Chapter 2
The drive back to the resort felt twice as long as the ride out.
Tessa sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched the trees blur past without really seeing them.
Her body still carried the deep, stretched ache of what had happened at the waterfall.
Every bump in the road reminded her. She did not try to make conversation.
Andre seemed to understand. He kept his eyes on the track and only spoke once, near the main road, to ask if she was cold. She shook her head.
When the Jeep stopped under the hotel portico, she got out before he could come around to open the door.
Her sandals slapped against the stone path.
She did not look back. In the elevator she stared at the floor numbers and counted her breaths.
By the time she reached her room, her hands were shaking.
She went straight into the shower. Hot water first, then hotter, as if heat could rewrite the afternoon.
She washed her hair twice. She scrubbed her arms, her chest, the insides of her thighs.
Sand came away. The faint stickiness between her legs took longer.
When she finally stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, her skin was pink and clean. The rest of her was not.
She ordered room service and ate almost nothing.
Most of the afternoon she sat on the balcony in a robe and watched the water change color.
Tourists laughed on the beach below. A volleyball game started and ended.
Somewhere down there, she imagined, Andre might already be talking to another guest with that same easy smile.
The thought made her stomach turn. It also made something low in her body tighten, and that reaction disgusted her more than anything else.
Greg called just after eight.
"Hey, beautiful. How was your day?"
"Fine," she said. Her voice came out thin. "Quiet."
"You all right? You sound off."
"I just miss you." The sentence was true and false at the same time. She did miss him. She also did not know how she would look him in the eye when he walked through the door tomorrow evening.
He talked about the deal, about a signature that still needed one more approval, about how proud he was that it was almost done.
She made the right sounds in the right places.
When he asked if she wanted to turn on the camera, she said the internet was bad.
After they hung up she sat in the dark with the phone still in her hand and whispered the same sentence over and over until it lost shape.
What she had done was wrong.
She went to bed early and told herself sleep would help. For a while it did not come. When it finally did, it brought him with it.
In the dream Andre stood in front of her with nothing on, already hard, the same impossible thickness she had struggled to take by the pool.
She heard her own voice saying no. She also felt her hands close around him.
She stroked him with both fists, then leaned in and opened her mouth because wanting him had become larger than shame.
He tasted like clean water and heat. When she climbed over him and sank down, the stretch was effortless in the way dreams make the impossible feel earned.
She rode him until she was shaking. Right before she came, she woke.
The room was dark. The clock read 2:11. Her pulse hammered in her throat.
Between her legs she was soaked, her clit so sensitive that the sheet against it made her flinch.
She lay still and tried to will the feeling away.
It did not leave. After a minute she slid her hand under the waistband of her underwear.
Touching herself was a compromise she could almost accept.
It was only her. No one else. She circled slowly at first, then faster when her body refused half measures.
One finger inside was not enough. Two still felt like a poor copy of what had filled her hours earlier.
She worked herself with a desperation that bordered on anger and came hard enough that her free hand clenched the pillow.
Afterward she turned onto her side and cried without sound, not only from guilt, but from the sick knowledge that relief had not brought peace.
Morning light found her tangled in the sheet with her underwear gone and her own scent still on her fingers.
She showered again, dressed in a black bikini under a long wrap, and told herself she would not go near the beach.
The beach meant Andre. The beach meant the version of herself she was trying to put back in a box.
She ordered breakfast on the balcony and watched people claim chairs along the sand. Every tall dark figure made her spine go rigid until it resolved into a stranger. After an hour of arguing with herself, she chose the pool.
The pool deck was quieter. She claimed a lounger in partial shade and tried to read the same book from the plane. The words would not stay still. A server approached with a tray.
"Drink for you, miss?"
Tessa almost refused. Then she heard herself order a Jamaican margarita. The first one went down cold and sharp. The second softened the edges of the morning. By the third, the knot behind her ribs had loosened enough that she could close her eyes without seeing the waterfall.
Around three, a woman in a resort uniform stopped beside her chair.
"Complimentary massage today, if you like. Spa has an opening."
"Yes," Tessa said, too quickly. Anything that was not thinking sounded perfect.
Standing made the alcohol announce itself. The woman steadied her with a polite hand and led her inside. At the spa desk, Tessa learned the free offer was a short back rub. She upgraded without looking hard at the price. Manicure. Pedicure. Facial. Then a private room for the full massage.
She stripped, wrapped herself in a towel, and lay face down on the table. Soft music filled the dim space. A knock. The door opened. Strong, oiled hands settled on her shoulders and began to work.
The tension left her body in long, involuntary waves.
The hands moved down her back, along her sides, careful and professional.
Still, her mind betrayed her. It put Andre in the room.
It turned every stroke into memory. Heat gathered low in her belly.
When the masseur asked her to turn over, she did, and towels were rearranged with practiced discretion.
She opened her eyes. The man was older than Andre, closer to forty, with long dreadlocks and a calm face. Kind. Skilled. Not the man she wanted. Disappointment hit so sharply she almost laughed at herself.
She closed her eyes again. His hands moved over her stomach, brushed the sides of her breasts through the towel, worked down each leg. When his palms traveled up her inner thighs, she parted them a fraction without meaning to. He did not take the invitation. A moment later he stepped back.
"All finished, miss."
The door closed. Tessa stayed on the table until the ache between her legs became humiliating. Then she dressed and went upstairs with her jaw set hard.
In the room she dropped the wrap and the bikini on the floor and lay on the bed.
Two fingers. Then three. It was not enough.
She searched the bathroom for anything that might help and came back with the smooth handle of a hairbrush.
She tried. It felt wrong and insufficient and only made the wanting worse.
