When we reach the dock, the rain is pouring down in torrents. We run to the SUV. Brooks tosses the driver a folded bill, "Get a cab. I'll drive." He guides me into the passenger seat.
The drive back to Eastmoor is silent. White-knuckled.
I stare out the window at the blurred trees. My mind is racing, trying to find a logical foothold.
Clause 4. Asset. Liability. Breach of Contract.
The words swirl around in my head, but they have no weight. They evaporated the second his mouth touched mine. I look over at him. His hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. His jaw is locked. He looks like a man holding on by a literal thread.
We skid to a stop in front of the guest cottage. The rain is torrential now, turning the gravel drive into a river.
"Run," Brooks says.
We sprint for the door. Brooks reaches it first, yanks it open, and we tumble inside.
The door slams shut, cutting off the roar of the storm.
A suffocating silence descends on the cottage.
We are dripping wet. My hair is plastered to my face. My crochet cover-up is soaked, clinging to my bikini like a second skin. Brooks's white dress shirt is translucent, sticking to his chest, revealing the definition of every muscle underneath.
He locks the door. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoes like a gunshot.
He turns to look at me.
"Ivy," he says.
"I need a towel," I blurt out. I start backing away, my bare feet slipping slightly on the hardwood. "I'm wet. I'm cold. I need to... I need to decompress. We should talk about this in the morning. When we're dry. When we're logical."
"Logic has left the building," Brooks says.
He takes a step toward me. Water drips from his nose. He looks wild.
"Brooks, stop," I say, though my voice lacks any real conviction. "We have four weeks left. If we do this... if we cross this line... I can't go back to the pillow wall. I can't go back to pretending."
"I don't want to pretend," he says.
"You said I was an asset!"
"I lied."
He closes the distance in two strides. He backs me up against the sturdy mahogany door. He plants his hands on the wood on either side of my head, caging me in.
"You're not an asset," he says, leaning down until our noses are touching. "You're a plague. You're an obsession. I haven't slept a full night since you tackled me because all I do is lie onthe other side of that ridiculous wall of pillows and think about this."
"Think about what?" I whisper.
"This."
He kisses me again.
This time, there is no hesitation. There is no gentle exploration. It is a claiming.
His mouth is hot, demanding. He kisses me like he's starving and I'm the only sustenance in the world. He tastes of rain and expensive scotch and pure, unadulterated need. I make a small, desperate sound in the back of my throat and grab his wet lapels, pulling him closer.
The contract burns to ash in my mind.
His hands leave the door and roam over my body. He grips my waist, his thumbs digging into my skin through the damp crochet. The friction of the wet fabric against my skin is maddening. He slides one hand up, tangling it in my wet hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss.
