No Pretenses in Paradise

The sea was different here—not the gray-green Atlantic I’d left behind in Boston, but a blue so shameless it felt like a dare. From the balcony of my Negril cottage I watched it shimmer, empty of everything except a lone fisherman rowing a painted skiff. I’d come for silence, for the kind of rest people brag about in break-room conversations: I just need to unplug, you know? No spreadsheets, no fiancé making tired jokes about “finally locking me down,” no wedding caterer sending panicked texts about gluten-free cake. Just me, a stack of novels, and seven days of paid-for tropical hush.

By noon I’d stripped to my black bikini, oiled every inch of skin that hadn’t seen sun since last September, and claimed a lounge chair far from the bar’s reggae pulse. I read the same paragraph three times, distracted by heat, salt, the occasional squeal of kids playing at the property next door. When the shadow fell across my Kindle, I assumed it was the waiter offering another rum punch.

“Sun’s strongest between eleven and two,” a low voice said instead. “You’ll burn before you feel it.”

I squinted upward. He stood with the glare behind him, skin polished umber, shoulders cut as if carved from the island itself. White linen shirt unbuttoned, swim trunks hanging just low enough to make me forget I was supposedly commitment-weary and celibate-by-choice this week.

“I have SPF fifty,” I answered, stupidly proud the words emerged level.

“That stuff washes off when you swim.” He smiled—slow, knowing, as if we’d already met in a dream I hadn’t confessed to having. “I’m Kadian. I drive the glass-bottom boat, fix the jet skis, sometimes rescue pretty tourists from themselves.”

Heat crawled up my neck that had nothing to do with ultraviolet rays. “Erin,” I managed. “And I don’t need rescuing.”

“Didn’t say you did. But the offer stands.” He nodded toward the water. “Come out with the boat at three. Fewer people, best light.”

I told myself I’d say no, opened my mouth to do exactly that, yet what slipped out was, “Maybe.”

He left before I could retract it, barefoot prints swallowed by sand the way sane intentions are swallowed by impulse.

At ten minutes to three I was at the dock, sarong knotted like armor across my hips, pretending the flutter inside me was curiosity, not foreplay. Kadian scrubbed the deck with obvious pleasure, arms flexing, curls damp against his neck. When he spotted me, the grin that broke across his face looked hungry and relieved at once, as if he’d already waited too long.

Only two other guests climbed aboard: a middle-aged couple more interested in photographing each other than the reef. We puttered past the swim ropes, engine humming like a secret. Kadian narrated—pointing out brain coral, a camouflaged octopus, the shadow of a nurse shark—but his gaze kept flicking to me in a way that made my bikini bottoms cling tighter every time. Halfway through the hour he cut the motor.

“Current’s calm,” he announced. “Anyone wants to swim, now’s your chance.”

The couple demurred, busy snapping selfies. Kadian’s eyes pinned me. “Erin?”

I stood, pulse skittering, and let the sarong drop. His inhale was small, visible, delicious. Then I dove.

Water closed over me—warm, impossibly clear. I kicked until my lungs tugged, surfacing beside the hull. He crouched, forearms resting on the rail, a foot from my dripping face.

“Hold the ladder,” he murmured so only I could hear. “I want to show you something.”

I expected him to point out another fish. Instead he slipped overboard in one fluid motion, chest brushing my back when we both trod water. “Follow.”

We swam ten yards to a shallow shelf of white sand invisible from the boat. The couple’s voices faded. Kadian’s hand brushed my waist—accidental, then deliberate. When he turned me to face him, salt droplets clung to his lashes.

“You’re beautiful when you pretend not to notice me watching,” he said.

“I noticed.”

“And?”

My laugh trembled. “And I’m supposed to be resting. No complications.”

“Who said anything complicated?” His palm slid to the small of my back, anchoring us together in the tide’s gentle sway. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop. But don’t pretend you want me to.”

I could feel him already half-hard against my hip. The sane voice in my head rattled off risks—strangers, public water, my own fresh heartbreak. Every nerve ending voted unanimously to shut that voice up. “Don’t stop,” I whispered.

