Catching Preeya (Paradise South Book 3) (11 page)

“Oh, like you waited for me?” he busted her back. Where was his bold new attitude coming from? The prior shots?

In a blink, Preeya had gone and come back again. “She
is
a pretty little thing.”

“God, please.” He shook his head. He raised his double shot high in the air. “Cheers, to young lives saved.”

“To young lives.” They clinked their doubles and threw them down their throats.

*

She counted the glasses in front of them for damage control. Three doubles in for him. Four for her. “Do you think the agent came for the papers yet?” he asked, his speech only slightly slurred. But he was too tall to be affected that fast, right? She snickered in disbelief.

She looked at her watch, shook her head at herself—
stupid watch, again
—and then pulled out her cell phone. “Four
fifty-eight
. No, not yet,” she said. “You don’t drink often, do you?”

“No. On my excursions, crazy homemade
moonshine-type
stuff is just too risky.
Gut-sickening
or not, though, I’m on the straight and narrow most of the time. I feel like, well, I’m always
on
, you know. What if…what if someone needs me?”

She smirked at him. “Do you like to be needed?” she asked, her head cocked to the side.

“Not like that. I just, well, I feel responsible. Hell, what if I’d taken that drink you’d offered me on the plane?”

“True.” But God, one drink? He was like a human tree. “But if you drank more, your tolerance would go up. And the rod stuck up your ass would probably, you know, come down…and out…I think.” She broke out laughing at his expense, almost hysterically.

“Hold on now. I do
not
have a pole up my ass!”

“I said a rod, not a pole. But either way, don’t you? You even walk like you do. So serious, so—”

“On duty?”

“Yeah! On duty.”

“Well, I just told you…I am. I always feel like I’m
on
duty
!”

“That’s
exactly
why I left med school. Well, one reason, at least. I couldn’t waste my precious moments on earth living like that.”

“Oh, precious time on earth spent helping people is a waste?”

She paused. And glared. Then a beat passed, until the Jetta Air representative approached. And cleared her throat. “Hello there…”

Ben turned on his stool and blinked slowly. “Hello.” Preeya thought he sounded very composed,
doctor-like
. “We’d left the envelope at the front desk for you. Did you get it?”

“Yes, thank you. Just wanted to hand you your boarding passes for tomorrow afternoon’s flight, and your future travel vouchers, Dr. Trainer. Thanks again from Jetta Air.”

“Not a problem, really,” he said, taking the items from the woman’s hand.

“Preeya, please watch your intranet email for any
follow-up
questions we or the authorities may have.”

“Yes, of course,” she answered dutifully, covering her mouth, her breath, with her hand. But why the hell did she care what this woman thought? She was
twenty-five
years old. And had helped save a life today. Why didn’t she deserve a damn drink or so? And again, not on the clock.

“Good, then…safe flights tomorrow,” the agent said with a wave and left them.

Ben eyed the bartender nodding at his empty glass and resumed their conversation. “So, anyway, you’re a flight attendant now. Helping people that way?”

She grunted. “Yeah, I wanted to take life less seriously. What’s wrong with that? You only live once. And I still do get to make a difference, like today…” She’d caught the judgment in his tone.

“And you’re waiting for, what, a certain age to start the serious portion of your life? When you get to help people not by accident, not on a fluke, but for real?”

“Maybe.” She looked down at her empty glass. “I just want to be completely ready if or when I ever choose to…settle.” Because, God, what she feared more than anything was settling.

“Settle?”

Not in the mood for an argument, she revised. “I meant
settling
down
. Planting myself somewhere.” She felt a hard knot gather in her throat.

“Huh…interesting. So, in other words, you’re saying you may never be ready to take life seriously?” His amber eyes were piercing hers with too much force. Too much intensity. And too much glaring truth.

Wow, things were just getting too damn serious.
Third-degree
-
from-Dad
serious, even though Ben’s delivery was a drunken ramble. Who the hell did he think he was?

