Search and Rescue

by Kitti Bernetti

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Gig Briggs is the Search and Rescue Officer you can rely on to save anybody from disaster. What he cannot do is save himself ? harbouring a secret that has destroyed his ability to have a fulfilling relationship with a woman. When he reluctantly walks into the consulting room of renowned sex therapist Desree Cain, he doesn?t believe she can help. However, Desree has secrets of her own, ones that are swiftly coming back to haunt her. She hasn?t told Gig why she had to run away from the city to hide in his New England community. Can Desree get through to this hero?s damaged heart, and can he save her from the twisted individual hunting her down?

Release date: March 12, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 167

Sample

Chapter One

Gig studied Desree Cain’s address on the card once more. This was it – no turning back now. He sat in the Jeep, not wanting to get out, trying to get his head together. He didn’t know this part of Taylorsfield at all. It was serious town here, all hard edges and straight lines. He was a country boy through and through, used to the curve of the hills and winding streams. He didn’t like concrete; it was dangerous and unpredictable. As was gas and glass and asbestos and so many other things he battled in his working life.

Yet all that hard, hazardous material that scraped your skin and clogged your lungs gave him few qualms compared to what Desree Cain would put him through. Battling his way into wrecked and dangerous situations, pulling out victims, was everyday stuff. It was what he was paid for. They called him brave. He even had medals and commendations. The fact is, he was anything but brave when it came to this visit. He’d been putting off facing up to the problem all his adult life. This would cost him a fortune in more ways than one. He pressed the wallet in his top pocket against the solid muscle of his chest.

If only it was just the money that filled him with trepidation. What really tore at him was whether this first appointment, and the following ones, would work or not. Whether he could ever be fixed. Whether a couple of months of Desree Cain could save him from the demons that lurked deep in his psyche.

Ten sessions was all she allowed. Co-dependancy is not a good thing, her glossy leaflet stated. Cold, brutal, and to the point. She was meant to be the best and he had to take her word that could be enough. He couldn’t see it himself. Even a miracle worker couldn’t fix lifelong fears in that short a time, could they?

One thing was certain. People had it wrong when they called him a hero. At work, the world saw a huge chested, six-footer in a sharp navy blue uniform with brass buttons and a yellow search and rescue helmet. But what they saw was a lie. He was less than a hero to Milandra. He couldn’t even claim to be a proper man when he’d tried to prove his maleness to her, when he’d taken her away that fateful time. The only woman he’d ever really loved, the only woman he’d yearned to spend his life with, and now all those plans they’d made had turned to dust.

If Desree Cain could fix him, he didn’t care what she charged. He’d give everything he owned, even the clothes he stood in, even his medal for bravery if Desree Cain could work some sort of magic. Because right now, he was a sham, a damn great liar masquerading in a hero’s body.

Gig climbed out of the Jeep and placed his size elevens on the gravel. He scanned the top of the range apartments opposite, with their security gates and their imposing driveway. She certainly believed in shutting herself off from the ordinary people. He buzzed and a receptionist’s clear bright tones answered, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Yes, Gig Briggs here to see Dr Desree Cain.’ His country twang sounded a slightly different inflection to the receptionist’s East Coast sing song tones.

‘Oh yes, Mr Briggs, you’re nice and early, you have ten minutes to wait.’ She buzzed the gates which swished open. ‘Please press the call button on the steel door and come up.’

The waiting room was stark white, echoing the snows of winter, though now it had turned into a damp, changeable spring in this corner of New England. Cheering sun streamed through the floor to ceiling windows, onto a cream carpet the colour of polar bear fur. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? We have peppermint or chamomile.’ The receptionist gave him the sort of appreciative, wide-eyed look he’d been used to since he’d morphed from gangly teenager into star soccer player. He barely noticed the way women stared at him though his friends joshed him about it. They could point out any number of females from nine to ninety-nine who melted at his deep, rolling voice.

Nothing as bland and healthy as mint tea would get him through this. He needed something black and bitter with a serious punch. ‘Do you have coffee?’ he asked. This first achingly embarrassing consultation was going to be infinitely worse than entering a shattered building or a collapsed mine. Not for the first time, he wondered why most sex therapists seemed to be women.

The receptionist brought him a bright smile and a steaming cup of best Brazilian. ‘Dr Cain will call you when she’s ready. My name’s Candy, short for Candice. Just yell if you need anything.’ She wrinkled her nose. Cute.

‘OK.’ He found his voice came out broken, and had to clear his throat. He was already feeling jittery. How would he speak to Doctor Cain if he couldn’t even speak with confidence to her receptionist? The whole set up was getting to him. These neat, clinical consulting rooms were the last place on the planet he wanted to be. He ached to escape. Back to his search and rescue station up in the hills, back to the clean, green freshness of the spring air, back to his solitude and the companionship of his men. He didn’t want to focus on the bad things, he didn’t want to remember the recent disastrous weekend with Milandra, when everything had come to a head. They’d gone away to the West coast to celebrate their engagement. What a disaster that had turned out to be. What a minefield.