She walked onto the balcony naked and let the breeze move over her skin. Below, the beach looked gold in the late light. She scanned the shore for a red swimsuit, for a camera bag, for him. She did not see Andre. Shame shoved her back inside.
She called Greg. The phone went to voicemail. She did not leave a message.
Hunger finally forced her downstairs in shorts and a tank top.
The restaurant was half full. She sat alone, ordered a fruit plate, and, after a pause that made her ears burn, asked if they could bring a whole banana on the side.
The server did not react. Tessa stared at the menu until the words blurred.
A man approached her table before the food arrived. Tall, maybe six foot three, white, brown hair going silver at the temples. Late forties. He held two drinks and wore the easy confidence of someone used to being allowed into conversations.
"Mind if I sit? You look like you could use company that is not a menu."
"I was about to head up after this," Tessa said.
"Then I will keep it short." He set one glass in front of her and took the opposite chair without waiting for a firmer no. "I am Harris."
"Tessa."
He was not unattractive. Clean-shaven. Good clothes.
A wedding band on his left hand that he made no effort to hide.
Under other circumstances she might have found the honesty almost refreshing.
Tonight she only wanted him to leave so she could take the banana upstairs and pretend that was not the plan.
Her fruit arrived. The banana came on a small plate beside it.
Harris glanced at it once, then back at her face, and something knowing flickered in his expression.
He did not comment. He talked about the resort, about a conference that had ended early, about how his wife preferred room service and early nights.
Tessa drank because it was easier than answering in full sentences.
The liquor from the pool still lived in her blood.
Two more strong drinks made the room tilt gently whenever she turned her head.
"I should go," she said at last.
"Let me walk you."
"I am fine."
"I insist." He stood and offered his hand.
She took it because refusing felt like it would require energy she did not have.
Only when they were already moving did she realize the banana was still on the table.
Frustration cut through the haze so sharply she almost turned back. Pride kept her walking.
In the elevator he stood close enough that she could smell cologne and salt air. On her floor he followed her down the hall. At her door she turned to say goodnight. Harris bent and kissed the side of her neck.
The contact landed on a live wire. She turned her head, meaning to stop him, and his mouth found hers instead. For half a second she froze. Then her body, traitor that it was, opened under the kiss. He walked her backward into the room. The door clicked shut.
"Tell me to leave," he said against her mouth, voice rough now. "I will."
She should have said it. The word was right there. What came out instead was a broken sound as his hands slid under her tank top.
He lifted the fabric away. Her breasts spilled free and he made an appreciative noise that might have flattered her on a different night.
She was already at his belt, tugging, needing something solid more than she needed romance.
When she freed him, she wrapped her hand around his cock and measured him without meaning to.
Thicker than Greg. Nowhere near Andre. The comparison shamed her and still she stroked him, then took him into her mouth because action was easier than thought.
Harris groaned and threaded his fingers into her hair.
She pulled off, scooted back on the bed, and shoved her shorts and underwear down her legs.
He stripped the rest of the way with clumsy haste and climbed over her.
When he pushed inside, she was wet enough that the first stroke went deep.
She closed her eyes and focused on the stretch, on the blunt pressure, on anything that might build.
It felt good. It did not feel like enough.
She pushed at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, then straddled him facing away, planting her feet and sinking down.
From that angle she could control the grind.
She rocked until she found a spot that made sparks crawl up her spine, then used her thighs to lift and drop in a hard, selfish rhythm.
Her orgasm was close, finally close, when Harris seized her hips and came with a startled shout, pulsing inside her.
"No," she said, still moving, already feeling him soften. "Not yet."
She turned, took him back into her mouth, tasted herself on him, and worked with hand and tongue until he thickened again.
Determination made her ruthless. When he was hard enough, she climbed on facing him, guided him in, and rode with her hand on her clit.
Harris gripped her breasts and watched her like a man who could not believe his luck.
She barely saw him. Behind her closed eyes it was Andre under her, Andre filling her, Andre stretching her until thought dissolved.
The climax hit in a hard, shaking rush. She collapsed onto Harris's chest. He rolled her beneath him and thrust through his second orgasm while she lay half dazed, body still fluttering around him. When he finished, he dropped to the mattress beside her, breathing hard.
Tessa turned onto her side, facing the wall.
"Get out."
Harris lifted his head. "What?"
"Now."
He dressed in silence. At the door he paused, as if he might say something kind or stupid. She did not look at him. The door closed. His footsteps faded down the hall.
She stayed where she was, bare and sticky, staring at the faint pattern in the wallpaper. She had come. She was still empty. Tomorrow Greg would land, smile that familiar smile, and reach for her the way he always had. She used to think that would be enough for the rest of her life.
A worse question rose and would not leave.
What if it was not enough anymore?
She got up, showered for the third time that day, and stood under the water until her fingers pruned. In the mirror afterward she looked like the same woman who had boarded a plane from Tampa. Same small frame. Same dark hair. Same mouth Greg liked to kiss at stoplights.
She did not feel like the same woman.
On the nightstand, her phone lit with a message from Greg.
Landing tomorrow at 6:40. Cannot wait to see you. I love you.
Tessa typed back that she loved him too. She almost added that she had a surprise for him. The photos. The waterfall. The gift that had started as devotion and turned into evidence.
She deleted the draft, sent only the love, and set the phone face down.
Sleep, when it came, was thin. She dreamed of shutters clicking in wet air and woke once with her hand already between her legs. She pulled it away as if the touch itself had burned her.
Outside, the ocean kept its steady sound against the shore. Inside, Tessa counted the hours until her husband arrived and tried, without success, to decide whether she wanted him to save her from this hunger or whether she was already too far past saving.