I think Abby hates me. Why else would she be so determined to get away from me?—Dean Woodall, Day Fifteen
The teams filed onto the challenge beach, apprehensive. Bags were slung over shoulders, and I scrutinized the rest of the contestants for a moment. Everyone always seemed to look different after a few more days on the island, and today was no exception. Everyone was browner, their clothes dirtier. Shanna—the Playboy Bunny—had a very deep tan, but her legs were thin as twigs, and her implants stood out like boulders on her too-skinny frame. She looked like she needed a sandwich, and she wasn't the only one. Lana was starting to become wraith-thin, though still lovely. The men were starting to grow extremely thin as well, losing their bulk. For once, I thanked the extra fifteen pounds I never seemed to shake. Lucky me.
I glanced out over the water, checking for challenge markers of any sort. Nothing. Interesting. Ahead, Chip stood atop a tall platform decorated with the Endurance Island logo. Eight booths were lined up facing him, but from the contestant angle, we couldn't see what was behind each booth, as they were covered with filmy white coverings that blocked the eye. Normally, everything was color-coded and numbered to match up with our teams—Team Eleven always had purple markers, for example. Today, though, there was nothing to mark each of the items as ours. I began to have a funny prickle in my stomach and suspected that Dean was right.
This was a switch-up of some sort.
Chip greeted the teams as we entered, and I could tell by the expressions on the faces of the others that they were equally wary of this unusual setup. The host raised his hand. "I need all the men to go and stand in a row on the red mat off to the side."
As one, we all turned to look at the red mat. It was a long, single row off to the side with a bench behind it. That the men were moving over only gave me a bad feeling.
All around us, the other contestants were hugging their partners goodbye and separating. Dean turned and looked at me, and before he could say something or pretend to pick a fight, I reached out and gave him an awkward hand squeeze. For some reason, I really wanted to touch him before we got separated for good. He seemed a little surprised at my spontaneous gesture and didn't hug me back, but looked as if he wanted to say something. The moment was broken too fast, though, and Dean moved away with the other male contestants, sitting in the midst of them like a king with his subjects.
"Ladies, if you'll move toward one of the booths here, but do not remove the coverings until I instruct you to do so."
We moved forward, picking our way across the sand toward the covered booths. The cameramen zoomed in on the outskirts, hovering nearby to catch a glimpse of our faces at the big reveal. Chip seemed in his element, wearing a battered straw hat and beaming down at us, hands on his hips. "Today is a very important day for the ladies of Endurance Island," he began, launching into his host spiel. "On day one, the men chose their partners in a schoolyard pick. Today, however, Day Fifteen is Sadie Hawkins day. The ladies will fight for first place and the right to choose their partners."
Around me, the women clapped and showed enthusiasm, high-fiving each other. I crossed my arms over my chest and glanced down at Lana. At least I wasn't alone in my lack of enthusiasm. Lana's plans were ruined too, and she looked twice as annoyed as me.
"Today's challenge involves… fire!" Chip moved forward and leaned off his platform, yanking the covering off of the nearest booth and displaying it to us. The booth was set up with a wide table, wood stacked underneath a small painted stool. Tufts of tinder were stuck in a decorated box, and small sticks and bits of kindling were in a second box. On the table itself was a small knife and a flint. Across the table was a rope, which seemed to be attached to a pulley system and a big flag in front of the booth.
Chip pointed at each of the items and began to explain the rules to us. "The object of this competition is to build your fire high enough and hot enough to burn through the cord. When the cord snaps, this will raise your flag. The first flag to rise will win the challenge, get first pick of partners, and the special bonus envelope." He held up a bright red square of paper in his hand. "The rest of the contestants will pick in the order that they finish. If you finish making your fire last, you pick last. Everyone understand?"
We moved forward to the booths we selected. I chose one in pale green, at the end of the contestants. I wouldn't be able to see how the others were doing, and that would probably be for the best since it would just make me nervous. But this was a contest I could do well in. I knew how to make fire. I could do this.
But who would I pick if Dean didn't want to be my partner any longer?
I sat down on the shiny lacquered wooden stool and immediately stood up again. The stool was still wet with prop paint, and I wiped off the back of my thighs in disgust. How cheap was the set? Ugh. I picked up the knife and flint and kicked the stool aside. I'd worked with flint to start a fire in my survival course. I could do this.
"Contestants ready?" Chip called, and I tensed over my table, thoughts racing. "Go!"
