The lake is quiet.
The summer air is warm.
And I sink into him completely, letting the heat build again, letting the night take us wherever it wants. Damn him—and damn me. This is chaos I don’t want to survive without.
Chapter 20
Lucky
Iwakeupwarm.
That’s my first clue something’s wrong — or right — or whatever category last night falls into.
The second is heat. Skin. A whole male body curved around mine, hard in all the ways that make my pulse trip over itself. His chest is flush to my back, solid and unyielding, and under the tangle of blankets, I can feel every line of him. The thick, unmistakable press of morning arousal nudged against my hip.
My breath stutters.
We’re naked.
Outside.
On my patio.
In the damn sunshine.
And Ethan Maddox is wrapped around me like a furnace with a heartbeat.
The lake is quiet, glowing soft gold, and the air smells like pine and leftover sex. It should be too much — too intimate, too exposed, too everything — but his arm is slung over my waist, anchoring me, palm spread low on my stomach like he’s unconsciously claiming territory.
I don’t move at first. I’m scared to. His grip tightens in his sleep when I twitch, pulling me back into him.
And of course, he wakes then, breath stirring against my neck. And the memory of last night’s chaos still smeared all over me — his hands, my hands, the way he took me apart like he’d been waiting to touch me for years.
I blink up at the sky. Pale blue. Too calm. Like the universe hasn’t figured out we completely broke each other open on a lounge chair meant for polite summer naps.
The blanket slides when I shift. He tightens around me instinctively, like his body made the decision before his brain caught up. His nose brushes the back of my neck. A delayed shiver rolls down my spine.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice gravel-deep, sleep-rough, edged with the kind of satisfaction a man only gets from ruining a woman the night before.
“Morning,” I breathe back, not trusting any other word to come out right.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t hide. Just stays there, holding me, while the lake glows gold under the rising sun like it’s trying to show off. Water ripples. A breeze lifts the edge of the blanket. It should be too quiet — silence is usually punishment — but right now it’s… not. It’s soft. Safe. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
I risk turning my head slightly. His eyes are open, watching me with that steady focus that always ruins me. Like he sees every version of me — the chaos, the masks, the desperation — and he’s still here.
“You okay?” he asks.
Stupid question. Terrifying question. Sweet question.
“Yeah,” I lie, because telling him the truth this early in the morning feels like stripping twice.
He studies me for one unbearable heartbeat, then nods like he’s letting me keep the lie. His thumb brushes a lazy arc over my hipbone. My brain shorts out.
I want to say something clever, but clever left my body sometime around orgasm number… whatever. All I manage is an awkward little huff as I pull the blanket up higher, cocooning myself. He watches the movement, amused, like last night didn’t permanently rearrange the oxygen in my lungs.
“Didn’t expect to wake up out here,” I mumble.
“You fell asleep on me.”