Chapter Two

Gig and Milandra had travelled to California for the weekend to cement their six-month relationship prior to the wedding. He’d wanted to get married quickly. Truth was, he was afraid of losing her. The hotel on the Pacific Highway was a paradise, and worth every cent of the considerable cost he’d laid out. For Milandra, he was happy to spend his hard-earned savings. She was beautiful, kind, perfect in every way. Gig had never been happier. The one thing in his life that was missing was about to come right. With a fabulous woman to complete him, he would soon be whole. They’d buy a decent sized house, one with land where their children could play …

A gentle breeze blew off the ocean. They looked out of the hotel bar and onto the white sands of Laguna Beach. The sand reflected an endless sun descending into a jewelled sky of amethyst and sapphire. The barman had prepared Milandra and Gig strawberry daiquiris, after which they were seated at their table to enjoy a crab and crayfish dinner. The undisguised sparkle in the waiter’s eye acknowledged the charged atmosphere of two lovers holding hands. The heat of the evening, and the way Milandra couldn’t take her eyes off her fiancé made the waiter discreetly disappear. He could sense they were seriously into each other.

Gig had never seen Milandra looking so gorgeous. Her blonde hair, newly washed, hung like skeins of silk. Her body, plump and curved, bounced softly under her pure white Grecian dress as he led her up to their room. He opened the veranda windows and she entwined her fingers in his. She pulled him over to the enormous, carved bed. Gentle sea air whispered in over the veranda as they lay down on newly laundered sheets.

‘Gig.’ Her voice was sensual, her breath teasing his ear.

‘Mmm.’ He played his hand down the silky material of her dress like he was tuning a guitar.

‘This time next month, we’ll be married.’

‘Absolutely. And I’ll be the happiest man, not just on earth but in the universe. Truly,’ he pulled her round to him and cupped her face in his hands, ‘I love you with a passion.’ The kiss she returned fired him like he was a lion in mating season. She rolled over onto him. He felt the familiar pulsing in his groin as he raised his body to meet hers. Having her nestle and squirm on top of him lit a fire which always smouldered when she was around. With the warmth of white rum on her lips, Milandra tasted oh so sweet. She entwined round him like a cat. She wanted something.

‘Gig, I know you said we had to keep it special. I know we decided it’s best to make the wedding night our first real time together, but I can’t wait that long. I need you now, here, just the two of us, in this perfect place. Please, please, make love to me properly. Show me how much you care.’

‘Milandra.’ He grasped the softness of her hair in his hand, his groin throbbing with suppressed need. ‘We’ve been over this a thousand times. I … I need us to wait. It needs to be special.’ But even as he said it, he could see the concern in her clear, grey eyes. She knew him too well. She knew he was keeping something from her.

‘It still would be special. Nothing could change that. It’s just …’ Her body, which had been malleable, cleaved hard to him. Now it tensed a fraction, imperceptibly stiffened. ‘I’m worried. We never … well, you know. We get so close but it never … happens. We do all the stuff before, but you never, ever make love to me. I need us to go all the way. I need to know, Gig, if I’m going to spend my life with you that we match, that it’ll be good.’ The room fell silent, apart from the frantic fluttering of a tiger moth trapped near the candle flame. Gig released himself from her hold and went to free the moth. He stood fully clothed, his thighs firm, his skin tingling from her touch, his heart still pounding beneath the cotton of his shirt. His formal jacket felt suddenly constricting.

Suddenly, without her touch, he felt cold, and shivered. He cupped the moth in his hands and liberated it into the balmy night air. Had he known all along this moment would come? In his innermost depths he had. She was a modern woman, she knew her own mind. That was one of the reasons he loved her unreservedly, with such passion. A passion he was terrified he could never fulfil, never return like a man should.

Yet he knew, in that second, as he looked back at her crumpled on the bed in a foetal position, that he couldn’t refuse. In his heart of hearts, he knew this had been playing on her mind. Before committing to marriage, she needed to know that the sexual side of their union was going to work out. That in the marital bed they would be at one, as they were at other times. He had to summon up the courage, even though he knew there was a risk. He’d dreaded such a moment ever since he’d met her. It would break his heart to lose her.

Gig took a deep breath and drunk her in, the white folds of her dress clinging to her fulsome breasts. He so desired her, she ignited his every passion. He was fired up like a steam train, he mustn’t lose that energy, that drive. Surely this time he could do what was necessary. He could prove to her that everything would work out. He couldn’t bear it if she rolled away from him, if they were to spend the night back to back. He made his way to the edge of the bed and bent down, holding her shoulders warm in his hands. ‘Of course, my love, if that’s what you want.’

