The Hawaiians 2: Hawaiian Orchid

Meg Amor

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Kulani Mahikoa is “The Orchid,” a young, insecure, pro surfer from a rough background on the Big Island of Hawai’i. He’s Beau Toyama’s cousin from Hawaiian Lei and a healer with a heart as deep as the ocean he’s part o...
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Kulani Mahikoa is “The Orchid,” a young, insecure, pro surfer from a rough background on the Big Island of Hawai’i. He’s Beau Toyama’s cousin from Hawaiian Lei and a healer with a heart as deep as the ocean he’s part of. Like many of the great Hawaiians, Kulani epitomizes the spirit of aloha and love. Kulani’s healing his own wounds, and “The Lost Boys”—young, homeless abandoned and abused gay boys he cares for.

He meets the lone and lonely New Zealand widower, Rob Masterson—a wounded psychologist who’s trying to come to terms with his husband’s death. When he died, they were separated but still living together. Rob needs to reconcile all the pieces of guilt and love, to heal before he can fall in love again.

The age difference raises one barrier, and besides that Kulani has more layers than Rob, with his own New Zealand heritage and tangled knot of emotion, ever bargained for. Traveling between the South Sea Islands of beautiful New Zealand and the exotic Hawaiian Islands, they forge a bond—two wounded men find a home for their shrapnel-laced souls.

  • Note:
    Hawaiian Orchid
Excerpt
“Are you always this stroppy? Or only on a good day?”

“What do you mean?” he says, all attitude.

Jesus Christ, gorgeous he might be, but with the chip on his shoulder the size of a log, it’s more work than I need right now.

“There’s the door.” I indicate with my head. “See yourself out.”

“You really want me to go home?” he says despondently.

I sigh. “Kulani, you’re so damn prickly, it’s like having a cactus shoved up my arse every two seconds.”

He runs his fingers through his long, curly black hair, sweeping it back with one hand, and digging his other one into his back pocket. I’d love to take him to bed, but this isn’t worth it. Too much attitude, too many issues. If I’m not picking prickles out of my skin, I’ll be treating myself for burns. He’s a lot of work.

“I’m sorry.” He shrugs. Even that has “fuck you” attitude. I’m past the age where I feel like babysitting someone.

I walk over and place my hand on his shoulder. “You’re stunning, but I’m too old for you.”

He drops his head, and I mentally exhale, waiting for the next bite from him. But when he looks up, he has tears in his eyes, and my heart takes a direct hit.

Bugger.

“You don’t really like me, do you?” he asks, biting his lip, eyes cast down.

“You’ve got an abrasive personality. I feel like I’ve been rubbed raw this evening. It’s like being in a boxing match.”

His shoulders slump, and I have to hold myself back from pulling him into my arms. I don’t need this sort of energy in my life. There’ll be tantrums and fights…hurt feelings over stupid things…

His hand comes up and rubs mine on his shoulder. He needs the touch, the connection with another human. I recognize that feeling. But this is inviting trouble, even for a quick fuck and one-night stand. I could do with the sex, but not the aftermath of spiky energy.

His breathing is up and down, as he’s trying to get himself under control. Fighting emotions, no doubt. Bugger it. He’s tugging at my bloody heart for some reason. That’s probably why I blurt out, “Come sail with me tomorrow. We’ll go over to Maui.”

For a split second, all the aggression falls away, and I get to see the vulnerable kid underneath. I shouldn’t really call him a kid. At twenty-five, he’s an adult, but still half my age. He squeezes my hand, and I take that as a yes.

“Meet me down at the boat about seven. Bring coffee from Lava Java. I’ll bring everything else.”

“Can we make it eight?”

God, he can’t even get his arse out of bed and be there early for an invitation. But I give in, nodding.

“Okay,” he says, tough-guy stance back in place. Oh to be that young and stupid again.

Speaking of stupid. What the hell am I doing inviting him out again tomorrow, when all I want to do is throw him out the door? Beautiful, yes, but the attitude leaves a lot to be desired. If I had to take a wild stab in the dark, I’d say he’s sitting on a ton of hurt. Layers and layers of it. He’s so bloody bolshie and oppositional, I’m exhausted from the evening. I like a decent intelligent convo with someone, interplay back and forth. The opportunity to get to know someone more. Flirt a little, or a lot. I’m probably too old-fashioned and been out of the game too long, but I need something different than what he’s after.

Then he throws his energy, and I get sideswiped again. “Don’t I get a kiss good night?” he says, raw sex appeal oozing from him, and I nearly grab him by his shirt to yank him to me. Now I’m fighting to control my breathing. “Please,” he says so softly I wonder if I’ve heard it right.

What a mix he is—seething rage, the log on his shoulder bashing me in the head all night. Then he becomes so vulnerable, it’s like someone rubbing balm into my abraded skin. His own version of BDSM, just done in a mental fashion. I amuse myself for a moment, thinking of a safe word I could use. Fun. That would be a good word. It’s the least likely word I can think of for this evening so far.

No, it’s not my thing. I wrote a paper for uni once and interviewed people in the scene. I probably know enough to be dangerous, but not enough for anything else.

I look at his eyes, the fragility. He’s asking me to not reject him, but I also see the humiliation at having to ask, to beg. I do my best internal Bogart voice. Buckle in, schweetheart, this could be a rough ride.

I stroke his face with my free hand, and his lips tremble. No, no, no…straight to my cock. Direct hit.

Score.

Shit.

He comes in toward me, and I let him. His full lips touch mine, and my hand automatically reaches for his waistband, pulling him closer. I slide my arm around his waist and palm his arse, pressing him into my groin. He’s rock hard; his erection rubs mine. He lets out a long, slow groan of desire, and I know I’ll have a hard time sending him home. I fist my hand into his hair, and he nips at my mouth before sliding his tongue between my lips, grinding his cock into me.

He yanks my tank over my head. His hand cups the back of my neck, and he nuzzles me, moaning softly in my ear. A tug at my earlobe sends sharp spikes of desire into my groin.

“Fuck me,” he groans.

I grunt, straining to breathe; spasms of deep need ripple through my body. Oh, screw this. I spin him around and push him over the kitchen bench, pulling his tank over his head and discarding it. Spread before me is an enormous but delicate-looking orchid stem and flower tattoo that covers half his back. In scripted writing, The at the top of the flower, then warrior, strength, and bravery are tucked in around the huge bloom and stem. It moves with his muscles and is surprisingly sexy for a guy. I’ve noticed he has an orchid on his left foot too. I wonder what it means.

Later. Right now, I want a different type of exotic. I yank his shorts down with his underpants to lightly nip and lick his buttocks. Reaching between his legs, I feel the prize he’s offering. Nice and thick, uncut, already spurting lube, a rock-hard erection, and tight, firm balls. Curly black pubic hair too, which I like. Can’t stand the shaved look. I like my men to be masculine. I’m a huge fan of vintage porn for this reason. They’re not all ripped and buffed. Just regular, fit guys with lovely cocks and decent, thick pubes.

He spreads his legs, holding his cheeks apart, and I probe his brown pucker with my tongue. With his Hawaiian heritage, his skin’s smooth and he’s brown all over, no tan marks, even on his nicely rounded bum. He’s sensuous and moves in a sexy, fluid way.

I pump his dick with my hand, and he vibrates with need. It’s a turn-on.

“Fuck me hard,” he begs me again.

Jesus… I want him too much.

I slide up his back, licking his salty skin, enjoying the hard muscles under my tongue that only a waterman has naturally. Not overly done.

“Stay,” I whisper in his ear. “Back in a minute.”

Copyright © Meg Amor

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