He kissed me then, open-mouthed, tasting of ocean and sun. My legs wrapped instinctively around his waist; the ridge of his cock pressed exactly where I needed friction. We rocked like that, breathing each other, until a burst of laughter drifted from the boat. I unwound myself, cheeks burning.

“Come to the maintenance dock after dinner,” he said. “Boats sleep there. No tourists.”

I nodded, not trusting words.

The rest of the afternoon felt underwater—colors too bright, time syrupy. I showered, slicked my skin with coconut oil, chose the yellow sundress that made my brown eyes look almost amber. I told myself casual sex could be part of vacation reboot; people did it all the time. Yet my hands shook fastening the straps.

The resort’s main dining terrace glowed with tiki torches. I picked at jerk chicken, drank two glasses of wine too fast, then escaped before the nightly karaoke began. Pathways lit by low lanterns guided me past hibiscus hedges toward the service beach. Night insects buzzed like tiny vibrators against the night. I found Kadian cinching a rope around a moored catamaran, shirtless, muscles gleaming with sweat.

He looked up, wiped his forehead with the back of a wrist. “Thought you might change your mind.”

“Thought I might, too.”

He stepped close, threaded fingers through my damp hair. “Last chance to sail away, Erin.”

The way he said my name—slow vowel, definite r—shredded hesitation. I rose on tiptoe and kissed him, tasting salt, daring him to meet me. He groaned, hands dropping to my ass, lifting until my feet left sand. I felt his thickness through thin dress fabric and whimpered.

We stumbled into the tool shed that smelled of gasoline and pine planks. He shoved life-vests from a workbench, set me on the edge, pushed my thighs apart. Fingers grazed up my legs, gathering the dress until cool air hit the soaked crotch of my panties.

“Yellow looks good on you,” he growled. “Off you, even better.” He snapped the waistband. “These in the way, though.”

I lifted so he could drag them down; they disappeared into his pocket like a trophy. His thumbs parted me, exploring folds swollen and slick. I bit his shoulder to muffle the moan when he sank two fingers deep.

“So fucking wet,” he breathed against my ear. “All day, yeah?”

“Since the reef,” I admitted, riding his hand shamelessly.

He dropped to his knees, mouth replacing fingers. The first lick was teasing, feather-light; the second speared inside, thick and hot. My head fell back, knocking a can of WD-40. He chuckled, vibration sending sparks up my spine. When he sucked my clit, pressure perfect and relentless, orgasm coiled fast—terrifying, magnificent. I came with a cry that echoed off corrugated tin, heels digging into his shoulder blades.

Before the pulses faded he stood, shoved his trunks down. His cock sprang free—long, curved slightly upward, darker at the crown, a bead of moisture glistening. My mouth watered.

“Condom,” he rasped, producing one from nowhere, tearing it with teeth. I watched, fascinated, as he rolled latex over veins that pulsed under my stare. He aligned himself, tip nudging my entrance.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Our gazes locked as he pushed in—one steady, claiming slide. I felt split open in the best way, walls stretching to accommodate, nerves firing like carnival lights. When he bottomed out we both exhaled. “Okay?” he asked, voice strained.

“More than.” I squeezed experimentally; his eyes slammed shut.

He started slow, hands cupping my ass to angle me just so. Each thrust dragged the head across a spot that made me see constellations. I hooked ankles behind his back, meeting him, the bench screeching across floor. Faster, harder—skin slapping, breath ragged. He muttered filthy praise: so tight, taking me, beautiful, until language dissolved into grunts.

Second climax blindsided me, sharper than the first. I clenched around him, milking. Kadian snarled, buried deep, and followed, hips jerking as the condom filled. We stayed locked, kissing soft now, tasting the hurricane we’d unleashed.

After, he helped clean me with a rag that smelled of turpentine—somehow intimate in its practicality. We laughed about it, the absurd domesticity. I slipped ruined panties from his pocket, stuffed them in my purse. “Souvenir,” I said.