I grabbed a handful of tinder and then doubled it, making a huge mountain of it on my table. Tinder would burn fast and burn high, and I just needed to figure out how to get it to burn high enough to hit the rope that was at eye level. I grabbed my flint and knife again and scraped the edge of the blade against the flint. Nothing. I probably needed to strike fast and strike hard. With that in mind, I banged the two together and produced a tiny spark, but not enough to light my fluffy tinder pile. I banged again, slicing the edge of my finger in the process, but at least the spark was bigger.
It took four more bangs (and subsequent cuts on my fingers) before I managed to get a spark to land in the fluff pile. As soon as I saw a curl of smoke, I bent over and cupped the mound in my hands, blowing on it until smoke began to pour out.
"Someone's got a flame," Chip called over my head, and I hoped to God he was talking about me. I didn't dare look up, just continued to blow on the tinder until the flames were licking and I could hold it no longer. Then I threw the entire box of tinder on top of my table and added the kindling sticks, waiting for the entire table to go up.
It did, and pretty soon I had a low mass of flames on my table—the key element being 'low.' For some reason, my fire wasn't burning very high and my stuff was burning up entirely too fast, and I was nowhere near my string. Frustrated, I stared down at the wood underneath my table, trying to find small, dry logs to build my fire quickly. I picked up one, then two, but it was a slow lick, and it wouldn't get me to where I wanted. I needed to win, and fast.
"We have three… four… five fires going," Chip called behind me as I fed the final scrapings of my tinder-box contents to my fire, adding the last of the small sticks to it. My larger logs still hadn't caught, and I began to get nervous and desperate. Could I burn something else? Was that against the rules?
I turned back to the host for a moment, feeding more logs at the edges of my fire to push it in. "What can we burn?" I cried at him. "Anything?" The fabric would be real handy right about now—I could drape one edge of it over the rope…
"Anything under the table," he called back at me, dashing my hopes. The fabric lay behind me, nowhere close to my table.
What was flammable? My shirt? No—it was the only T-shirt I had while I was out here, and I wasn't about to burn it. I rocked on my stool, thinking hard.
Wait, my stool. I stood up, jerking to my feet, and grabbed it. It was painted with a thick, glossy coat of paint, the exact same color as my light-green booth. It still gleamed wetly and when my hand touched it, it was sticky. The paint wasn't dry. Wasn't paint flammable? I grabbed it, flipped it upside down, and held it over the licking flames.
"What are you doing?" Chip yelled at me from behind the dais, and immediately the cameraman nearby zoomed in to my booth.
"You said I could use anything under my table," I called, and a ripple of laughter emerged from the men's row in the distance.
I held the stool over the licking flames, hoping the wet, sloppy prop paint would catch on fire. The actual wood of the stool felt light and cheap to me—lighter than plywood—and I wouldn't be surprised if it burned faster than anything they'd given me in my woodpile. Sure enough, the bottom began to lick flames, and I set it down in the already burning fire. The flames began to flicker and dance over the surface, turning green and blue as the paint burned off, and I stepped backward slightly, using my log to shove the rest of the burning crap on my table over the stool.
It was burning like a beacon. Heh. One of the legs began to burn and I angled it so it was touching my rope and waited, glancing down the row at the others. Lana had noticed what I was doing and was using her stool as well, though with less success.
The fire was licking up the cheap legs of the stool and licking toward the rope already, and I watched as the other women glanced over at my fire and began to use theirs as well, stools thumping onto the tables right and left as women stood and tried to copy my success.
There was a snap, and my flag shot into the air. "Abby wins first place," Chip called out in a sour voice. Apparently he didn't like my bending of the rules. I didn't care. I clapped my hands and sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. My god, I'd won something. It felt good.
One of the production assistants off-camera motioned for me to go and stand next to Chip and I did so, waiting for the others to finish. I scanned the line of men remaining. I'd have first pick of partners, and they knew it. None of them were making eye contact with me except Dean, who flashed a brilliant white smile in my direction that made my knees weak. So as not too seem too obvious, I looked up and down the row of men. Tattooed Leon was still there, and Olaf the Biker. Will smiled at me, but it was uncertain and I knew he didn't want to be separated from Lana unless we were told we couldn't pick our old partners. I totally understood that and gave him a small nod. The others I hadn't run into very much—Shane, Chris, Jack, Riley.
Dean was so much better than them in every aspect. I thought of the tiny shelter back on our beach and our bug repellent. Did I want to curl up with someone else in that shelter? Rub bug lotion all over their bodies? Have them lick peanut butter from my skin?
"Lana," Chip shouted in my ear. "Second place!" Then, "Ginger, third!"
