Page 19 of The Lies Always Told

This trip has been dreamy.We arrived late Sunday night, so we had no time to do anything other than crash in bed. He has a private villa by the water in this northern town called Cabarete. The area is an intimate community with charming villas, each with tropical gardens and private terraces or balconies overlooking the water.

Yesterday, we spent the day exploring this part of the island, spending too much time under the sun. He booked us a private couple’s massage, which ended with us immediately getting our hands all over each other as soon as the masseuse left. I can’t get enough of him, and he seems to feel the same way. I’ve been ignoring Cara’s text messages, and the only thing I told my parents was that I was doing some traveling before returning home.

Bee is here with Abraham, but we’ve not seen them much. The party’s tonight, though, and they’ll be there. The villa is right by the coast, on the prettiest beach I’ve ever seen—crystal clear water and smooth white sand. This sand is so different than in Florida, even on the panhandle. It’s almost translucent, and it doesn’t stick to my body.

Gus has practically dragged me out of the water to feed and hydrate me all day. I’ve been swimming non-stop, other than food breaks and a quick nap earlier. Gus swam for a while too, and we figured out that’s something we both have in common, except he swims to exercise and I swim to feel. I’ve been sensory-seeking my entire life, always trying to find the right amount of pressure or the right amount of pleasure. For years, dance gave me that, and when I didn’t have it anymore, I turned to less healthy choices. Let’s just say, my body has the marks to remind me that wasn’t the right way. My therapist suggested sports that would give me the sensory input I was always searching for, and swimming ended up being the one for me. The feeling of my skin covered in water provides me with constant sensation. The salty water stings my eyes at first, and then it’s natural, like I was always meant to be there. Also…who doesn’t love feeling weightless?

“Hey, little fish,” Gus shouts from the shore. The sun is setting, casting a glow over his dark skin, making him look even better than he does normally. He’s wearing white linen pants, and he’s holding a water bottle I’m sure is for me. He’s taken good care of me on this trip, keeping me full and sated in more ways than one.

“All slippery and scaly?” I shout from the water, turning my body so I can float facing the sky.

“You’re probably a prune by now, Nellie. Come out,” he says.

“Or you can get in,” I add, not bothering to look at him. I’m sure he can see me carelessly floating away.

“As much as I would love to, we should go get dressed forthe party. It’ll be night soon.” Oh shit, I forgot about that. I get out, feeling the warm breeze on my skin as I walk toward him. The water’s dripping from my body, and I grab my hair, twisting it to get the excess out before putting it in a top bun.

Gus’ eyes don’t leave my body, roaming from top to bottom, incinerating my skin with every look. He makes me feel more than any man ever has, and he’s not even touching me. I smile seductively at him, and when our eyes meet, I know I make him feel the same. I don’t know how the hell I have chemistry with this man knowing damn well nothing could ever come out of this situationship.

He hands me the water, and then he turns around to grab a towel from the chair lounge I was sunbathing on. “Thanks,” I mutter as he opens the towel and guides me into it. He wraps it around my shoulders, tucking it at the corners, squeezing me once it’s done.

We walk in silence back to the villa, where I find a table full of delicious treats: chocolate-covered strawberries, cold cuts, cheese, grapes, cantaloupe, some fruits I don’t recognize, crackers, and what seems to be an assortment of spreads.

“What is this?” I ask incredulously, looking up at Gus, who’s behind me, squeezing my shoulders just the right amount. Always the right amount.

“Fuel. You need to eat. Come on.”

I drop the towel over the high-top stool as I sit with the banquet of finger foods in front of us. I immediately feel overwhelmed at the choices. Do I taste something sweet first? Or salty? Or do I try both? Do I grab something new, or do I stay with something safe? My eyes go back and forth, and I tense with indecision.

“What’s wrong?” Gus murmurs, his fingers gently cupping my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. His onyx eyes pierce through the dim room, dark and intense, studying me like I’m the only thing that matters.

I swallow, trying to look away, but his gaze holds mine, andit’s futile. “Nothing,” I lie, my voice a little softer than I intended.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, his thumb traces along my jawline, his touch sending shivers down my spine. “Something,” he says, his voice low and steady, a quiet command wrapped in warmth. “I can tell. Talk to me.”

“Are you always this perceptive?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though my heart’s racing.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t break eye contact.

“I pay attention,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not that hard when your body doesn’t hide what’s on your mind.” His gaze flickers to my lips before returning to my eyes, which I’m sure show confusion. “Your body language speaks volumes. Now, tell me. What’s wrong?”

I hesitate, caught in the pull of him. “Too many choices,” I finally admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His brow furrows slightly, as if he’s pondering it, but his hands never leave my face, holding me in the moment, grounding me. “I can help you with that. I didn’t know what you’d want so I told Sonora to get a bit of everything.”

Sonora is his housekeeper. She has been with his family for years and goes where needed, or so she said yesterday, when we were talking about why she’s at this villa if nobody lives here. She told me she needed to practice her English, so we talked for hours, a warm conversation during which I slowed myself for her benefit.. I liked her a lot, and she told Gus she liked me, so a good thing, I assume.

“It’s not that I don’t want it. It looks delicious. I just have a hard time picking. It’s exhausting.”

“Decision fatigue,” he adds at the same time I gasp in surprise. I usually have to explain this to everyone, and half the time, people don’t get it. Even being able to breathe and not have to explain lifts some weight off my shoulders.

“How did you know?”

“Wild guess. Wait here,” he says, walking toward the living room and then coming back with something in his hands.

“Do you trust me?” Is it normal to think yes?

“I think so,” I whisper, and he wraps a piece of fabric around me, sliding it over my eyes and tying it behind my head. “What are you doing?”

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