Chapter 2 #2
“Which is how I know good food when I taste it,” he counters.
Fair point.
The bottle’s empty now. He sets it aside in the sand, and somehow we’ve shifted closer. You know, the kind of gradual closing of distance that happens when you’re not really paying attention.
Or when you’re paying too much attention to the wrong things.
“The water here is warmer than Coney Island,” I observe, because I need to say something that isn’t “why are we sitting so close?”
“Of course it is,” he replies. “One’s in New York, the other in the Bahamas.”
He’s looking at me now. Not at the ocean. At me.
Quick!
Say something else.
Redirect.
“How’s the villa?” I ask. “The one you’re staying at?”
“It’s good,” he replies. “Exactly what I need.”
“Big?” I say. I’m basically grasping at straws now.
“Too big for one person,” he says, his voice sounding lower than before.
Why does that statement feel loaded?
“Well,” I say, aiming for light, “at least you have room for all your late-night email sessions.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “I do.”
I hadn’t realized it, but not just our bodies had shifted closer... at some point during our little talk his hand had drifted next to mine in the sand, so that our fingers are literally inches apart now.
I should move. Or get up entirely. Or... or...
In the dim light, I watch his pinky finger shift slightly.
Just a fraction.
It brushes against mine.
The contact is barely there. Skin against skin for maybe two seconds.
But it sends a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. Like, actual electricity, I’m not going to lie.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
This is bad.
Very bad.
Opposing-counsel-conflict-of-interest bad.
“Amara.” His voice has gone lower still.
I look at him. His face is half in shadow, half illuminated by the distant glow from the resort. This close, I can see the scar through his eyebrow. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he’s looking at me like I’m a problem he can’t solve and doesn’t want to.
I feel my cheeks heating. The blush creeps down my neck.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“It’s a disastrous idea,” he agrees.
But his hand moves. Fully covers mine now. His palm is warm. Conforming in a way I don’t remember.
My stomach is doing this butterfly thing.
“We shouldn’t,” I say.
“No,” he agrees.
“It won’t end well.” I swallow, trying to ignore my racing heart.
“Probably not.”
“I’ll just end up leaving in the morning,” I admit.
“I know.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. Just once.
The gentleness of it completely undoes me.
I’m already imagining what it will feel like to be in his arms again.
To have that huge, glorious cock pounding me relentlessly, bringing me to orgasm after orgasm as I shout his name. To...
I stand abruptly and brush sand from my dress with shaking hands.
My flight response has finally kicked in.
Better late than never.
“I should go,” I announce to the night air.
He stands, too. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to stop me.
I take three steps toward the resort before I stop.
Don’t do it.
Don’t turn around.
This is your out.
Take it and run.
I turn around.
He’s standing exactly where I left him, hands in the pockets of his linen pants, watching me with an expression I can’t see in the dark.
My hand extends before my brain catches up. “One night.”
He looks at my outstretched hand. Then at my face. Which he probably can’t see, either.
“No promises,” I continue. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “No names in the morning. We don’t talk about the past. We don’t make plans for the future. Just tonight. This one night.”
For a moment he doesn’t move. I can see him processing. Calculating the risk the way he probably calculates every business decision.
Then he takes my hand.
His fingers lace through mine and suddenly I can’t remember why this is a terrible idea.
I can only remember how this used to feel.
How he used to look at me like I was the solution instead of the problem.
We walk in silence. I don’t ask where we’re going. He doesn’t offer an explanation.
He just leads me across the sand, past the resort’s main buildings, toward a path that winds through tropical landscaping.
I catch glimpses of shadows moving in my peripheral vision. Either drunken midnight revelers, or more likely his security team. Because of course billionaire venture capitalist Corin Saelinger would bring his security team to the Bahamas.
The thought should bother me. Should remind me of all the reasons this is a mistake.
Instead I just hold his hand tighter.
We arrive at a private beach front cottage tucked back from the main resort.
He unlocks the door and steps aside to let me enter first.
He flicks on the main light switch and a soft glow fills the place. It’s beautiful in that resort-minimalist way. White linens. Dark furniture. A bottle of wine and fruit basket on the counter that screams “complimentary amenities for guests who can afford this place.”
I hear the door close behind me. The soft click of the lock.
When I turn, he’s standing there. Just watching me. His expression is unreadable but his eyes are dark and intent and I feel that look everywhere.
“You can still leave,” he says quietly. “If you want.”
It’s a genuine offer.
An out.
He’d let me walk away right now with no argument.
Which somehow makes me want to stay even more.
I step out of my shoes.
“I don’t want to leave.” The admission costs me something. “I should. But I don’t.”
He steps out of his own shoes and crosses the space between us in three steps. His hand comes up to cup my face. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone.
“Tell me you want this,” he says.
“I want this.” My voice comes out a rasp. “I want you. Even though I shouldn’t. Even though it’s going to hurt tomorrow.”
His expression softens. “It doesn’t have to hurt.”
“Yes it does.” I lean into his palm. “That’s the whole point.”
His other hand finds my waist. Pulls me closer.
“Amara.” He says my name.
And then kisses me.