She slammed another shot back that she hadn’t even realized the bartender had filled for her. Then she looked at Ben hard—his deep worry lines between his eyebrows, around his eyes; the peppered gray in his gruff—and yes,
sexy-as
-hell—five o’clock shadow. He couldn’t have been beyond his
mid-thirties
.

“Hey, Ben…how old are you, anyway?”

“How old am I? Is this sheer avoidance, or…”

“Just, how old are you? You’re acting like my father, so I think I should know just how many years of wisdom you’ve got over me or under him to be taking such a lofty stance. This line of questioning is bordering on daddy déjà vu,” she said, punctuating the last words with raised brows for
dagger-like
emphasis.

“First off, I’m
thirty-two
. And second, I am
not
trying to be your father—”

“Oh, you don’t wanna be my daddy?” She smirked, a flintiness that surprised even her. She was solid mush—her ninth and tenth ounce of vodka just hitting her gut—and, damn it, consequential shock waves hitting her core. And while he stared at her in awe, she couldn’t stop her mouth from running on. “Hey, do you shave your head because you’re losing your hair? When did it start…and was it from stress? Or was it genetic…from your maternal grandfather’s side, I think? I remember that’s the dominant gene for
male-pattern
baldness…right?”

She watched his face turn grim. He looked down at his empty glass just as the bartender came to fill it up again. “Thanks, man.”

Then Ben cleared his throat and turned his head to look her square in the face. A glower that made her breathing halt. “I shave it. Easier for me to manage in the field.” He slammed his drink back. “Sorry if I’m not more like your
daddy
.”

A direct hit.

*

Had she felt the icy tidal wave? Goddamn good if she had. He’d shaved his head when Jamie went through her first round of chemo. And he kept it that way all the way through. Now it was a ritual he relied on. To honor her. To keep her memory close.

The next double he downed made the room spin. Hot, delicious, floating relief. He spun on his stool, or was he stationary but his mind whirled? Or the Boise bar? B.B. Boise bar. He laughed, twirling, spiraling around the room with Preeya inches away. She was in his face asking him something over and over again. Until an urge spiked up his spine to stop the spinning and kiss her.

What the hell?
How many shots had he actually had?

Her hands took hold of his face. Was she going to kiss
him
?

“Are you okay, though? Seriously.” The
blue-to
-
violet-eyed
beauty spoke slow and clear, her words poignant. And loud. Her breath, vodka and sweetness. “Ben, come on, tell me…are you?”

“Yes, Preeya. I am okay. Are you…Middle Eastern, East Indian, or…maybe Nepalese? I went to Nepal.
Are
you Nepalese? That’s my guess. Either way, you’re like a princess, that’s what you are. A
kumari
. An Asian princess. From the sky.”

“Oh, man, are
you
gone. Can I get a bottled water please, John?”

The bartender tapped the counter. “Right away.”

How’d she know his name? Did she guess? He didn’t look like a John.
But I don’t look like a Benji.
That’s what Jamie used to call him. He had hated it. But missed the hell out of it now.
Benji.

“No, Benji’s not
gone
, Preeya and John. I’m really here. Right here in front of you.” He felt like his words were clear, although slightly slow in falling from his mouth. “But water sounds good, too. So, what are you then?”

“What am I?”

“Your ancestry, your background?”

“Oh, um, my mother was—”

“Was? Did she die?”

“No, or, actually…I don’t really know.” He watched her eyes glance up to the ceiling in thought. “Whatever, um, she was or is a European mutt? And my father is FOB Indian, some thirty years ago. He’s actually an MD, and an asshole. No offense.”

“None taken. Wait, why would
I
take offense?”

“Because he’s an asshole doctor.”

“Are they mutuallistically exclusive?”

“Do you mean
mutually
?”

“That’s what I said: mutualintrinsically executive.”

“Yes?”

“Yes? You’re asking? Or yes, they are. They go hand in hand or not?” His voice turned serious. He could hear his
near-harsh
tone, but he was trying to get down to logic. And he seriously didn’t want to lose his train of thought, because God, it—the thought train—was flying by at a thousand miles a minute.

