The pleasure builds again, different this time. Deeper, slower, spreading through my entire body rather than concentrating at a single point. Every stroke reaches something inside me that makes my toes curl, my fingers dig into his shoulders, my breath catch in my throat.
His hand slides between us, finding my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation pushes me higher, but there's no urgency in it. Just the steady climb toward something inevitable.
This is what I needed, I realize. Not just the orgasm building in my core, but this—the feeling of being held, claimed, known completely. The sanctuary of his body covering mine. The relief of finally being somewhere nothing can touch us.
His rhythm intensifies, still controlled but more urgent now. His gaze is locked on mine, those blue eyes seeming to look to the depth of my soul. "Feel good?"
“So good.”
He rolls his hips on the next thrust, hitting a spot that makes me cry out, and then he does it again, and again, his hand working my clit in perfect counterpoint until the pleasure crests and I'm suspended at the peak, trembling, unable to breathe.
I feel him chasing the same crescendo. The way his rhythm intensifies, his cock seeming to swell even harder against the grasp of my body. I angle my pelvis to accommodate more of him and he groans, every muscle going taut as he thrusts at a more urgent pace.
The orgasm breaks through us both at the same time.
I cry out his name as release crashes through me in waves, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper. His low shout vibrates against my throat as he shudders and spills inside me. For one perfect moment we're the same thing—one body, one breath, one pulse of pleasure that belongs to neither of us and both of us at once.
For a long while, neither of us moves.
He's still hard inside me. Still heavy above me. The ceiling fan turns slow, cooling our sweat-damp skin. The sound of the ocean drifts through the open shutters, steady as a heartbeat.
"Water," he murmurs eventually against my throat. "You need water. And food."
"I'm fine." And I am, truly. I’m boneless and satisfied and more at peace than I've felt in weeks. “I don’t want to move. I don’t want you to move, either.”
"Humor me." He stands, then disappears into the bathroom. He returns with a glass of water and that look in his eyes, the one that says he's tuned into my well-being and will not rest until he's satisfied I'm properly cared for.
I drink the water, because arguing with him when he's in protective mode is futile. He pulls his pants back on but they're still sitting low on his hips, and the sight of him—rumpled and gorgeous and thoroughly satisfied—makes me want to do it all over again.
"Stay here," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I'm going to throw on a shirt, go to the cantina, and bring back something for us to eat."
"Nick—"
"Stay." He kisses me again, softer this time, lingering at the corner of my mouth. "Let me take care of you. Both of you. And don’t get dressed. We’re not finished here yet. I’ve still got a lot of orgasms to deliver before sunrise."
I laugh, but I know he’s serious. So, I stay in bed and I wait. Propped against the pillows in this beautiful cottage, wrapped in tangled sheets that smell like him now, like us.
Tomorrow we'll explore the resort, maybe swim or sail. We’ll definitely spend more time naked in this bed, I have no doubt. But right now, this is perfect.
This is exactly what I needed. What we both needed.
Just us. Just this.
Just the quiet promise of days ahead with nothing to do but be together.
25
NICK
The kids are fearless.
I watch them from the beach bed beneath the shade of a large palm tree, shielded from the late-morning sun, the canvas warm beneath my bare back where I've been lying for the past twenty minutes alone.
The salt breeze moves over my skin, while back at our cottage Avery is in the shower after waking up with morning sickness. She insisted I didn’t need to hover, so I headed out to the beach to wait for her. I hate that she’s not feeling well. Hate it even more that it’s a burden she has to carry alone.
Out on the water, three sunfish boats cut across the turquoise bay, their colorful sails bright against the blue. In each one sits a child with a background of abuse or neglect. Now they're laughing, playing, tipping over into the water and righting themselves with the innate resilience that most children have when someone finally gives them permission to fail without consequence. Here, they can just be kids.
One of the boats capsizes. The boy inside, probably no more than nine years old, scrawny, with a mop of dark hair, goes intothe water with a splash and a yelp. The young male instructor's voice carries across the distance, calm and encouraging. “You're fine, Jaylen. Grab the centerboard. Pull yourself up.”