Slowly, the rest of the women finished. Well, sort of. Both Heidi and a girl named Heather hadn't been able to create fire, so they were forced to draw straws, and Heather ended up with last pick. At last, Chip returned to me and I wiped my sweating palms on the edge of my shirt, nervous.
He held out the red envelope. "As first place, you receive this envelope. Open it and read aloud."
I took it from him with shaky fingers, unnerved at the fact that all eyes were completely fixed on me and my movements. There was a wax seal on one side, and I broke it with my thumbnail and flipped the letter open.
"As winner of this reward challenge, a choice must be made. Either get first pick of partners and increase your odds, or elect a day in the shade." As usual, the messages written by the staff were crappy and made no sense, so I turned to Chip for my answer.
"You have two choices, Abby. One, you can take first pick of the male contestants. Any of them that you want. This can give you a huge advantage over the others. Or," he said, and paused dramatically, "you can forego strategy and select the reward instead. If you select the reward, you will be taken to a luxury spa and will spend the night there. You'll have food, showers, and a warm bed waiting for you. But the downside is that you'll be forced to remain with your current partner and will receive no strategic advantage."
No strategic advantage? It sounded like paradise to me—vacation, food, shower, and Dean? But what if I was the only one that wanted that? It occurred to me that I might be making Dean the most miserable person on earth if I kept him with me, and I quickly glanced out to him, looking for my answer in his face. As usual, he wore no expression, not giving away anything. That was no help. I had no idea if I was making the right choice or not. Panicked, I scanned the row of men one last time, trying to decide.
To hell with this.
I'd lived several days with angry Dean before. I could live with angry Dean again. Even if it did make my stomach knot at the thought of him being mad at me after the bonding we'd done. But, my decision made, I handed the red card back to Chip. "I want the food," I said.
"Of course," Shanna said down the line, her voice catty. Someone snickered next to her.
Chip seemed very surprised by my choice. "You're deciding to keep the same partner?" he said as Dean rose to his feet in the distance and slung his pack over his shoulders, the expressionless look still on his face. "After all the troubles the two of you have had for the past two weeks, what made you choose that?"
Uh-oh, I had to explain myself. "I really just wanted the food and shower," I said in a bright voice, hoping that my bubble-headed lie sounded convincing. "Who wouldn't?"
Chip gave a fake chuckle and gestured in the distance. "If you'll go that way, you'll be taken to your reward."
With my bag clutched tightly in my hands, I trailed off of the small stage, back down to the ground. One of the production assistants was waiting nearby, ready to interview me about my win. Dean was in the distance, heading toward me, and I offered him a faint smile as he walked by. "Hi," I called, just before another production assistant grabbed him.
He turned and gave me a hard look. "We'll talk later."
That didn't bode well. I swallowed and nodded. If this was a show for the cameras, well… he certainly had me convinced.
***
While there were many tiny things I really disliked about the rules of Endurance Island, the worst had to be the 'no talking' rule on transportation. Since the show was all about filming every aspect of our day in the island setting, talking on the motorboats would interfere with that, so the simplest show rule was "No talking at all" during transport. Which was fine, normally, but as I sat in the helicopter with Dean next to me, our legs touching, it was hard to stick to the rule.
I wanted to find out if he was mad at me. If I'd made the wrong decision.
The helicopter dropped us off at a designated pad on a different island, and a woman was there to greet us and take our backpacks, since we weren't allowed to bring them into the spa. She had the long, wavy hair and round face of the native islanders and was dressed in a colorful wrap dress and wore a flowered wreath. "Come," she gestured at us, her voice barely audible as the helicopter took off again, and I felt (rather than heard) the familiar cameraman moving into place at our side.
The woman led us up a long flagstone path to a small beach house with large windows. The heavily slanted roof and bushy palms surrounding it were supposed to give an air of privacy to the hut itself, but I could see the rest of the hotel in the distance, and it felt weird to be so close to civilization once more. Our escort led us up the stairs to the bungalow and opened the door, then gestured that we should enter. "Your food is waiting for you inside. Please ring the bell if you need anything," she said, then walked to the edge of the bungalow porch to demonstrate the bell. "I will come and assist you with anything you require. The helicopter will return in the morning to take you back to the beach."
"Thank you," I murmured, not looking at my partner. It sounded like it would be just the two of us. An anticipatory tingle skittered over my skin, but that was ridiculous.
Dean thanked her as well and she moved down the steps and away, leaving us alone in the small island bungalow. Dean glanced at me.
