Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (21 page)

She cried out, and he covered her mouth with his.

Her hands grasped his upper arms, and she rocked her hips toward him, grinding and grinding.

He kept his movements slow and deep. "Put your hands over your head, love."
 

She did, and he grabbed both of her hands with one of his and quickened his thrusts. Their breaths mingled with the sound of his solid body slapping against her mound as he took her to the edge.

"Look at me." His voice was demanding. "Give yourself to me." He thrust hard. "Give me." Harder. "Give."

His green eyes refused to look away. In their depths she saw herself, his instrument, transforming from a flesh shell into a song only they could hear. His touch, releasing the melody trapped inside her.
 

She opened her mouth, her heart, her thighs, and stared into his eyes as a series of seemingly involuntary moans and spasms possessed her and rippled through the apex of her womanhood.

As the last sensuous notes of release spilled from her lips and the final vibrations dissipated in her core, he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, his body shuddering as he came deep inside her.

“Sam. My God. I….” He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing and comforting simultaneously.

In that moment, she knew she belonged, truly belonged, not in the sense of being owned by a man, but in the sense of having a place in this world where she fit, completely. He showed her how good it could be, and she didn't want the moment to end. The connection—soul to soul, body to body, giving herself over and having him pour himself into her—had set her free somehow.

She wrapped her legs and arms around his sweat-slicked body and whispered, “I know. Me too.”

BROCK ADMIRED SAM’S expression as she rested. So peaceful. Just the sight of her sated beside him made him calm. She’d allowed him please her. And now he found himself wanting to do nothing more than to find every way possible to keep doing just that. It brought him great joy to know he was capable of unlocking her and guiding her into delirium. Never had he wanted to make a woman his on such an emotional level.
 

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a sleepy smile.

He rasped his thumb across her jaw and smiled. “We’re good together.”

She turned her head and kissed his palm. “We fit.” She snuggled against him and drifted to sleep.

Sam wasn't like other women he'd dated. She didn't tip-toe around him or pretend to enjoy the same things he did. She didn't try to be ultra-sexy to lure him into bed so she could brag about how she landed a man with loads of fans and enough money to take them anywhere they desired on holiday.
 

Sam was quite the opposite. She flattened him with the slightest provocation, didn't have a clue about rugby, and didn't bother trying to learn the sport. She worked her fingers to the bone to keep herself afloat financially and never asked for a hand out from friends. She probably hadn't had a proper holiday in years, and she didn't whine or act sorry for herself. No, she'd kept herself guarded until she was ready to trust him, and when she did open up—she wanted nothing more than compassion from him. There was no hidden agenda.

He watched her sleep with her head in the crook of his arm, her warm cheek upon his chest—right where it belonged.

A MUFFLED BUZZ woke Brock. He struggled to focus on the sound then realized it was his phone, vibrating in the pocket of his jeans on the floor by the bed. He looked over to the empty side of the bed. A lurking shadow of disappointment crawled through his gut. Sam had several private lessons scheduled that day and had managed to slip away without waking him. Why hadn’t he set his alarm? He’d missed his chance for a morning kiss.
 

The display on his cellphone read—Graeme Knight. “Hello, Graeme.”

"Brock, Mum's had a stroke. You need to come home."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. When he questioned his brother, he received no information that shed light on how severe the stroke had been. Graeme only knew their mother had a stroke, and their father had rang the medics. She was in the act of being transported to the hospital. Their father hadn't revealed any details, and Graeme had immediately called Brock after receiving the news.

When Brock hung up, his first thought was of Sam. He needed to tell her he had to go, and he didn’t have her phone number. A part of him felt guilty for not being more distraught about his mother. His main concern was how to handle things with Sam. Yes. He needed to go home. He needed to prepare himself to face whatever awaited him when he got there, but first he had leave the woman he'd just made love to, the woman he longed to make love to years to come.

He booked himself a first class seat on the only flight he could get within the next twenty four hours. The plane left out of Raleigh in three hours and it was a two hour drive to the airport. He barely had time to pack his suitcase.
 

