Unexpected: The Vault Page 6

  As Paul bends down to pick up our discarded clothes, my sundress and our swimsuits, I consider volunteering to dress as he suggested, or rather, not dress. However, before I can, the roar of the helicopter returns, making us both peer upward from the trees. This time, it doesn’t seem to be flying over. The whirring roar grows louder and louder.

  Though we’re hidden from the pilot’s view by the trees, soon we won’t be.

  “Maybe I should take your fashion advice another time,” I say.

  Paul smiles and hands me my bathing suit. “I plan on keeping your naked body to myself, so my advice is that we both get dressed. It seems as though we have a visitor.”

  I never understood the desire to share me. I hated it, yet by the time it happened, I was too far gone to dare to protest. The strange thing is that I don’t recall the other men, what they looked like or what they did. I only recall how degrading it was for Richard to watch and critique.

  I close my eyes.

  “Give it to her in the ass. She likes that, don’t you, my pet?”

  My stomach twists, recalling his words and tone, bringing back images I’d tried to forget.

  With another man’s cock inside me, he’d lift my chin. “I didn’t hear you.” He’d speak to the man. “Keep going.” And back to me, “Pet, you were asked a question.”

  Despite what was happening, I learned to hear only him. “Yes, Master.”

  “Jenn,” Paul calls my name, his voice coming from what seems like a distance until he reaches my shoulders and pulls me closer. “Honey, are you all right? You’re suddenly pale.”

  I shake away the memories. “I-I...”

  He pulls me tighter, and I still in the security of his embrace as the roar grows louder. I lift my chin until our gaze meets again. “I’m well, Sir.” I grin hoping that he will be all right with that title. And then I giggle.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Our last name.”

  “Our last name is funny?”

  I tilt my head. “Masters?”

  “I guess that plural ‘s’ means we both are because, baby, like I said, you’re in control.”

  My voice rises as the helicopter hovers over the beach. “And I’m glad you don’t want to share.”

  “Never.”

  Once we’re dressed and the helicopter is nearly landed, I reach for Paul’s hand. “My ass is sore, but I trust you. The only time I plan on saying the name of that flying machine over there is when it’s really here.”

  “Flying machine?” he asks with a chuckle.

  I shrug. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  As we walk toward the helicopter, Miguel removes his earphones and waves.

  I lean toward my husband. “Do you think he saw us earlier on the beach?”

  “It may be why he didn’t land then. But if he did, I’d guess we aren’t the first couple.”

  I take in the beautiful scenery. “Or the last.”

  Chapter Ten

  Jenn

  Our days and nights are filled with one another. From hiking to the interior of the island and swimming in the fresh water of a waterfall to lying on the beach, we enjoy paradise. Throughout it all, we play with Paul’s fantasies. One by one, he reminds me how much better this kind of relationship can be with someone you trust completely.

  It’s finally after six-plus days on the island that I summon the courage to open up to my husband, not sexually—I’ve never been more open. I want to open up emotionally and share my past. I don’t know why I’m frightened, but I am. With all his talk about honesty, I’m afraid that he won’t understand why I didn’t tell him any of it before. During the entire day, I think about our pending conversation, how to break it to him that what he considers his dark secret isn’t new to me.

  I settle on after dinner.

  In the late afternoon everything changes.

  The wind grows stronger as the previously consistent crystal-clear sky turns dark. From the security of our hut’s deck, I watch as churning multidimensional clouds roll, swirl, and billow, filling the horizon with uncharacteristic gloom.

  For a moment, I wonder if it’s a sign, telling me not to confess.

  With my thoughts lost in the brewing storm, Paul’s embrace from behind catches me unaware. His strong arms wrap around my waist, and his broad chest stabilizes me, giving me an anchor against the gusting winds.

  “It looks like we’re in for one of those storms they warned us about. One of the reasons that this time of year is off-season.”

  I shake my head, not wanting the storm or the uncertainty that the clouds bring. “Maybe it will pass.” I crane my neck, turning to look up at my husband. “Besides, Miguel hasn’t flown over yet today.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he can in this weather. We’re good on food.”

  I shrug. “I know. I guess I like predictability. It makes me uneasy when things aren’t how I expect.”

  Paul reaches for my chin, turning my body toward his as the wind whips my long hair around our faces. “Are you talking about the weather or us?”

  “The weather,” I answer honestly. “And Miguel’s visit.” My cheeks rise. “I guess I like him to land; that way I know that once he’s gone, we’re guaranteed privacy.”

  My husband’s gaze goes out to the churning sea and clouds. “I would suspect that we can guarantee privacy.”

  “Cabin six, Narvana here,” the alien crackling voice calls from the two-way radio.

  My eyes widen as I peer into the hut and back up at Paul.

  “Cabin six, Narvana here.”

  Other than the first day when Miguel showed us the hut for the first time, the two-way radio has been silent. Until now.

  We both rush toward the radio as the same message comes through, this time with more static, the words garbled.

  I reach for the microphone. “Cabin six,” I say.

  “Cab...storm...secure hut...main building.”

  My eyes widen as I look to Paul.