My mouth dried at the expectant look he was giving me. He clearly wanted answers, and the only ones I could think of started with I didn't want to be separated from you… which just sounded desperate. I pushed past him into the cabin, looking around.
The smell of food hit like a brick, and my mouth began to water immediately. I followed it into the large living room area of the tiny house. The bungalow seemed to be built with a very open layout—one half of the entire house was the living room area, and a long, low table overflowed with food. Two pillows sat on either end of the table—I assumed for us to sit on.
I went to check out the rest of the bungalow. One small room was a bedroom with two tiny twin beds separated by a wicker nightstand. Two fluffy bathrobes lay nearby, along with two colorful wraps for us to wear when we were done showering. The other room was an immense, almost palatial bathroom that I could have sworn was bigger than the bedroom. Decorated in tropical style, it consisted of a stone floor and massive dual showerheads, separated by a saloon door partition. His and hers showers. Cute.
Dean drifted in behind me and was staring at the bathroom with an impressed look on his face. "Pretty nice digs."
"Yep," I said, still feeling awkward, and brushed past him, out of the bathroom and into the living room, making a direct line toward the food. A pizza dripping with cheese and pepperoni still had steam rising from it, and with my mouth watering I reached out to grab a slice… and stopped, appalled at the filth on my hand. Rings of dirt scored under my fingernails, and my tan was ringed with grime from living on the beach. Suddenly, I felt filthy as hell and wiped my hand on my equally gritty shirt. Ugh.
Dean moved behind me and his hand touched my shoulder. "Abby, I think we need to talk." His voice was serious and low and distinctly not what I wanted to hear at the moment.
No, no. "I don't want to talk right now," I said, trying to brush past him. I didn't want to ruin the lovely mountain of food or the showers or anything with an argument or complaining about my lack of strategy. I just wanted to enjoy an evening of luxury.
"We need to talk," Dean insisted, following me as I pushed past him.
"I'm going to shower first," I said, not looking at him as I moved into the bedroom, scooped up the robe, and then crossed to the bathroom. "You're welcome to talk to me in there, but I'm filthy and I'm going to clean up before I touch any of that lovely food."
To my relief, he didn't follow me into the bathroom. I stepped into one of the stalls, the door swinging shut behind me, and began to strip out of my clothing. I didn't care if it got wet—hell, it needed to be cleaned worse than I did. I stepped out of the last of my bikini and tossed it in the corner of the shower, then turned the water on.
It blasted my skin, hot and wet and just about the best thing ever. I gave a shuddery moan of delight and wet down my hair, leaning into the spray. God, it felt so amazing. Who would have thought a warm shower could feel so blissful after two weeks of no showers? I grabbed one of the small bottles of shampoo lining the wall and shampooed my thick, curly hair. Twice. The scent was coconut—something I was a little tired of—but I didn't care. It felt heavenly to get clean.
A round, lumpy sponge had been left for me, and I squirted it with body wash, frantically rubbing down my body. As I did, I heard the shower next to me turn on and glanced over the swinging doors. Dean was in the other shower, and I could just make out his shoulders and head as he soaped up. "Decided to shower?" I called out.
He slicked the water away from his face and glanced at me over the flimsy shower door. "Thought I'd wait for you."
I nodded and turned back to my frantic scrubbing. Part of me supposed that I should have been weirded out by sharing a shower with a stranger, but Dean felt like anything but. Living together on a beach for two weeks had certainly stripped that aspect out of our relationship, and I figured he could see flashes of my naked body in the shower, and I pretty much didn't care. Though, if I had to admit it, I was curious to see him without his trunks.
I blushed at the thought and chided myself for it. We had to work together—professionally—at least until the tribes merged. I couldn't be sitting here, wondering how big his equipment was. We were friends. Theoretically. He might be mad at me for screwing his chances, and I might have been thinking about his package, but we were friends before today, and hopefully we would be again after the initial shockwaves settled down.
"So why did you pick me?" Dean said loudly, speaking over the water.
What was the best answer here? "Because they expected me not to," I called back.
"Trying to prove everyone wrong again, eh?"
I couldn't tell from the tone of his voice if he thought I was being funny or what, so I said nothing, swiping the sponge over my neck and the tops of my shoulders. I couldn't quite reach my back, and it was bothering me.
"Abby?" Dean stepped forward, and I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was standing near the swinging doors, but his eyes were averted, not looking at my naked (and very vulnerable) body. For some reason, I found that… sweet. My heart melted. Even though he was irritated at me and I was standing here naked, he was averting his eyes like a gentleman.