“Yes, they are linked, interdependent. He is a
money-grubbing
asshole doctor.”

“Not possible. There are too many types of doctors, and people. What does he practice?”

“Cosmetic surgery. Tits, asses, lips.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I told you…asshole doctor.”

“Come on, Preeya…you know that not all doctors, not even all plastic surgeons, are scum. Many help burn victims, cleft palates. I am…
was
a pediatric surgeon. Now I can’t be an asshole and work with kids, right?”

“Actually…you can. I’ve not met a doctor who isn’t a greedy, unfeeling prick. My dad’s just the worst of them,” she said sighing into her hands. Then she picked her head up to look at him. “Wait, you
were
a pediatric surgeon?”

“Long story. Gave up my practice…needed a change, so I’ve been with Doctors Without Borders for the past year. But my point is, there are plenty of assholes who aren’t…aren’t…shit, I forgot my train!”

“Your train?” Her eyes brightened. “Are you sure it’s your train you’re missing? Or could it be your plane?” She laughed at her quip and slapped his arm. Hey, whatever made her mood flip back to fun, because, God it felt amazing to be…silly. Silly and stupid and happy. He hadn’t had anything but
solemn
and
serious
for ages—decades, maybe.

No, Ben, just a couple of
years.

Two impossibly intense years.

Snap out of it, Ben.

Okay
. He tapped his empty glass and the very attentive hotel bartender quickly appeased him. No risk of patrons driving drunk, Ben guessed.

Ben pounded the shot.

“Wait, I remember!”

“What?” Preeya tilted her head at him. So goddamn gorgeous.

He shook his head to
re-remember
. “
Assholes
! Assholes who aren’t doctors and doctors who aren’t—”

“Pilots!” she yelled, flinging pretzels—from a bowl she’d apparently been hogging—all over the floor and counter.

They both cracked up, Ben almost sliding off his bar stool while watching Preeya pluck up each pretzel on the bar and shove them into her mouth.

“Not sanitary—at all!”

She rolled her eyes at him with her cheeks full and lumpy. God, she was too exquisite and adorable…and judgmental as hell. The doctor bias, in particular, he aimed to abolish.

“You do know what I’m saying, right? About doctors?”

She nodded and mumbled something impossible to make out.

“You know that
I’m
a doctor who
isn’t
an asshole, right?”

She nodded again, this time with her eyes lit up, glowing almost. Then, as a giggle built up in her chest, she covered her mouth so pretzel crumbs wouldn’t fly out. But he got her answer. He knew she understood.

He also knew that behind her drunken laughter and glowing eyes, he saw real and raw pain. What had her father done to hurt her so badly? What sharp thorn lay festering inside the heart of this bright and vigorous woman?

But the thought vanished the next moment when his stomach twisted in a tight knot then morphed into floating, airy, nausea. He held his torso to anchor himself.

“Here”—she opened the water the bartender had handed her and held it up to his lips—“drink.”

Her hand was hardly steady and she laughed—some drops dribbled out the corner of his mouth until he grabbed the bottle from her and finished the entire thing in one long swig.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I needed that.” Then he belched. “Oh, excuse me.”

She giggled, shaking her head at him. “You really just don’t let loose, do you?”

“And you really don’t know how smart and stunning and sexy you are.” His cheeks burned up. And he didn’t care. He burped again, excused himself, and then groaned as the floaty feeling returned, flooding his gut. “I, uh, think I need a bed,” he said, sliding off his bar stool.

But she wedged herself under his arm before his imminent crumble to the floor. “Hold on there,” she said with a grunt, obviously unable to hold him. She helped him square his feet and stood him up straight. All the while, he stared at her and didn’t try to hide it.

He knew he needed
sleep
in a bed, but God, he wanted her. With him. For more than company. But did she want that, too? With him? And how would he ask her? How did this work? It had been so long. Before Jamie.
Jamie
. What exactly did he think he was doing?

Then a smile spread across her brilliant face, her head tilted slightly to one side. “I’m just gonna help you up to your room. Come on, Dr. Ben, let’s go.”