  He reaches for the microphone and speaks louder. “Cabin six. Narvana, you’re breaking up.”

  “Wind gusts ... over sixty miles per hour. Go...main building.”

  “Right away,” Paul says as a strong wind gust blows things from the center table.

  A flower arrangement crashes, the vase breaking as water and flowers litter the floor. Paul runs for the walls and begins to tug them closed as I work to clean the mess. Once the glass is swept, I turn my attention to my husband. He’s closed and secured a few of the sides, but not all. There are more. Working together we make our way around the perimeter to enclose the structure. With the way the walls are shaking, it’s clear that the man on the radio was right.

  We need to get to a more permanent structure.

  It is then that a large wave crashes against the hut. We both stumble as the hut sways and water rushes from under the movable walls, seeping inward and spreading over the interior floor boards.

  Paul quickly pulls our suitcases from the closet. Together, we gather our belongings, the ones we don’t want to lose—my purse, our iPads, and our passports. Without thinking, we throw miscellaneous odds and ends in our suitcases. At the last second, I decide to include pillows and a blanket. I’ve been in the main structure, but I haven’t looked around enough to know if there are cots or anything for spending an undetermined amount of time.

  As I reach for another blanket, Paul taps my shoulder and speaks over the roar of the growing storm. “That’s all we can carry. Leave the rest. We need to get to the main building.”

  I nod. Looking around as a crack of thunder rattles the hut and lightning flashes through the openings in the thatch, I begin to wonder if the hut will survive.

  Will we?

  Did we save our marriage only to lose our lives?

  “You’re right,” I say, closing my suitcase and securing my purse strap around my neck.

  With his computer bag and suitcase in tow, Paul opens the door that leads to the pier. More water
rushes in as wind rips the door from his hand. The door blows inward, crashing against the wall. “Come on,” he screams, his voice disappearing into the storm.

  We struggle to make it to land, the dock that before was a perfect row of rounded planks is now covered by a torrent of water threatening to wash us into the sea. The relief of the beach is short-lived. Each step through the sand is like walking in quicksand with the added danger of flying debris. Palm fronds, sticks, and leaves swirl around us.

  A walk that normally takes us five minutes extends to nearly twenty as we trudge, eyes down, protecting ourselves from the pelting rain and dangerous debris. As the wind speed increases, simple objects are turned into missiles. Partway up the hill, we stop to catch our breath and survey our surroundings.

  “Leave your suitcase,” Paul says. “I’ll leave mine too. The only thing that matters is getting you in that building.”

  I shake my head. “No. What if we lose everything?”

  Though we’re screaming, our voices are barely heard over the roar of the storm.

  “I’ll come back and get them once you’re secure.”

  I reach for his hand. “I’m not losing you for a suitcase. Either we get them there or we don’t. But we’re not separating.”

  In the midst of the storm, Paul smiles. “Never.”

  “Never.”

  “Give me yours,” he suggests. “We’re almost there. You concentrate on walking. I’ll get the suitcases or I won’t. We need to keep going.”

  I nod, passing him my suitcase.

  The muscles in his arms flex as he grips the handles.

  He was right. The sheer size of both of them makes them more like sails than a place to store belongings. If we were on a cement path, we may be able to use the wheels, but that’s not the type of path we’re on. The once-packed ground is now a river flowing from the top of the hill down toward the beach. Not only are we fighting the wind, we’re practically swimming upstream.

  When we finally make it to the main structure, Paul pushes the door inward until it’s wide enough so we can enter. As he releases the handle, the door flies inward as leaves and sand litter the floor. Once we’re both inside with our suitcases, he uses his shoulder and body weight to push the door closed.

  We both stand, soaked and trying to catch our breath as the storm seems to lessen.

  It’s an illusion.

  Through the windows it’s evident that it is still raging.

  However, within the building made of concrete blocks, it’s as if we hit a mute button.

  The only amplified sound is the beat of the rain as it pings against the metal roof. Our saturated clothes and soaking wet hair drips onto the concrete floor, creating puddles and adding to the mess that blew inside with our arrival.

  I look over at the door. “Can you lock it?”

  “I don’t think so. But we’re the only people here and the wind can’t open a door that’s latched.” He turns to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  I nod. “Wet, but fine.”

  He shakes his head. “That came up so fast.”

  “I’m glad we’re here. I’m afraid the hut won’t make it.”

  “I don’t care about the hut. I only care about you.”

  My body shivers as the chill from the wetness seeps to my bones, and I lean against the warmth of his body. We remain still, listening to what we can no longer feel until he says, “Let’s look around. I never really checked this place out except to get food or a bottle of wine.” He tilts his head to a rectangle on the floor. “That’s the wine cellar. I think this place is stable, but if we are worried, we can always go down there.” When I nod, he goes on, “Let’s see what else there is.”

  Taking my hand, I follow my husband as we move from room to room.

  The building isn’t large, but then again, it’s bigger than the hut. The rain continues its beat upon the roof as we step into the kitchen, complete with numerous refrigeration and freezer units that we know from experience are filled with food. There’s also a large stove and multiple ovens.

  “The brochure says something about a chef,” Paul says. “I would guess had we wanted one, this is where he would cook.”