“Come sailing tomorrow,” he counter-offered. “Real trip. Just us.”

I should have felt guilt—wasn’t there a fiancé waiting for ring photos? Instead I felt gloriously alive. “Okay.”

We parted before security made rounds. In my bed I fell asleep to the phantom rocking of his hips.

Morning delivered postcard sunshine and a note slipped under my door: South dock, ten o’clock. Bring sunscreen and an appetite. I floated through breakfast, barely tasting mango. At the pier Kadian waited beside a modest skiff—weather-scarred, motor smaller than yesterday’s tourist cruiser. No glass bottom, no safety rail. Real.

He wore battered board shorts and a grin that turned my knees liquid. “Ready?”

We set off west, coastline shrinking until the resort looked like a child’s Lego set. He cut the engine near a tiny cay fringed by mangroves. Water here was knee-deep, the color of liquefied emeralds.

“Sandbar,” he said. “Only appears mid-morning. By three it’s gone.”

We waded, toes sinking into silk-fine bottom. He produced a small cooler: Red Stripe, fresh pineapple, foil packets of peppered lobster. We ate floating side by side, fingers sticky with juice.

The conversation drifted. I told him about my job in Boston, the sterile office politics. He told me about his mother’s stroke, the way it had pulled him back from Kingston just before his final engineering exams. “She raised me and my sister alone, cleaning rooms at a hotel in Ocho Rios,” he said, his gaze on the horizon. “Now she can’t remember my sister’s name some days. The doctors say it might come back. Might not.” He took a swig of beer. “So I fix jet skis, drive boats, save money for her care. The degree can wait.”

It was the first crack in his effortless confidence. I saw the weight in the set of his shoulders, the tired resolve in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.

He shrugged, a small, resigned movement. “Life isn’t fair. But it’s still life. You learn to find the sweetness where you can.” He looked at me then, and the heat was still there, but it was layered now with something more human, more vulnerable. “Like this. Like you, here, right now. No pretending about any of it—the good or the hard.”

The honesty was a mirror. I told him about Richard, not just the tired jokes, but the slow, suffocating feeling of being fitted for a life that felt like a costume. “I said yes because it was the next logical step. Not because it felt like truth.”

Kadian nodded, understanding in his silence. He reached out, traced the line of my jaw with a wet finger. “So what does feel like truth, Erin?”

The answer was there, in the sun on my skin, the salt on my lips, the way my body hummed in his presence. “This,” I whispered.

When hunger for food ebbed, hunger for each other flared. He tugged my bikini string; top drifted like a pink jellyfish. I yanked his shorts down underwater, wrapped legs around him again. This time we moved without urgency—slow grind, mouths tasting hops and pineapple. He slipped inside easily; buoyancy made everything dreamlike. I rode him, breasts skimming his chest, sun blazing on exposed skin. When I came I threw my head back, hair dragging the surface like paintbrushes. He followed, growling my name into my collarbone.

We lay on the sandbar afterward, half in sea, half in sky. He traced circles around my nipple, watching it peak. “I want to take you dancing tonight,” he said. “Real Jamaican dancehall, not hotel karaoke. A place in Savanna-la-Mar where my friends go. The music gets inside your bones.”

Images flashed—bass so loud it rattles organs, bodies slick against mine. My stomach tightened with fresh lust. “Yes.”

He rolled onto his side, propped on an elbow. “The crowd there… it’s free. People touch, dance close, share the vibe. It’s not a tourist thing. It’s just how the energy moves.” His eyes searched mine. “If we go, you might get attention. From my friends, from strangers. How would that feel?”

The question wasn’t a proposition yet; it was a probe, a way of reading my boundaries. The idea sent a surprising jolt through me—not of fear, but of thrilling possibility. “I… I think I’d like it,” I said, testing the words. “Being watched. Being wanted. As long as you’re there.”