"Something like that," I said slowly. My back still felt oily and gross, and I took a step backward, keeping my back presented to him. "Can you wash my back while we talk?" I kept my eyes trained forward, stating without speaking that I wouldn't look at his naked body if he did. To keep my promise, I closed my eyes and bent my head, crossing my arms over my breasts and exposing my back.
After a moment's pause—and I had a horrible fear that he wouldn't do me the favor—I heard him step forward, and then a soapy sponge—his—brushed across my shoulders. He swiped in quick, functional, almost rough motions. Impersonal. "So that's why you picked me?" His voice was as neutral as his touch. "Just to fuck with the others?"
Food and showers help, I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue, remaining silent. Anything I said right now would come across as flippant, and I just wanted to concentrate on him touching me.
The sponge finished scrubbing my back, and it lifted and started over at my shoulders, moving in small, almost ticklish circles. Still washing me with soft, easy strokes.
"Abby?"
"What?" My voice grew shy, my skin prickling as my mind went wild with the thought of him standing naked behind me. This wasn't going to work. I should have sent him off with another team. I should have picked someone safe like Will. I should have—
"Are you going to stand there and tell me that's the only reason you picked me?" Dean said in a low, hoarse voice. The sponge lifted from my shoulders, and I felt nothing but the hot spray of water on my body and Dean's intense presence behind me.
I dared to risk a glance over my shoulder, and found him standing close to me, very close. My entire body prickled with awareness, and my heart pounded. Don't say anything, I warned myself. Don't say anything. He can't possibly be interested in you as a person. This is a game and he's just going to use you to win the money.
But his fingers—not the sponge—rested along the dip of my spine, and I sucked in a breath, steeling myself. "Not the reason," I whispered. The air seemed charged with electricity and hope, and I froze, waiting for him to tell me if I was nuts. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting.
Rough hands grabbed my shoulders and my eyes flew open as Dean whirled me around and grabbed me in his arms, and then his mouth was hot on mine, kissing me frantically. Devouring me. His lean, hard body pressed against mine, and I felt the thick erection against my stomach, even as he pressed our bodies closer together. My hands lifted, winding to his neck as my mouth pressed against his with equal fervor. His mouth nipped at mine and he sucked on my lower lip, making my breath gasp into my throat. Dean's hands pushed me against the slick tile wall, pressing me between him and the wall itself, a cage of flesh as his arms surrounded me. I whimpered a little at the sensation, swiping at his tongue with mine and digging my fingers into his hair. It was madness, this intensity between us, nothing but water and steam and frantically kissing mouths, as if a dam had burst and the water had washed away all inhibition and doubt.
"I thought you wanted a different partner," Dean breathed into my mouth, even as his hands slid up the sides of my breasts. I writhed against the wall, against his chest, my hands frantically moving from his hair to his shoulders, everywhere I could touch him.
"I didn't think you'd want to be with me," I said, averting my face with the pretense of pressing tiny bites along the strong line of his jaw. God, I loved his jaw. Two weeks' worth of whiskers didn't detract from his beauty at all.
"That's fucking stupid," he said, grabbing my leg and hooking it over his hip. "I've been crazy about you ever since we got here and you glared at me like I was dirt. Couldn't figure you out." His mouth pressed against my neck, the words muffled, and his hand lifted my leg a little higher, his hips jutting forward until the full length of his erection pressed against my sex, and my breath escaped me in a shuddering gasp.
Well, that didn't leave much to the imagination. And the reality was so much better. And bigger. I moaned against him and bit his ear, frantic.
He groaned, bucking his hips against me again, his fingers sliding up to flick a wet nipple. "You sure you want this? Last chance to back away," he said, his thumb grazing my nipple, back and forth. "Look at me, Abby."
Almost shy—despite our frantic, desperate make-out session—I lifted my eyes to his, our faces sprayed by the water of the shower.
"Do you want this?" he repeated, and a slight swivel of his hips left nothing to the imagination as to what he was referring to. "If you tell me to stop now, I will."
His thumb hadn't stopped, though. It was still teasing the peak of my breast, the slick skin rubbing back and forth in a motion that sent shockwaves up and down my body. I wanted to reach down and bite his thumb, bite his mouth, devour him whole even as he pressed against me, his wet hair plastered to his skull.
"If you stop now, I'll never speak to you again," I said and arched so my breast rubbed against his hand in a very deliberate fashion, the other peak brushing against his chest.
