She's here. Real. Mine.
The sun is barely up, pale light filtering through the windows. I should get up, let her sleep, give her space to process what happened.
Instead, I pull her closer and let myself have this. Just this. One perfect moment before reality crashes back in.
She stirs against me, makes a small sound, then settles back into sleep. Her hand is on my chest, right over my heart. I wonder if she can feel how hard it's pounding.
I've had women in this bed before. Beautiful women who knew the rules, who wanted the same things I did. No strings, no expectations, just mutual pleasure and convenience.
But Jade is different.
She's not supposed to be here. Not like this. Not curled against me like she trusts me, like she's safe with me.
Not when I'm lying to her about everything that matters.
Hours later,the sun has set and I find her in my bathroom.
She's standing in front of the mirror in just my shirt, staring at her reflection like she doesn't recognize the woman looking back. Her hair is messy from sleep and sex. Her lips are still slightly swollen from kissing. There are marks on her neck that I put there.
She looks wrecked and perfect.
"Hey," I say from the doorway.
She jumps, hand flying to her chest. "God, you scared me."
"Sorry." I walk toward her slowly. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Just needed a minute." She turns back to the mirror, running her fingers through her hair. "I should probably shower. Go back to the guest house."
"Or you could shower here." I reach past her to turn on the shower. Water starts to heat up, steam beginning to rise. "Stay."
"Phoenix, I can shower in the guest house?—"
"Stay." I pull the shirt over her head before she can protest. She's naked underneath, and even after last night, the sight of her makes my breath catch.
"Come on." I guide her toward the shower, stripping off my underwear.
Under the spray, she's tense at first. Uncertain. Like she doesn't know what this is or what it means. I don't either. But I know I want it. I reach for the shampoo and pour some into my palm.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Washing your hair."
"I can do that myself."
"I know." I work the shampoo through her hair, gentle, careful. "Let me."
She relaxes slightly under my touch. I tilt her head back under the spray, watching the soap rinse away, and realize I'm caring for her in a way I've never cared for anyone.
When did I get so tender? When did I become the kind of man who washes a woman's hair instead of just fucking her and sending her home?
I soap my hands and run them over her body. Not sexual, though my body responds to every curve, every soft sound she makes. I want to learn every inch of her and memorize every dimple.
She's watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"Where did you get that?" She touches a scar on my ribs.
"Surfing accident. I was twelve years old. Caught a reef wrong."