  “Or she,” I say with a smile.

  “Or she,” Paul agrees.

  I let out a sigh of relief when we open a supply closet. It’s filled with large white fluffy towels, washcloths, soap, and even hair care samples. “I may have to wash my hair in the rain, but now at least I know I can.”

  There are also blankets, sheets, and pillows, as well as a washer and dryer. “I forget this island could have three huts full of people,” Paul says.

  “I like it the way it is.”

  He winks, his hair still dripping. “Me too.”

  There’s another supply closet with tools and equipment used to maintain the buildings and tropical landscape. “I’m sure they’re much busier in the heart of the tourist season.”

  The last door we open is similar to a studio apartment, and the sight of the living quarters makes me smile. “I wonder if this is where the chef stays?”

  Paul drops my hand and walks farther inside. Along with a small kitchenette, there is a sitting area, bedroom, and an attached bathroom. It’s not nearly as luxurious as the bathroom in our hut, but it has a shower and at this moment, that sounds like heaven.

  I shiver again at another crash of thunder. “I’m cold. Do you think we can take a shower during a storm?”

  “It depends on the pipes.”

  When I narrow my eyes, he continues, “If the pipes are PVC—plastic—they can’t conduct the lightning.”

  “If they’re metal,” I volunteer, “they can.”

  “Right. And we don’t know.” Paul goes back to the supply closet and grabs two towels. “I’d rather that we play it safe for now and dry off. I didn’t lose you in the storm. I don’t intend to lose you in a shower.” Before I can say anything else, he adds with a grin, “And after you take off those wet clothes, I’ll come up with some other way to warm you up.”

  I’m not sure how he’s able to make my insides flutter and nipples tighten with only words and a smirk, but he does.

  Chapter Eleven

  Paul

  Leading her to the bed, I help her remove the wet sundress and then each piece of sexy bikini beneath. With the towel in hand, I dry her body from her sexy legs to the top of her head and everywhere in between. It’s as we cuddle under the blankets with her soft, warm curves against me that my erection grows.

  In the middle of the storm, I do what I said was always my option. I make love to my wife, soft and gentle, until we both climb our mountains, our bodies twisting tighter and higher than the storm clouds.

  Perhaps it was the hike against the wind and rain, the adrenaline from the storm, or the orgasm, but whatever the cause, after we are both satisfied, Jenn’s eyes close and she drifts to sleep.

  Now, a few hours later, after eating some fruit and cheese, my mind goes to my other option. Gentle was right for our arrival. Now we’re settled and safe, and my thoughts are on a different kind of play.

  Before we left the hut, I made sure to bring a few things I’d brought along from home, some surprises she’d yet to see. I’m determined to take this slow but steady. Jenn’s already come so far—and so many times.

  Okay, that’s two different meanings of the word, but I thought I’d throw it in there to emphasize that I’m not pushing her on this. I’m leading and she’s following with equal enthusiasm.

  The storm continues to rage beyond the walls, and while the rain on the roof is loud, after a while it fades to background noise. I suppose that’s how it is when people live near a railroad track or an airport. The mind gets used to the sound, and slowly it forgets to register.

  It’s as the windows rattle with the occasional gust of wind or the thunder cracks and lightning flashes that Jenn shivers again.

  “Baby, we’re safe.”

  “I know,�
� she says, but her tone doesn’t match her words.

  “I have an idea to keep your mind off the storm.”

  Her lips curl upward. “I think I know what you’re thinking.”

  “See, we’re doing what Dr. Kizer said.”

  “Having tons of sex? I missed that in her therapy sessions.”

  “Oh, it was there. You just weren’t listening. Now you are.”

  She looks up from the chair where she’s wrapped in a blanket with a Kindle in her hand. It’s where she’s been since she woke earlier from her nap. “You’re right. I’m listening and so are you.”

  “Trust me?”

  “Implicitly.”

  “Then come here,” I say, standing from the couch where I’ve been sitting and walking into the bedroom where I’ve already set up my surprise.

  Wrapping the blanket around her, she follows. When she gets to the doorway, her steps freeze as she sucks in a breath. The fear that washes over her expression nearly breaks me. I’m not trying to frighten her but heighten what we have.

  “No, Paul.”

  I reach for her hand. “You know your word. Do you want to say it?”

  She looks up at the solid chain I found in one of the supply closets. While she was reading, I lassoed it over an exposed beam. If it hadn’t been for the rain, she would have heard the clatter. I then secured a pair of soft, wool-lined wrist cuffs from the end. It’s at the perfect height where she will still be able to stand with her legs spread, but her arms will be forced upward. Her lip disappears behind her teeth as her eyes grow moist. “What are you going to do?”

  “That’s where the trust comes in.”

  She spins my way. “I don’t want to say my word.”

  “Then trust me,” I say as I tug at the blanket she’s wearing. When she doesn’t respond, I tilt my head toward the bed. “If you’re not ready for the ceiling, I have some bindings for the bed.

  Jenn nods with an audible sigh. “Yes...okay...May we start with the bed?”

  “Drop the blanket.” The change in my tone is her warning.