He pressed a hard, frantic kiss to my mouth and released my leg. "Wait here." With that, he cupped my face in his hands, kissed my mouth again—softly—and left me in the shower. Dean stepped out of the shower and into the bathroom, and as I watched and waited, my arms crossed over my breasts again, he dug through the drawers of toiletries. A small foil packet appeared a moment later, and he returned to my side as if we'd never left off, grabbing me in the circle of his arms again and pushing me back against the slick wall. His free hand locked in mine, our fingers interlaced, and he slid our twined hands up the tile until my body was arched slightly, my breast tilted into the air, and he bent over and took the peak in his mouth.
I cried out, my hips bucking slightly at that. "Dean!"
He bit lightly at the tip, then his hair brushed against my breast, and I heard the sound of the foil packet tearing. His hands moved away from mine for a moment—too long a moment—as he put on the condom. Then, one hand slid down my thigh, hooking my leg around his hip again, and his mouth devoured mine once more. Hard, fast, wet, his tongue thrust into my mouth. The cradle of my hips lay against his erection again, his hips circling and moving ever so slightly against my own spread legs.
"You ready, baby?" he whispered against my mouth, and I felt his hand tug at my other leg, the only thing supporting me other than the two immovable objects I was wedged between.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back, biting at his lip. He growled low in his throat and lifted me off the ground, ever so slightly, my back sliding up the slippery wall. The head of his cock probed against me, and before I could suck in a breath, he slid me down on the hard length of it, spearing me and bracing me against his own hips.
My breath shuddered out of my throat, my arms clenching tight around his neck. Amazing. Holy God. His hands slid to my ass, and his hips moved slightly as if settling me against him, and the slight motion made all the breath whisper out of my throat again.
He pressed an open-mouth kiss to my lips. "Feel good?"
All I could manage was a shuddery gasp, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulders. Dean rocked his hips slightly again, and the small motion made friction happen in just the right places, and I gave another weak gasp.
"Abby," he whispered against my mouth, thrusting slightly again, his fingers digging into my hips. "God, you are so fucking sexy." Again, a small thrust and wriggle, and the pulse of friction that shot through my body. My legs locked around his hips, and I squeezed my inner muscles the next time he thrust, and he moaned against my mouth as well.
The next thrust was harder, more forceful, more friction. The next, too, and his arms were cords of steel as they locked my hips against his, shoving me back against the wall, thrusting slightly. Those gentle, deep thrusts were undoing me more than anything I'd ever experienced before, and it wasn't long before my hips were bucking slightly against his own, increasing the friction, and I began to shudder, gasping as an orgasm ripped through me in slow, steady waves. The feeling intensified as he thrust into me again, rapidly, and I felt his strong body tremble against mine, a groan escaping his mouth as he pressed me against the wall so hard that I thought I'd sink through it. I clung to him, body slick and trembling as he finished his orgasm and slowly released my rubbery legs, sliding me back down to the ground, our bodies separating.
He wasn't done with me, though. His hands moved to my wet hair, brushing it off my face and planting several more hot kisses on my dazed face. "I'm sorry—that didn't last as long as I wanted it to." Dean's hands slid to my waist, a possessive gesture.
Was that him not at his best? His worst was better than my last boyfriend's 'best.' "Short is good," I said weakly. "The water's getting cold."
He pressed another possessive kiss on my mouth. "Next time we're doing it on the bed."
Next time? My mouth curved slightly at that… and then my stomach rumbled. He laughed and I gave a small chuckle. "Can we eat our food first?" I said in a small, plaintive voice. "That pizza looked amazing."
We turned off the shower and his hand went to the small of my back, steering me back out of the bathroom in an intimately possessive gesture. The colorful sarongs were the only things we had to wear, so I wrapped up in one while Dean knotted the other at his waist, the fabric slinging low on his hips. Low enough to make me breathless. He caught my glance and the self-confident smile slid over his face. "There's more for you later, baby."
I rolled my eyes at his cocky, teasing voice, drying my hair with the towel and then discarding it on the floor. Dean moved ahead of me into the living room where the food was laid out, and it took everything I had not to race past him to get to the food first. There would be plenty for both of us, but it was hard to quell the competitive edge to my starvation.
Dean moved to the far side of the table, but instead of sitting down, he grabbed his seat-pillow and dragged it over by mine so we could sit together. He patted the pillow next to his. "Come, sit. We'll eat our way from one side of the table to the other."
Sounded good to me—I moved to sit next to him and curled up on my cushion, legs crossed. There was a bucket of ice and Corona nearby, and Dean pulled two beers out, twisting the cap off mine with his bare hand and then handing it to me. Quite the gentleman. I took a sip of the beer and closed my eyes. "Heaven."