CHAPTER 11

H
e’d heard rumors
of how forward—hell, how aggressive and promiscuous and forward—air hostesses were, but he’d never come
face-to
-
beautiful-face
with one. Like this. In all his travels. Three countries in a year.

But then again, he most definitely had not been looking.

Or was he reading into things? Maybe she was only helping him walk to his hotel room, like she’d said?

But what if she wasn’t
just
walking him? What if she was coming inside with him? Helping him to bed. And joining him.

A wave of nausea and guilt tsunamied in his gut.

Chill out, Ben. You’re just drunk.
And queasy. And nervous.

A lump had formed in his throat, keeping him from swallowing successfully. His palms were sweaty; did she feel that? Because she was holding one of his clammy hands in hers, guiding him. God, she must’ve.

What would happen when they got to the room? Damn it, he got married so young. Jamie, and only Jamie. Fuck, what was the etiquette? The
how
of
this
?

She took the key from his other clammy hand. Okay, she’s just going to help him with the key.

Right? Or no?

Was she staying? Because he wanted that. For her to stay. So badly he wanted that.

But as they got closer to the room, he didn’t. He couldn’t. The guilt had crossed the threshold to
code-red
status. He didn’t deserve pleasure. He deserved nothing.

But, God, he could use the release. How long had he been so uptight, so visibly tense, even to the blunt assessment of this stunning stranger who knew nothing of his history, his loss?

His loss. How could he do this? To Jamie, to her memory? But she’d made him promise to move on. To live. And this woman holding his sweaty, quaking hand was leading him. He probably wouldn’t have been able to walk without her.

Shit, would he even be able to perform if he couldn’t handle walking one foot in front of the other? He’d been out of practice for so long—being intimate, not walking…well, walking drunk, too. Anyway, it had been more than two years since he’d been intimate. Two fucking years.

Two years since he’d made love to his wife.

As soon as she’d been diagnosed, all the way up to now. Nothing.

What the fuck was he thinking? That he could swing this? Getting off with his right hand a few times a month wasn’t near enough to be ready for this woman. This
caliber
woman. Preeya, with the celestial eyes.

“I’m feeling a little—” He paused to hold his stomach again with his one free hand. And…because he swore he’d heard a soft whisper and it freaked him the hell out. Then that hushed voice became a shout as quick as a switch. He glanced at Preeya who definitely hadn’t heard it. She just continued leading him down the long, depressingly
brown-and
-green carpeted Boise hotel corridor.

Boise?
He had never been to Boise.

Man the hell up
—the voice again, stern, sharp. The quality and tone, not
his
. It was low, and it was positively…female. Familiar. From that morning, with Stanton. But closer this time. And loud.
Ear-jamming
loud.

Then,
Buck up, Ben!

Jesus
…Jamie
?

He looked at Preeya again.

He could tell she hadn’t heard it. She still focused on the hall ahead. Not on him and his internal
crazy
.
Thank
God.

And when she stopped short—they’d apparently reached his room—she looked up at him with those eyes, lavender and deep and somehow softer and sadder and sweeter than they’d been since the taxi line, then security, then pillows…

And now he was certain her eyes were also most definitely wanting.

*

He leaned down as his free hand moved up from his stomach to her face. He slowly let his lips meet hers. Only his lips, though. And they pressed into hers, holding back the internal, desperate, screaming need for more. And reining in the same heightened level of guilt, restraining it with all his might, he inhaled her essence.

Then he pulled back. To look at her. To be sure she still had that look in her eyes. That desire.

And, yes. It was unmistakable.

So he moved in again with his parched, unsure lips, so thirsty for hers. Her moist and tender lips—lush, sensual, waiting.

Welcoming. Her hand reached up to the nape of his neck, returning his kiss, gently dragging and caressing her lips over his. In his head and heart he felt a fluttering sense of relief and warmth and, God, the very beginnings of bliss.

Then her tongue swept in, immediately electrifying his senses. It had been such a long, sad, hopeless time.