He wrote a note to Sam explaining his unexpected departure and included a poem that expressed how much the night before had meant to him. He left her his number, his email address, and his brother's number and asked her to call or email him.

After throwing all his clothes inside his suitcase, he saw his grandmother's face in the picture over the dresser and on the nightstand. He slipped those pictures into his suitcase, placed the note to Sam on the bedside table, and hurried to the airport.

Sam drove across the drawbridge eager to see Brock. Keeping her mind on her lessons had been next to impossible. Memories of the passionate night before replayed like a movie in her head, even during the most horrible rendition of “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie” ever performed on double bass by a twelve year old.

Booking down Lunar Avenue, she spotted her fishy mailbox. As she slowed down to turn into the driveway, she noticed Brock’s car was gone. Dang. She caught herself pouting in the rearview mirror. Ha. She looked like a brat. A full-grown brat. Damn. She should have woken him up for a goodbye kiss this morning instead of letting him sleep in undisturbed.
 

When she entered the house, she got an uneasy feeling that something was off. She looked around, and everything appeared fine. Princess stretched and yawned as she came out from under the end table, one of her favorite napping spots.

“Hey, baby. You been a napping girl? You hungry?” Sam talked to Princess and retrieved a can of cat food from the pantry. She washed out the food and water dish, refilled both, and sat them on Princess’s placemat at the end of the bar.

Petting Princess’s head, she said, “Where’s Brock? You seen Brock this morning? Where’d he go?” Princess closed her eyes and purred, enjoying a good scratch behind the ears, then she bowed her head over her food dish and ate.

“I wish you could talk.” Sam stepped away from Princess and gave the living room one last glance before heading upstairs.
 

The bed they’d slept in was unmade. That wasn’t like Brock. He was a stickler about making his bed the moment he woke up, which she found annoying. She preferred to only make hers the day she changed linens. With her bedroom across the hall from his, she’d felt compelled to mimic his bed-making habits since the day he’d moved in.

When she stepped into the master bedroom, she noticed the closet door was wide open, and the closet was completely empty. His grandmother’s pictures were gone. She yanked open the dresser drawers. Each was bare. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest. He hadn’t ran an errand, he’d left—vacated the premises. For good?

She pulled out her phone and realized she didn’t have his number. Shit. She had no way of contacting him.

She couldn’t believe it. She retraced her steps, hoping there was something she’d missed, but she found nothing. Standing in the carport, staring at the empty spot where Brock usually parked his car, her knees buckled as tears streamed down her face. She knelt on the concrete slab and cried. He’d abandoned her without a second thought, as if their night together had meant nothing. Not even a freaking tweet.

Ding ding
, a toylike bell rang, and Myrtle pedaled her big tricycle into the carport. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Myrtle hopped off her tricycle and walked over to Sam.

“Leave me alone, Myrtle. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

With her palms facing Sam, Myrtle said, “Shhh, shhh...I’ll go, honey, but before I do, let’s get you back inside.”

Sam stood and struck a pose. “Go on. Take your picture and get going.”

“Sam Carlisle, when have I ever taken pictures of someone in tears? When have I ever chatted about the hardships of others? I know you think I’m a nosy old biddy, but when it comes to heartache, I’m no stranger. I firmly believe in doing unto others. Think what you will of me, but you’re hurting, and I’m here. Now, let’s get you back inside before someone else sees you out here crying your big beautiful eyes out.” The determination in Myrtle’s tone and expression was loud and clear. She wasn’t leaving. The compassion in her eyes was just as loud. She cared, and she didn’t want Sam’s pain to become a topic of gossip.

Myrtle took Sam’s hand and led her upstairs and into the living room. “I see a box of chamomile tea and a tea kettle in the kitchen. I’m going to make us a cup. You just sit right here on the sofa.” Myrtle lifted a box of Kleenex off the end table and sat it in Sam’s lap.