He smiled, a slow, dark curve of his lips. “I’ll always be there. And if anything feels like too much, you squeeze my hand twice. No questions. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Back at the resort I napped, woke to three texts from Richard. The last one read: Call me when you can. We need to talk about the venue deposit. The words felt like they were written in a foreign language, concerns from a distant, grayscale world. I didn’t feel guilt or anxiety. I felt a clear, cold certainty. I typed a reply, my fingers steady: There is no ‘we’ anymore, Richard. I’m not coming back to that life. Keep the deposit. I hit send, powered off the phone, and felt a lock click open deep in my chest.

I showered, slipped into the skimpiest dress I owned: backless, hem just covering the curve of my ass.

Nine o’clock found us on a roadside veranda in Savanna-la-Mar, strung with Christmas lights that blinked erratically. The building was a converted warehouse, walls vibrating with sound. Music exploded from huge speakers—a pounding, complex rhythm of dancehall that was raw and alive in a way resort music never was. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, weed, and frying fish.

We danced, pressed together, his thigh between mine with every bass drop. Sweat sealed us. I let the music take over, moving in ways I never would in Boston, hips circling, back arching. Kadian’s hands were possessive on my waist, his smile fierce with pride.

I felt watched, and I loved it. A man nearby, light-skinned with locks tied in a high bun, caught my eye and smiled appreciatively. He moved closer through the crowd, his dance fluid and confident. He nodded at Kadian. “Kadian, star! Whe di sexy empress dey from?”

Kadian’s arm tightened around me. “Erin,” he said, his voice carrying over the music. “From far north.”

The man—Marlon—grinned. “She moves like island sunshine.” His eyes met mine, a question in them, but also a respect for the space between me and Kadian.

Kadian leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “That’s Marlon. We went to school together. He’s good people.” He pulled back, watching my face. “Still feeling the vibe?”

Marlon was dancing near us now, his movements a compliment, not an intrusion. The energy between the three of us was palpable, a circuit of attraction waiting to close. The fantasy Kadian had floated on the sandbar was here, real and breathing. I looked from Kadian’s intense, questioning gaze to Marlon’s playful, inviting one. Liquid heat flooded my core. I nodded, squeezing Kadian’s hand once. Yes.

Kadian’s smile was all teeth. He drew me closer, then with a glance, invited Marlon into our space. They bracketed me, hips rolling in sync, eight hands seeming to stroke at once—shoulders, waist, the backs of my thighs. I ground back against Kadian, my ass against his hardening cock, and pressed my front against Marlon, who met my movement with a low hum of approval. The crowd’s energy cocooned us, lights blurred into watercolor streaks. Marlon’s hand slid up my bare thigh, fingertips grazing the damp fabric between my legs. I gasped; Kadian caught the sound with his mouth, kissing me hard while Marlon teased closer to my clit. I shook, on the verge of coming right there on the dancefloor.

Kadian sensed it, chuckled darkly. “Not yet.” He steered me off the floor, Marlon following closely, through a side door and into a dark corridor lined with stacked crates. It was quieter here, the music a muffled thunder. He boosted me onto a sturdy wooden crate, shoved my dress hem to my waist. My sandals dropped into the dust.

“Open,” he commanded, his voice rough.

I did, trembling. Marlon knelt without a word, his mouth fastening over my pussy through the soaked lace. Kadian palmed my breasts, pinching my nipples through the thin fabric until I writhed. The distant music swallowed my whimpers. Marlon peeled my panties aside, his tongue diving inside, lapping like I was ripe mango. Kadian watched, eyes blazing. “You like being tasted while I watch, baby?”

I could only moan, my head falling back. Marlon sucked my clit and two fingers pumped deep; climax barreled through me, violent, glorious. I sagged against Kadian, but they weren’t finished.

Kadian freed his cock, a condom already rolled down its length. He entered me in one thrust, fucking me steadily while Marlon stood, freeing an equally impressive erection. Instinct took over; I stroked Marlon, leaned sideways to take him in my mouth. Salt and smoke, steel wrapped in silk. The two of them filled me completely—Kadian rolling his hips in that perfect angle, Marlon guiding my rhythm with gentle fingers in my hair. I came again around Kadian, muffled shudders vibrating along Marlon’s shaft.

