Page 61 of The Paradise Problem

West exhales shakily near my ear and then rests his forehead to mine. “Well… good. I guess we can stop.”

“I guess we can.” Leaning back and taking stock of him—rumpled hair, swollen lips, scratch marks on his sides, I realize I’ve also left a small purple bruise on his neck. “Oops.”

He frowns at me. “Did you give me a hickey, Green?”

“I might have.” I don’t miss the way his pupils dilate, inky black in the golden pools of his irises. “Well, the good news is now everyone will know for sure who you belong to.”

He laughs. “Unfortunately, Blaire will still grab my ass.”

“It’s a pretty great ass.” I step back, telling my body and brain to calm the hell down.

“Sorry, you’re…” West gently runs his thumb over my lips one last time. “You’re all red from my stubble.”

Maybe so, but I’m not the only one who looks like they just went at it pretty hard-core. His neck and chest are flushed, his eyes still burning as he hops from the railing.

I absolutely do not look down at his shorts; what kind of a trash goblin do you take me for?

But if I did look down, I would see quite a tent happening.

“Careful where you swing that thing.”

He laughs wryly. “I’m going to go take a cold shower.”

I nod, swallowing down the lusty scratch in my throat. “I’ll give you a few minutes of privacy.”

He retreats and I pull my phone out of my backpack, texting Vivi:

SOS. I am so fucked.

Eighteen

LIAM

Contrary to whatever Anna thinks I’m doing in the shower, I’m actually lecturing myself: You fuckwit. You imbecile. You are stronger than this. This absolutely cannot go any further.

I’ll say it as many times as I need to, because it’s the truth. Anna and I are two strangers in paradise, experiencing an attraction that absolutely would not persist back home. We are too different—temperaments, lifestyles, ambition, location—and we have one very simple task: fake a marriage. The goal here is to make it through the wedding, return to life as we know it, and quietly divorce in September. The goal here is the clean removal of my father from my life.

But my body continues to deprioritize all that. Last night, I climbed into bed to find Anna curled up on her side, already asleep. She’d been wearing one of those absurd excuses for pajamas that her friend Vivi packed for her—tiny satin straps on her camisole, shorts barely covering her ass—but as I’d pulled back the sheets, I hadn’t been transfixed by her body, but by that stupid tan line. I wanted to slide in behind her, press my hips against the soft curve of her ass, draw that strap off her shoulder, and suck at the skin there. That tan line that feels, strangely, like it belongs to me.

And somehow, I ended up with my fingers all over it today without even realizing.

This is the exact brand of thought that I cannot have, but with it back at the forefront, my mind wanders to the feel of her lips gasping open just now when she felt my cock pressed against her chest, of her small, soft tongue licking at mine, so paradoxically gentle while her sharp nails dug a path of fire around my rib cage and up my back. The bite of her teeth on my neck, the bright sting of those nails… I wanted more, and harder. It shook me how she could pay such close attention to learn, so quickly, what I like.

I reach forward, shutting off the water, squeezing my eyes closed as the cool droplets run from my hair and down my face. I’ve hired Anna for a job. Like she said: I just remind myself I’m here doing a job. For all intents and purposes, she is my employee, and it’s enough that she’s having to deal with my family. It’s enough that she’s forming emotional connections to my niece. I cannot let this turn sexual and risk her getting hurt in other ways.

Unfortunately, the sight of the hickey on my neck in the mirror sends renewed heat across my skin. I carefully lather the shaving cream, drawing the razor slowly over my jaw, remembering the shock of her bite, the slow, searing burn of her mouth sucking at my throat. I give myself to the count of ten to imagine the way I would take her, languid and teasing at first, kissing and licking all of her sweet, aching places, and then hard and fast, pinning her beneath me, ruthless, leaving her eagerly, feverishly clawing at my skin.

That’s it, I tell my reflection as I pat my face dry. That will live only in your imagination. You can kiss when you need to, for show. Not like that. Never like that again.

I have bigger things to focus on.

Out on the balcony, I expect to find Anna back at work on her sketches, but instead there’s a note:

Going snorkeling with Reagan! See you later.

I blow out a breath, saying, “Thank fuck,” aloud even though a betraying twinge of disappointment snakes through me. And the feeling darkens when I glance at my watch and realize that in five minutes, I have to meet the groomsmen—including both fathers—for the suit fittings.

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