A glance at her too-white legs stretching out from the hem of the dress did little for her ego. All of the exhaustion and frustration she’d battled for months escaped on a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bitchy.”

“When was the last time you took a vacation? Let yourself enjoy being here. Relax.”

“I can work for you a few hours a day. Keep myself busy. I was a bartender in college, remember?” Her mind spun into function mode, what to do, what to say, how to say it, keep busy, stay active...don’t think, don’t stop moving.

“You’re here to take a break from busy. For God’s sake, you died and were brought back to life. You’ve had one helluva struggle the past few months. Give yourself a break. One of these days you’re going to have to face what happened to you. You’re safe here.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Trust that.”

“I know, I know…I need to lighten up, drink sangria and…whatever else it is people do in paradise. Island mode, right? I’m trying. I’ll get there.” A headache rolled from the back of her neck and throbbed behind her eyes. She smiled anyway. “Stop hovering over me. I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re fine, hmm? You say that word a lot...fine.” His grin returned. “I suppose you want me to believe you and drop the subject?”

“You always were quick to pick up on subtle hints.” Her lips trembled from the effort of being sociable.

“Okay, I get it. I’ll back off,” he said. “I’m glad you decided to take me up on my offer to stay with me for awhile. It’ll be good to have you around again.”

“You say that now…give me a few hours to get on your nerves like I did when we were kids.”

“Oh, you’ve already gotten on my nerves, I’ve just matured enough not to let you know it.” His infectious grin got the best of her.

She exhaled all of the apprehension gripping her lungs and breathed in the island air. Relax, breathe, relax, breathe, she silently repeated the words like a mantra.

“One week from now you won’t even care what time it is. Trust me.” He stood abruptly. “We’ll leave after you finish your drink. Just give me a few more minutes.”

“Do what you have to do.” She poked a cherry with her straw, watched it battle with an ice cube.

Sangria cooled her throat, lightened the fog in her mind, and brought her breathing into a normal rhythm. Sighing, she stared at the waves lapping against the sand no more than twenty feet from where she sat.

“Island mode,” she muttered beneath her breath. Briefly, she considered adding that to her list of hated words and phrases.

A man rising from the sea to the beach snapped her from self-absorption. She edged forward on the stool, back straight, glass gripped between the palms of her hands.

Interest pricked the numbness in her mind.

The word gorgeous failed to describe him. Transfixed, she watched his legs dragging through the pull of the waves. Soggy, orange swim trunks molded to his thighs. Swim fins dangled from the fingers of his left hand. Sand and salt clung to sculpted calves like sugar on cinnamon.

Seawater shook from black hair as he pulled the snorkel mask from his head and tossed it to the sand. With another shake of his head, he grabbed a frayed towel. Unhurried, he moved it across his chest and turned his back toward her. The towel descended over hips hugged with orange fabric before working up his back to rest across his shoulders.