Kadian pulled out, nodding at Marlon. “Your turn.” They switched places with a smooth efficiency that spoke of unspoken understanding; new cock stretched me, new hands gripping my thighs. Kadian watched me get taken, his jaw tight with awe and lust. I locked eyes with him as Marlon drove deep, the message clear: I’m yours even while I’m his. Kadian fisted himself, groaning. Moments later Marlon stiffened, filled the condom with a guttural sound. I clenched, milking him, dizzy with a power that felt ancient and new.

After, we leaned against the pallets panting, adjusting clothes. Marlon kissed my cheek, his lips soft. “Respect, princess. A true empress.” He clasped hands with Kadian, shared a look I couldn’t decipher, and disappeared back into the thrum of the crowd, leaving me trembling between scandal and exhilaration.

Kadian enfolded me, kissed my forehead, my eyelids. “You all right?” he asked, his voice now tender.

I laughed, astonished. “Better than. That was… I didn’t know I could feel that.”

“You can feel anything,” he said simply. “You just have to want it, and say it.”

We walked the beach back to the resort, surf licking our ankles. Moonlight silvered his profile. At my door he cupped my face. “Tomorrow’s my last guide shift. Then I’m free for forty-eight hours. Spend them with me?”

I pretended to ponder, grinned. “Only if we start with breakfast in bed.”

He kissed me until my toes curled. “Deal.”

Inside, I collapsed, body thrumming like a plucked string. I didn’t think of Richard once.

Morning brought rain—soft, warm, the Caribbean kind that feels like liquid breath. Kadian arrived with trays: ackee and saltfish, roasted breadfruit, Blue Mountain coffee so rich it was almost chocolate. We fed each other under the billowing mosquito net, steam curling around our faces. Thunder rolled in the distance; electricity prickled the air.

He set his cup aside, his expression turning serious. “I have a fantasy,” he said, his fingers tracing patterns on my knee. “One I’ve never acted on with a guest. Only with someone I trust. I want to tie your wrists. I want to use a flogger on your gorgeous ass, just enough to make the skin sing. And then I want to fuck you while you’re still buzzing from it.” He watched me closely. “We’d have a safe word. You’d be in control the whole time. Tell me what you think, and be honest. No pretending.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. The image was terrifying and electrifying. “What’s the safe word?”

“Anything you want.”

“Pineapple,” I said immediately.

He smiled. “Pineapple it is. And if you say it, everything stops, immediately. No disappointment, no judgment. Just care. Do you want to try?”

I took a deep breath, feeling the new, fearless version of myself rise to the surface. “Yes. I want to try.”

He kissed me, deep and reassuring. “Good. Color check before we start. Green for good, yellow for slow down, red for stop. Pineapple is the emergency brake. Okay?”

“Okay,” I breathed, my skin already prickling with anticipation.

He stripped me slowly, kissed every inch as clothing fell. Then he produced two silk scarves from his backpack—soft but strong. He guided my hands to the wrought-iron headboard, securing my wrists with careful, sailor’s knots. He tested the tightness, ensuring I had no strain, and kissed each pulse point. “Color?”

“Green,” I whispered.

He rummaged again—this time producing a small suede flogger, its tails a deep indigo. “For you,” he murmured. “You’ll count the strokes. It helps you stay present.”

He helped me kneel, arranging pillows under my hips, my ass presented to him. The first lash landed—a sharp crack, then a blooming warmth that seeped deep into the muscle. I yelped, then sighed as the heat spread.

“One,” I breathed.

He alternated cheeks, the rhythm steady, the intensity building in gradual increments. He watched my skin, listened to my breathing. By the fifth stroke, a sweet, heavy ache had settled in. By the tenth, my skin was blazing, and I was dripping, my inner thighs slick with arousal. “Color?” he asked.

“Green,” I moaned, pushing my hips back, wanting more.

