He doesn’t let up or stop. He just keeps hitting that spot with brutal precision. His breath is hot against my neck, his body turning into a sweating furnace above me. I’m losing my mind and all coherent thoughts. I’m aware of nothing except the feel of him, the sound of him, and the way his muscles flex beneath my fingers. He lifts my chin and says my name. “April.”
My eyes snap to his. They’re dark and hungry and filled withneed, those fine lines in the corners relaxed for once, and the sight alone nearly tips me over the edge.
He dips his head just enough for a few wisps of silver hair to fall over his forehead. “Come for me,” he says. “Come for me, April.”
His mouth crashes into mine, devouring the sound that claws its way out seconds later as my body tenses and then crashes like a goddamn tsunami. My walls clamp down so hard that his hips pause for a fraction of a second. But then he’s right back to that same pace, fucking me through it, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. He looks almost animalistic. His hair is a mess from my hands; his eyelids are heavy, but he clearly has no intention of stopping. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into my cheeks.
“Again,” he rasps.
“Again?” I croak.
Before I even realize what he’s doing, his hand slips between us, his palm on my mons and lower stomach. When he presses down, the sensation from before doubles, then triples when his thumb rubs slick little circles on my clit. The sound that erupts from me is ecstasy personified.
The second crest hits me like a freight train: abrupt and unexpected. My vision turns blurry and my body spasms. I faintly hear him hiss, can feel him shift beneath my nails and dislodge me, but I don’t care, I don’t, Ican’t?—
“Fuck, that’s perfect, you’reperfect—” Anthony curses as my second release rolls through me, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking as he buries himself deep with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from his chest. Heat floods me, his own release leaking inside of me, and his head drops to the crook of my neck, hot breaths fanning out against my skin.
Then, it’s quiet.
For a blissful second, it’s quiet. The only sounds are the rush of the tide and our shaking breaths. and the absurd knowledge of what we’ve done.
Little red half-moons litter his shoulders. The tiny marks from my fingernails are faint pink lines scratched into his skin. The hair at the nape of his neck is damp, and I can’t stop myself from dragging my fingers through it in the heat of the afterglow.
For the first time in my life, I don’t think about the mess or the consequences. I simply relish in how good that felt, and how good it still feels with him inside of me. I realize how shockingly easy it is to be here with him likethis. I’m also aware of how terrifyingly easy it would be to want more.
Anthony pulls away first, lifting up and sitting back. He draws in a slow breath that looks like it took some effort. For a moment, I just watch him. His chest rises and falls, and little beads of sweat drip from his temples, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
When the moment fully ends, he pushes to his feet, grabs his boxers and pulls them on. He extends his hand, helping me sit up. “Come on,” he says, coaxing me up before holding out his button-up for me to put on.
Right. Everything I was wearing is ruined. My stomach sinks as the reality of the situation slams back into place with cruel precision at his quiet,“I’ll walk you back.”
Because, of course he will. Of course he’ll walk me back to my room like a courteous host escorting a guest after dinner. Because that’s what this is, right? A transaction. A physical arrangement. A means to an end. And I agreed to it.
But the unease and the loneliness still hits, low and sharp, catching me wholly off guard. The way he’d touched me hadn’t felt clinical; it felt like wanting, like he wanted the entirety of what happened between us just as much as I did.
“Right,” I say, pulling his shirt on and trying to button it with shaking hands. “Okay.”
I can do this. I can let him walk me back, and I can handle the night alone. And I can handle whatever comes next. Because I agreed to. Because Ihave to.But I can’t let it happen like that again.
Chapter 12
Anthony
Iwake on soft silk wrapped in fine linen, the ocean lapping against the shore outside my cracked window, and her scent still lingering on my skin. I can still feel her beneath my fingers, can still hear her whimpers and moans in my head. Too good. It wastoo good.Just thinking of her spread out on that goddamn blanket makes my throat close and my cock twitch.
I stayed up too long after walking her back, replaying the way she looked at me when I’d left her outside her room. She was so vulnerable and soft, tootrustingfor a man who promised her nothing. When I tried to sleep, thoughts of her kept invading my consciousness: her mouth, her laugh, the way she’d fallen apart in my hands so easily.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn, she’d shown up in my dreams, leaving me desperate like a teenage boy in the middle of the night, hard and restless, wanting her with an intensity that couldn’t be sated in the dead of night.
It’s biology.That’s what I keep telling myself. It’s all just the timing of it — she’s ovulating, and I’m a man who strives for efficiency. But I know that’s not the entire truth. And that’s lingering in the back of my head like a fucking nuisance.
That I liked it more than usual.
That I want more of her.
More of her body. More of the genuine, unguarded way she laughed at my terrible jokes last night. More of the way she snapped back at me without fear. More of how she looked lit from within when she fully realized she could tease me and get away with it entirely.
It’s been a long time since a woman’s voice followed me into sleep, and even longer since I wanted one there. I run a hand down my face, grunting as the palm outside my window shifts and lets the sunlight spill over me. This is already more complicated than it needed to be.