But now, after an agonizing past, he was on fire.

While refusing to let his lips leave hers, he snagged the key card from her hand, blindly opened the door, and pulled her inside. Kissing and caressing her still, he never wanted it to end.

Firm, directed, he pulled her to him and lifted her off the floor, her toes hovering, floating across the room. Bed found, he laid her down. As if he’d just returned to his body from a long journey away, back from a black hole in space, his entire body pulsed with the energy of this woman.

“Wait.”

“What? Are you all right?”

“Condom, in my purse. It’s by the door.”

How the hell could he have forgotten?

Because he was two years—no, fifteen years—out of that line of thinking. And drunk off his ass. But thank the Lord that this gorgeous, fiery, intelligent, and
forward-thinking
creature had a condom in her purse. If she was a little philandering, at least she was safe about it. But he didn’t want to think of her with another man. No. Now, she was with him. Only him.

He looked at her, ready and waiting for him, lying on top of the tight white duvet cover, smiling at him coyly, like a cat waving its sly tail for him to come to her. To take her.

And he was hard as steel for her.

Grab the condom and take her, then.

He swallowed back the last remnant of anxiety sticking in his throat and went to her purse. He secretly hoped that she had two condoms in it. If not more.

Woozy and sweating hot, he crouched down at her bag, nearly falling over, when his necklace, with his wedding ring, fell out from under his shirt.

It dangled. He stared.

Do it, Ben. It’s okay. It is.
The voice.

He swallowed and slammed his eyes shut. Up and over his head came the chain, quick, like a bandage. He clutched the chain with his gold wedding band in his hand, then stood—God, too fast—took three steps toward his messenger bag and slowly placed the chain into the innermost pocket. And zipped it. And exhaled hard.

Condom. Go
.

Damn she was demanding, and that’s just one thing he fucking loved about his wife. His late wife. And for Jamie, and really only for Jamie, had he always done what he’d been told. He stumbled back to the purse. Of Preeya’s. The vibrant and amazing woman waiting for him on the hotel room bed.

*

She could kick herself for breaking her new rule—
self-focus
only. But his pure, unadulterated focus on pleasuring her was just…unreal. Yes, she could justify this—a
doctor-prescribed
and customized therapy session of cathartic
self-focus
.

Then add the good doctor’s stamina—and he was sloppy drunk, too. Men under the influence, in her experience, usually took forever to come, if they even came at all before surrendering to sleep, and all the while she could have been a hole in a wall for all they knew, pounding and thrusting away.

But not Dr. Ben. He was there. All there. And
detail-oriented
. Masterfully precise in his direction, his pacing and positioning. Like a good, attentive doctor, he cared for her, all the way in and out of her. His fine, throbbing length, and what he did with it, took her breath away. Over and over and over again.

And adding the other things he did to her while pumping her to the peak again and again—she was undone. The twirling and pressing of her sensitive bud, and the caressing of her slick lips with his surgeon hands.

This man, she thought, could take as long as he damn well pleased. Because five orgasms to none—none yet, though she intended to make him wail by the end—she was in ecstatic bliss and was inhumanly ready for more. Not sore, not tired or spent, just energized and delirious with…
something
.

Was it joy?

Joy was the only word that fit.

And God, how
he
fit. So fucking well, he fit in her.

“So, the flight’s at two?” he panted, moving his mouth down her bodice.

“Yeah, in the afternoon,” she added, writhing under his delicious control.

“Oh, God, that’s good. Just so, so damn good,” he said as he nibbled above her hipbone, making her squeal. “We can do this all the way to noon p.m., then.”

She laughed at his totally drunken state as she went to look at her wrist for the time, but caught herself—and her phone was too far away. Her eyes scanned the room. The
neon-red
alarm clock on the other nightstand read 1:00 a.m. “You can go for fourteen hours? I mean, one to noon…nine, no ten hours. Hell, whatever, I’m game.”