I took another sip, washing the flavor in my mouth slowly, savoring it, and looked over to see Dean doing the same. Well, sort of. His gulps were twice the size of my sips, but he had the same blissed-out expression. My stomach growled again, and the sight of all the amazing food was too much to wait any longer for—I grabbed one of the thick brown plates and handed him one, taking the other for myself, and began to load it up with food, tasting as I went. There were chicken wings with buffalo sauce, celery sticks with dip, potato chips, pretzels, pizza, hot dogs, chili, and just about everything you could imagine for a tailgate party. Except football, of course. I laughed as I accidentally spilled some of the chili on my fingers and Dean leaned over and licked it off my hand. "Do you think they're going with a theme here?" I asked.
He nodded, then took enormous bites out of the relish-covered hot dog in his hand. "They're going to see how sick they can make us," he said around bites.
I didn't care—I grinned and took a bite of the pizza and gave a moan of delight at the taste. If I never ate again, I'd still die happy.
Dean glanced over at me and smiled, a boyish look. To my surprise, he reached over and grabbed my left hand as I reached for a beer and examined it with great curiosity, his emphasis on my fingers. Then, he looked over at me, relieved. "Not married?"
He'd been looking for a wedding band. My heart skidded to a stop. "No," I whispered.
"Boyfriend?" He asked, trying to keep his voice light as he released my hand and reached for another beer. He didn't look me in the eyes.
"No boyfriend," I said in a small voice. The world crashed down around me, a little. Okay, a lot. "You?"
His mouth quirked. "No, no boyfriend."
I threw my napkin at him. "You know what I mean." Oh god, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think—I couldn't see his hand behind that beer bottle—
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Currently between ex-girlfriends."
My breath whooshed out of me in a relieved gulp and I choked, coughing on the food in my mouth. Dean thumped me on the back. "You okay?"
When I regained my breath, I gave him a horrified look. "Dean, I just realized… we don't know each other." I knew that, and I still wanted to run into the other room with him and throw him down on the bed. How horrible was that? How wrong?
"I know you," he said, shaking his head. "You make a mean fire, you can't paint for shit, and you taste like peanut butter." Dean winked at me, and the mix of playfulness and lust on his face sent a bolt of desire straight through me again. "I know all about you."
"But you don't know me… really know me." My voice raised in a slight panic.
He handed me another beer, twisting the cap off and placing it in my hand as if I were helpless. Then he thought for a moment and clinked the neck of his beer against my own. "Then we get to know each other tonight." He smiled slowly. "And tomorrow. And the day after. And all the time we have left on this island. Baby, you and me have nothing but time."
The low, sexy way he said it made me blush, and I took another sip of beer, trying to quell my nervousness. Some women jumped into bed with strange men, lived life as a series of one-night stands. I did not. For me, sex didn't come without emotional attachments. Stay calm, I told myself. Drink more beer. Everything's better with beer.
"Why don't you ask me something, and I'll ask you something," Dean offered, munching on pretzels. We'd finished eating the majority of our meal—I imagined that his stomach hurt as much as mine with all the food we'd hastily crammed into it—but there was still the incessant need to snack, to stockpile carbs for when they disappeared again.
I grabbed a celery stick and swirled it in the dip, then bit down. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight. You?"
Not a bad age. "Twenty-six."
"Ever been married?"
"No, never," I said.
"Me either," Dean said, reaching for a celery stick of his own. "Came close once."
"Want to talk about it?"
He laughed. "Not tonight. Wouldn't do good to talk about my ex-girlfriend in front of my current one."
So I was his girlfriend? A silly thrill shot through me at that, and I gave him a dopey smile. "I'm from DC. So where are you from?"
"Houston," he said, cocking his head to the side as he regarded me. "You sounded Southern, I thought."
"I am," I amended. "I'm working in DC but I grew up in Amarillo."
"Texas, too?" Dean grinned. "But not my part of Texas. Next you'll be telling me that you're a Cowboys fan."
I shook my celery stick at him. "They are 'America's Team,' you know." At his snort of outrage, I laughed and reached for another beer.
Football seemed to break the awkward dam between us, and we launched questions at each other that we'd been too self-absorbed to ask up to this point. Personal questions—like how many sisters Dean had (three), and how many pets I had (a cat). We moved to not-so-personal stuff like sports and karaoke. We both loved the former and hated the latter. Both of us liked the same music, and we'd even hung out at the same bars in Austin during our college years.