Sam pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I can’t believe he just...” A sharp pain pierced her heart. “He just...” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He just poofed, like it was a one night stand.”

Myrtle eyed her across the room. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you...there has to be an explanation for him leaving. Listen to your heart. Do you really believe you don’t matter to him?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” Sam swiped another tissue under her eyes. “I was doing so good keeping my distance, pretending to be gay, whatever I could think of to keep him at arm’s length. I should’ve just moved from the get go, gone to stay with Leah when she offered.”

Myrtle walked over with two steaming coffee cups. She placed one on the end table and took a tiny sip from the one she still held. “I put a little honey in it. Drink up.” She sat beside Sam and smiled weakly. “In all my years, which is a hell of lot of years, I’ve learned the best thing you can do for a friend in need of a shoulder to cry on is to listen with your mouth shut, even long after your friend has stopped talking. I promise to keep whatever you tell me between us and just listen.”

Sam thought back to the time Mazy’s brother, Earl, got arrested. Everyone in town had something to say about it, how Earl had turned out to be a real loser, how he was bringing Mazy down, but not Myrtle. She said the only way to help a person change their ways was to give them a clean slate and not be judgmental. She put an end to all the gossip spreading about him while he was doing time. She arranged a welcome home party for him when he got out of prison.
 

Myrtle’s brand of gossip was light-hearted and playful, the way a person would tease family and close friends. Whenever there was real tragedy or negativity involved, she was always the first to hush the rumors and remind people to be respectful and mind their own business.
 

People listened to Myrtle. She was the informal mayor in many ways.
 

Sam took a sip of tea. The warm sweetness soothed her throat. “Myrtle, do you promise to not say anything about this to anyone?”

Myrtle made a locking motion by her lips and nodded.
 

Sam took a deep breath and told her how she’d finally opened her heart to Brock and had fallen asleep in his arms after making love, how Brock made her feel safe and cherished. She also told her that when she’d returned home from teaching, she'd discovered he was gone. His clothes, his suitcase, everything gone. Without a word.
 

Myrtle’s eyes teared up as she listened. She said nothing until Sam asked her, “Why would he do that?”

“Only he can answer that, honey, but you’re interpreting his absence as an indication that he doesn’t care for you. Have you considered that it might be something else? What if he discovered he cared so much it scared him?”

Sam sat her cup down. “You think he just got scared?”

“It’s possible. There are all sorts of possibilities that don’t necessarily lead to the conclusion that he left because he didn’t want you.”

Sam thought for a moment, then said, “If he panicked, that would explain why he didn’t bother to say goodbye.”

“Yes. It’s been my experience that when a man runs scared, he disappears until he’s ready to face the truth about his feelings. They come around.” Myrtle’s eyes were soft and motherly.

“You’d have made a great mother.” Sam touched her hand.

Myrtle smiled. “You’re sweet.” In a quiet voice, she continued. “If your mother were here, I think she’d tell you that you know deep down you mean more to Brock than a one night stand. He must have had his reasons for running away, but none of those reasons are because he didn’t value you.”

The heaviness that had settled in Sam’s chest faded slightly. “He made me feel so...so loved. Maybe he just needs some space to sort it all out in his head. If last night meant half as much to him as it did to me, then yes, he cares.” She drank the last of her tea.
 

Myrtle took the empty cups to the kitchen and rinsed them out. “Now, I want you to take yourself onto that beach, and go for a good long swim. The ocean has healing powers. When you’re floating in the water, I want you to remember how you felt in Brock’s arms, and focus on that. Everything else will be revealed in time. Trust me on that. Right now all you can do is speculate, and that’s a waste of time. Remembering the wonderful moments you shared is far more useful. It reassures you that you’re a desirable woman, which you are.”
 

AFTER A WARM swim that relaxed her muscles, but did little to relax her mind, she still had reservations.
 

As she put on her makeup, loud percussive noises came from the carport. She ran downstairs and found two guys she didn’t know tearing out a wall in the guest quarters. “Excuse me. Who are you, and what are you doing?”