“I feel like I could go nine or ten or fourteen hours.” He looked at her face from between her thighs. “It’s been…a good long while for me…doing
this
.” He sucked the soft part of her inner thigh just below—and so close to—her aching core. “I’d say I’ve got some catching up to do.” He smiled, then refocused on her tensed thigh, giving her the most sensual and sweet plowing of kisses she’d felt—maybe ever. “But I’ll need to maybe…break. To eat,” he said, smiling up at her again before switching to her other thigh, again teasing her to the edge of madness.

She threw her head back in total elation.

How was he doing it? Making her forget everyone and everything. No Josh, no Evan, no
fucked-up
family or flights or failures or fears.

There was only Dr. Ben Trainer and his powerful focus on pleasing her. His energy and attention. His ravenous hunger for her, and for at least right now, only for her.

*

The experience in her, with her, over her, was so different, so immensely, amazingly different, that the guilt had just subsided, drifted away. He felt freer than maybe ever before.

For what seemed like hours, they moved together in perfect rhythm, like ocean waves brewing
before-then
-
during-then
-after a storm. Again and again—crashing pleasure with easing calm in between.

He hardly knew this woman, this exquisite being, but their bodies were intimate and in such sync—as if they’d known each other for all time.

He recognized something in her, a
deep-seated
need that he was all too familiar with. The same need to flee, to fly, to run—to escape at all costs. Medical school to…flight attendant training? Why? She was so bright and strong and grounded. What the hell was she running from? What had caused that lingering pain he’d spotted behind her
ocean-deep
eyes?

He swept her hair away from her face and kissed her cheek, her bare shoulder, then the crook of her neck. She lay tight against the length of his body, her deep and sated breath soothing him to join her in half sleep. His top arm ran along her curves, his fingertips drawing figure eights on the soft, taught skin of her hip. His other arm went under, up, and around her, draped across her middle like a sash, her breasts spilling over his forearm, creating a spectacular tangle of mocha and cream. Such contrast and complement at once. He breathed her in while sinking deeper into the bed, into the pillow, and into the fit of their bodies.

The euphoria from their sensual dance maintained its vibrancy even after the buzz from the liquor had worn off. And with the radiance of their connection came a sense of clarity. He could now let it all sink in. That this was the first time since his wife’s passing that he’d stopped running. Paused for a breath. His own life’s marathon had become a compulsion, one that had taken over without him realizing
.

He took her top hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles one at a time through a muted laugh. How strange and lucky and good for him and for her—two marathon escape artists in peak escapist condition and form—to crash into each other,
head-long
, on a flight to Houston, Texas, via Boise, Idaho, the Great American Potato Capital of the World.

He pressed her hand to his cheek. “Glad we skipped the potato conference,” he whispered.

Through her half sleep she hummed in response.

He didn’t aim to wake her but, well, yes, he did. No longer under the influence of anything but the raw energy and comfort between them—the
fit
of them—he began a new round of kisses, one to each finger, then down the length of her hand, her wrist.

She moaned.

He parted his lips, his teeth, his mouth, and took her thumb in, surrounding and sucking and nibbling it.

He heard her swallow then sigh long and sweet.

His cock became solid hard desire again.

He closed his eyes, relishing her taste, her scent and sound. And when he opened his eyes again, she was facing him, eyes wide. Needy again, too.

*

Sleep had been conquered by limitless desire. True desire. No more alcohol buzzing through her now, just pure and unadulterated want.
Want
for this man.

And she sensed his raw, unaffected need, too. His soft caress and tight hold of her, his warm breath and rolling vibe, his solid steel pulsating against her thigh—God, her heart and head and core were ready to burst. “I want more, Doctor Ben.”

He growled deep down in his throat and gave her a wicked smile. “
I
want more, Preeya Patel.” His eyes locked on to hers with unrelenting angst, he slid his hand up her cheek, down her throat, across her collarbone to her shoulder. “All of you.” He pushed her shoulder down to the bed, flat on her back, then moved over and down her. “Every last drop of you.” Her anguishing arousal clenched and pooled with need for him. Ready to give him everything, every last drop. Like he wanted.