At some point, we'd eaten a few bites of everything and had drunk nearly all the beer. As we'd moved down the table, tasting food and chatting about random stuff—none of it game-related—our seating pillows slid closer and closer together until at some point I was leaning on Dean's corded arm as he fed me another pretzel stick. Or tried to, but I was yawning too hard.
"Sleepy?" he asked, shifting me to an upright position.
I nodded and tried to hide another yawn. "It's the beer. Always does that." I was sleepy and more than slightly woozy with the alcohol running through my starved system. How many beers had I drunk? Five? Six? Dean had easily downed as many as me, though he seemed to be handling the effects well. I peered at him. "Does this mean we're going to get drunk and go make out again, now?"
Dean chuckled, getting to his feet and extending his hands to help me up. "I think one of us is already drunk."
I slid against him, my legs boneless, and laughed as he reached to catch me, dragging my body against his. His bare chest felt so hot and nice against my own flesh, and I immediately slid my hands from his neck and down his shoulders. Dean had to be the best looking man I'd ever slept with, with the broadest shoulders and the nicest tan, and that sly grin that did crazy things to my knees. I focused on his mouth and realized he was grinning even now, which probably explained why I was having difficulty standing. "Hi," I said breathlessly.
"Let's get you to bed," he said, looping his hand around my waist and making sure that my arm was anchored over his shoulders. I let him lead the way as he half-walked, half-dragged me to the bedroom as the room spun around me.
My stomach heaved uncomfortably.
"You okay?" Dean whispered. "You just got really pale."
"I don't feel so well," I said in a light voice, trying to push away from him.
To my surprise, Dean picked me up in his arms and carried me to the bathroom, setting me on the floor next to the toilet. My stomach spun and churned, and I moaned and sank to the floor next to it, laying my cheek against the cool white porcelain.
"Too much beer and too much weird food," Dean said, stroking my hair back as it fell in my face. "Are you going to be sick?"
I closed my eyes, as if that would help my stomach. "Don't know yet."
He walked away, and that simple act made my stomach churn a little more. The thought of me being sick made him ill.
I couldn't blame him. We'd just gotten clean after two weeks of filth. Still, it embarrassed me that I'd repulsed him and I closed my eyes, laying still and praying for the vomit to stay down.
It did not.
Someone moved a minute or two later, and I opened my eyes to see Dean back at my side, offering me a slice of bread and a glass of water. Surprised, I stared up at him as he held the bread out. "You need to eat and drink this." I groaned at the sight, but he insisted. "Hangover prevention food—trust me."
And he pushed the slice into my hand and didn't budge until I began to take small bites of the bread. When I was done with that, he handed me the glass of water and watched until I finished it as well.
"Thank you," I said in a small voice. I didn't know what to make of his thoughtful return. He could have left me on the floor and gone to sleep and I wouldn't have thought any worse of him, but this was… startling. And nice. "I feel better," I added.
"You'll be fine after you sleep it off," he told me, and helped me to my feet again. This time, we moved more slowly, with greater caution so as not to upset my stomach once more.
We moved back to the small bedroom, and I glanced at the two twin beds. A thin blanket covered each one, and the white pillows seemed inviting. I sat down on the edge of the closest one, and Dean helped me into the bed, pulling the covers over me. I tilted my head up to look at him and he gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, then moved to his bed.
Bed—for the first time in two weeks. So pleasant.
It turned out to be impossible to sleep in. The covers got hot within minutes, sticking to my skin and feeling smothering. The tiny bed was almost too soft, and I flailed back and forth in bed, miserable. It was like I was missing something, and it grated on me so much that it was physically impossible to sleep.
After I turned over for the hundredth time, Dean rolled over in his bed. "Can't sleep?"
"No," I said in a miserable voice. "There's something wrong with my bed."
"Too comfortable?"
I gave him a miserable laugh. "Maybe. Who would have thought?"
"You can come sleep with me." In the darkness, I heard him pat his bed. "Just like back at camp. Actually, the camp bed is probably smaller."
He had a point. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if he'd think I was too forward if I leapt back into bed with him and then decided that I didn't care. I slipped out of my bed and over to his, where he held the covers open for me. Turning my back to him, I slid into bed next to Dean so we could spoon as we always did on the island.
My backside nestled against his, and his arm went around my waist as always, and he pulled the covers over me. "See, plenty of room."
Strangely enough, it did feel roomy compared to our little shelter, and I snuggled down next to him, my body fitting against his comfortable, familiar molding. "Thank you, Dean." And though it was hot under the covers within moments, his skin warm against my own, neither one of us moved, and I fell asleep within moments, his hand splayed low on my stomach.