She turned to him and smiled, her lips open a fraction. Desire, lust, passion, spoke in her eyes, and fired from her touch as she ran her finger along the hard ridge of bicep muscle under linen silk of his jacket. ‘Did you know,’ her voice was sultry, ‘that for a woman to see a man in a well cut suit is as sexy as it is for a guy to see a girl in expensive underwear?’

‘Shame then that I’m about to take off my suit … and your sexy underwear.’

She gave a low, throaty laugh. Humour could be the perfect aphrodisiac. He loosened his tie, then threw it on the bed. He shrugged out of his jacket, then undid the buttons on his shirt and watched as she watched. Their eyes met, smouldering. He tore at the buckle on his belt and released the catch of his trousers, seeing her hunger as he pulled his zip down over the swelling between his legs. She knelt before him and ran her fingers along the ridges of his stomach. Her dancing fingers brought him to life, the blood coursing through his veins. He was alight for her, on fire. Tenderly, he pushed the folds of her dress off her shoulders, the material concertina’d down to the floor. He leant forward and cupped her breasts in his hands, watching her throw her head back as he placed a thousand kisses over their peaks. He could do this, he was nearly ready to come to fruition within her. He must. He must prove to her his total, utter, all-consuming desire for her. Their union was about to be blessed with the most magical journey ever – that of making love, two becoming one, total consummation. Losing themselves in each other. He was convinced he could do it.

Kneeling in front of him, she motioned him to stand before her. He watched, mesmerised, as she took him in her trembling hands, caressed him, kneaded and worked him. Finally, she wrapped her luscious, full lips over his maleness. Her fingers, her moist precious mouth, gently covered and fondled him. He moved his hands to the back of her head to guide her, she moaned softly while she sucked and licked. They had indulged in this foreplay so many times before. He had pleasured and delighted her, he had brought her to orgasm with his fingers, with his tongue. But they had only gone so far. Now, tonight, he knew he must perform and take her the whole way. He must reassure her that total oneness was possible between them. He had to show her.

When he had become so huge he was fit to explode, he teased open her softness between her thighs until she was warm on his fingers. He was ready to enter her and complete their coupling. He tried to get lost in the moment. He really felt he could do it. He lifted her onto the bed and laid her on the cool sheets. Need shone in her grey eyes. She smiled at him, her lips, scented of him, glistening wet in the moonlight. Such want, such total and utter love, such desire moved him. He was ready to take her, to enter her in the way he so, so badly wanted. He moved down, on all fours like a king cat, positioning himself. He placed his mouth over hers, his tongue delved to find her perfect pink mouth. He lost himself in that kiss. He thought of how perfect it would be once the part of him that proved his masculinity was deep inside her, buried in her lushness. He wanted her like he had wanted no other woman. He was ready to fulfil her. She teased him, held him huge in her hands, arched up to him, spread her legs wide, then guided him inside.

He closed his eyes and tried to make it right. At first his fear was hidden way beneath the surface. The terror that he could not give her what she wanted had been driven away by her compassion, her compulsion, her animal desire for him. Her total femininity, her fecund power, was carrying him along. Surely with that to push him to completion, he couldn’t fail. He felt huge, he felt majestic, he felt brave, he felt whole. Like he could have conquered the world. He rode her slowly at first, like a musician playing an instrument. Like he was stroking a bow up and down a Stradivarius violin, back and forth his rhythm assured. He was rock hard inside her, pulling himself out then driving himself gloriously in, feeling her around him.

He wanted her to come, to see the glory of her orgasm. Then he wanted to feel it. This was going to be perfect. He licked his thumb and placed it over her sensitive clit. She was swollen, she was ready, she bucked against him. Sweat sheened on her skin as she pulsated into ecstasy. ‘Now, now,’ she urged him, ‘Take your finger away, I’m so sensitive. I want to come over you. I want us to come together.’ He was almost, almost there, driving faster, faster. Then, suddenly, he could feel the force leaving him and the fear taking over. No, no, no.

He could feel the weakness, the dreaded uncertainty seeping into him, like rust corroding metal, like rot corrupting timber, like a wave leaving the shore. And the power he was so desperate to maintain draining away. He could feel everything at each thrust being lost to him, and to her. Her breathing, which had been urgent, hasty, began to slow. The sweat across her tummy, which had made her glow in the moonlight like a goddess, began to dry under her anxious breath. Her eyes which had been sparkling began to dull. He slowed, he softened, then became the thing he dreaded – he became flaccid. Finally, he pulled himself unspent out of her. Then he lay, unfulfilled, unconsummated, back on the sheets, in a bleak and empty torrent of self-recrimination, regret, and self-loathing. What sort of man was he? He had failed.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her cool hand was on his burning forehead. She fluttered kisses over his taut chest. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She said it over and over again like a mantra. Like a chant, like if she could say it enough times, she could make it true, make him b. . .