Chapter 4: Waterfall Training
The shower in the villa had been a frantic, guilty rinse. She’d scrubbed at the smell of orchids and Donovan, but a phantom ache remained deep inside, a secret she carried in her muscles. When she met Jack for lunch, the orchid blossom was a dried, crumpled thing in the pocket of her clean shorts.
“You’re quiet,” Jack said, smiling over his jerk chicken. “Gardens that good?”
“Overwhelming,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. She felt his kindness like a weight. She had to shift the balance. “I think I’ll go down to the beach. Soak up some sun.”
The beach was a carnival of noise and color. She spread her towel, the old college bikini feeling flimsier than ever, a costume. She hadn’t even closed her eyes when the shadow fell over her.
“Señora Lynn. You look… relaxed.”
Carlos stood there, a ladder propped on his shoulder, his lifeguard shorts hanging low on his hips. His smile was a knowing beacon. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth between her legs from two days prior.
“Just trying to,” she said, shading her eyes.
He dropped the ladder into the sand and knelt beside her, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. “I heard you took a private tour of the orchid house. Donovan is a very… thorough botanist.”
A fresh current of heat flashed through her. So they talked. Of course they did.
“He was informative,” she managed, her throat dry.
Carlos laughed, a rich, easy sound. “I bet he was. You have a taste for the local fauna now, I think.” His eyes scanned the beach, then returned to her. “The sun here is for tourists. I know a place that is real Jamaica. A waterfall. No one goes there.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was an itinerary. Lynn felt the decision click inside her, hard and final. “When?”
“Now. I finish my shift in ten minutes. Meet me at the path behind the kayak shed.”
The hidden path was a thread of dirt through a wall of green. The jungle swallowed them whole, the roar of the beach fading into a cacophony of chirps and drones. The air was a solid, wet thing, clinging to her skin. Carlos moved ahead of her, sure-footed, his muscular back shifting under his thin tank top.
“Not far,” he called back, his voice muffled by the foliage.
The sound reached her first—a low, growling thunder that vibrated in her chest. Then the light changed, dappled and sparking through a break in the canopy. They pushed through a final curtain of vines, and the world opened up.
It was a cathedral of stone and water. A sheer cliff face, draped in velvet moss, cradled a plunging cascade of white water that crashed into a deep, turquoise pool below. Mist hung in the air, catching rainbows. It was primal, beautiful, and utterly secluded.
“Jesus,” Lynn breathed.
Carlos was already pulling his shirt over his head. “Come. The water is cold. It wakes up the skin.”
She followed him to the pool’s edge, slipped off her sandals. They waded in. The water was a shocking, delicious cold that made her gasp. It was waist-deep near the center, under the mist of the falls. Carlos turned to her, water beading on his chest, his eyes dark.
“You liked Donovan’s… tour?” He moved closer, his hands finding her hips under the water.
“It was different,” she said, her hands braced on his slick shoulders.
“Different how?” His fingers hooked into the sides of her bikini bottom, pulling them down. She let him, kicking them away. They floated off, a tiny scrap of fabric.
“He wasn’t gentle.”
Carlos grinned. “Neither am I.” One hand cupped her between her legs, his middle finger sliding through her folds, finding her already swollen and ready. “Fuck, Lynn. You are still wet from him. You are insatiable.”
“Maybe I am,” she said, the admission a release.
He kissed her then, deep and hungry, his tongue mimicking the act his body was primed for. He walked her backwards until her shoulders brushed against a massive, moss-covered boulder that rose from the water near the waterfall’s spray. The moss was cool and velvety against her skin.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice thick. “Bend over. Hold the rock.”
She obeyed, the submerged stone slick beneath her feet. She leaned forward, the rough, living texture of the moss against her bare stomach and breasts. The cold spray from the waterfall dotted her back. She heard the rustle of his shorts, the snap of elastic.
He pressed against her, his cock a rigid, immense heat against her lower back. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He rubbed the broad head through her slickness, not entering, just painting her with her own wetness and his.
“Donovan fucked this sweet pussy,” Carlos whispered, his mouth at her ear. “But he didn’t take this, did he?”
The head of his cock nudged against a different, tighter entrance.
Lynn’s eyes flew open. “No,” she gasped.
“Yes.” The phrase was a hiss. He spat into his hand, worked it over himself, and then pressed the damp circle against her. “This is what you came for. Everything. You want to feel everything.”
He pushed. The initial breach was a shocking, blazing stretch. She cried out, her fingers clawing at the moss. He didn’t stop. He fed his massive girth into her inch by ruthless inch, his breath coming in sharp grunts. She was impossibly full, stretched to a burning point, the cold spray on her back a bizarre counterpoint to the internal fire.
When he was fully sheathed, they both shuddered. He leaned over her, covering her body with his. “Okay?” he grunted.
It was pain, but a pain she craved, a proof of existence. “Don’t stop.”
He began to move, a slow, withdrawing slide followed by a deep, penetrating thrust that stole her breath. The rhythm was brutal, exquisite. Each drive forward felt like a conquest. The sound of their bodies meeting, wet slap over the waterfall’s roar, was obscene.
One of his hands snaked around her hip, his fingers diving into her soaked pussy from the front. He fucked her with his fingers in time with the deep pistoning of his cock in her ass, a dual assault that stretched her senses to breaking.
“You see?” he panted, his voice ragged with effort. “You can take it all. You were built for it. By the end of this week, you won’t remember your own name. Just the feel of different cocks. The bartender, Marcus… he’s next. He’s been watching you. He wants a taste. And the head of security, a big man, serene like a mountain… he will break you open in a new way.”
His filthy promises, paint and name to her fantasies, broke the last dam inside her. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that blinded her—a convulsive, screaming release that clenched around his invading fingers and the thick invasion in her ass. She shook, sobbing against the moss.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, plunging roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing flood of his release deep inside her, a claiming that was terrifying in its finality.
He collapsed onto her back, both of them gasping, held up by the boulder. The waterfall misted over them. Slowly, gently, he pulled out. The feeling of emptiness was vast.
He turned her around, held her as she trembled, her legs useless. He kissed her forehead, a strangely tender gesture. “You are a discovery,” he murmured.
He helped her wash in the pool, the water carrying away the physical evidence. He retrieved her bikini bottom, helped her into it. Dressed, they were just a guide and a tourist again.
The walk back was silent. At the edge of the beach, he stopped. “Tomorrow. The sunset cruise. Marcus tends bar on that boat. He will know what to do.”
She nodded, wordless. She returned to her towel. Jack was dozing in his chair, a book open on his chest.
She lay down, the sun baking her skin. The deep, throbbing ache inside her was a compass. It didn’t point home. It pointed to the dusk, to a boat, to a man named Marcus she’d never noticed. The hunger yawned wider, and she willingly fell into its dark, welcoming maw.