He delivered two more, perfect and sharp, then dropped the flogger. His hands soothed the heated skin, palms spreading the fire. He kissed the small of my back, then nudged my legs wider. His mouth found me, licking from my clit to my entrance until I was begging, pulling against my bonds.

He sheathed himself and entered slowly, letting me feel every ridge while my wrists strained gently against the silk. “You take me so good, Erin. So perfect and brave.” His thrusts rocked the bed; the headboard knocked the wall in time with the rain, which had intensified, drumming its approval on the roof. I clenched around him, coming hard, my vision bursting white, my cry lost in the storm.

After, he untied me with infinite care, massaged life back into my arms, kissed the tears I hadn’t realized had slid down my cheeks. We spooned, him still hard inside me, his fingers toying with my clit until a second, gentler orgasm fluttered through me. Only then did he let go, grinding deep, groaning my name into the damp skin of my neck.

We dozed until afternoon, a tangle of limbs and damp sheets. When I woke he was sketching on hotel stationery: the view from my balcony, my sleeping form curled in the linen. I kissed his shoulder, the ink transferring to my lip.

The storm cleared; sun poured liquid gold over the hills. We dressed—him in cargoes, me in cutoffs—and hiked to a cliffside cove locals called Lover’s Leap. The water crashed on rocks fifty feet below, sending spray into the air like applause. We sat, legs dangling over the edge.

“I leave day after tomorrow,” I said, my voice small against the vastness.

He nodded, his shoulder warm against mine. “I know.”

The silence stretched, filled with the roar below and the memory of touch. “Will you go back to Kingston? Finish your degree?”

“When I can,” he said. “The dream is still there. To build things. Not just fix them.” He picked up a pebble, tossed it over the edge. We never heard it land. “This time with you… it’s been a different kind of building. For me, too.”

I took his hand, laced my fingers with his. “No pretending,” I said, echoing his words from the sandbar.

He turned to me, his smile soft, his eyes holding mine with a heartbreaking honesty. “I’m not going to promise forever or ask you to stay. That would be another kind of fantasy, maybe a cruel one. But I want you to remember this as real. The most real thing. You woke up here. Don’t go back to sleep.”

Tears stung, but they were clean, not bitter. “I won’t.” I brought his hand to my lips, kissed his knuckles, the calluses from ropes and tools. “You gave me back to myself.”

That night, we made love in the tool shed once more, slow and bittersweet, storing sensations like photographs. He entered me from behind, his lips at my ear, whispering every filthy, beautiful thing he adored about my body, my abandon, my courage. We came together, gasping each other’s names into the dark, the scent of pine and sea our only witness.

Departure morning, he walked me to the shuttle van. The palms rustled overhead like gossiping women. He handed me a brown paper envelope, folded thick. “Open it after the plane lifts.”

We kissed, a long, deep kiss that tasted of promise and goodbye and unwavering truth. I clung to the scent of sea and cedar on his skin. He touched my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip, then stepped back.

In the air, as Jamaica shrank to a jeweled heartbeat against the endless blue, I tore the envelope. Inside was the sketch of me sleeping, rendered with such tender detail it stole my breath. On the back, in his precise block letters, was a note.

Paradise isn’t a place; it’s the moment you stop pretending. You found yours here. Now go live it, wherever you are. —Kadian

I laughed, I cried, and I tucked the page inside my passport, next to the stamp of entry. Below, the island was a green and blue memory. I felt open, liquid, limitless—no longer seeking rest but raring to run toward a life that felt authentically, unapologetically mine.

The man in the seat beside me, a salesman from Atlanta, asked why I was smiling at the clouds. I looked at him, my eyes still holding the Caribbean sun.

“The vacation was good for the soul,” I said. And then I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to dream, my imagination already scripting the next chapter—one where I never again confuse comfort with truth, and where every thrill, every risk, every moment of pure feeling, reminds me of turquoise water, white sand, and a man who taught me that wanting, and saying so, is the most honest thing in the world.