Chapter 3
Amara
The kiss starts soft. Almost questioning. Like he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind.
Then I make this embarrassing sound in the back of my throat and his hand fists in my hair and suddenly we’re not soft anymore.
We’re desperate and hungry and five years of unresolved tension is pouring into this one moment.
When we finally break apart I’m breathing hard and my face is flushed and I can feel the heat spreading down my neck.
“Bedroom?” he murmurs against my mouth.
I nod because... you know, words...
He takes my hand and leads me through the cottage. I get vague impressions of the space as we move. The sound of waves through the open louvered windows, the faint scent of salt and something floral, probably from whatever overpriced diffuser the resort stocks in their luxury cottages.
We reach the bedroom, where one lamp casts geometric shadows across the white linen bedding.
He releases me. He’s standing maybe three feet away, and watching me with an expression I can best call... predatory.
Great. Now what, genius?
“You can still change your mind,” he says quietly.
I shake my head before I can overthink it. “I don’t want to change my mind.”
Liar.
You absolutely want to change your mind.
You want to run straight back to your villa and pretend this never happened.
But the only move I make is to set my small purse on the nightstand.
He crosses the space between us slowly. Like he’s giving me time to bolt if I need to.
When he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so gentle and yet familiar that it makes my chest ache.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
What I want is complicated.
What I want involves a time machine and different choices and a version of us that never imploded.
“I want you,” I admit. “Just for tonight. Just this.”
His thumb traces along my jawline. “That’s all?”
No. It’s not all. It’s never been all.
But I nod anyway because that’s the deal we made on the beach.
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hand slides into my hair and I melt against him.
His other hand finds my waist, thumb stroking circles through the thin fabric of my dress, and I’m already losing track of where I end and he begins.
Okay.
This is happening.
This is really happening.
“Come here,” he murmurs from the edge of his mouth, and guides me toward the bed.
I follow because apparently my legs still work, which is surprising.
He sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls me until I’m standing between his knees. His hands settle on my hips, and his thumbs stroke slow circles through the fabric of my dress.
“I want to try something,” he says, his voice a rasp. “If you’re okay with it.”
Here we go.
This is where he suggests something wild and you have to pretend you’re sophisticated enough to handle it.
“What?” I manage.
Instead of answering, he shifts me so I’m straddling his right thigh. The position forces my dress to ride up and I’m suddenly very aware that only thin cotton and my underwear separate us.
“Show me how you like it,” he says. Then his hands press down on my hips, guiding me into a slow grind against his thigh.
Oh.
Oh.
The friction is immediate and perfect and completely mortifying. Because apparently we’re doing fully clothed foreplay. Like teenagers.
Except this doesn’t feel like teenagers fumbling around. This feels deliberate.
Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and wants to watch me fall apart.
His hand fists in my hair, not pulling, just holding. “That’s it. Just like that.”
I’m moving now without his guidance, chasing the pressure, and I can feel him tense beneath me. Can hear his breathing change.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs against my ear. “Do you know that?”
I don’t feel beautiful. I feel messy and desperate and way too exposed even though I’m still dressed.
But his hands are reverent as they slide up my sides.
His mouth finds the pulse point in my neck. And when I whimper because the angle is perfect and I’m so close already, he makes this rough sound that goes straight through me.
“Good girl,” he says. “Take what you need.”
The praise sends heat flooding through my system. My cheeks are burning.
You’re blushing during foreplay.
Very sexy.
But I can’t stop moving. Can’t stop chasing the building pressure. And when his other hand slides under my dress to palm my breast through my bra, I come apart with his name on my lips.
“Corin!”
For a moment I just stay there, forehead pressed against his shoulder, trying to remember how breathing works.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“We will, eventually,” he replies, and there’s amusement in his voice.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. Which I definitely don’t. I’m curvy and soft in all the places society says I shouldn’t be, and normally that makes me self-conscious, but something about the way he’s handling me makes all self-consciousness go away.
God my panties are soaking.
He sets me on the bed and I watch as he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
And holy hell.
I forgot how good he looks. Lean muscle and olive skin and that trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
Those obliques, those sculpted abs, those pectoral muscles ridged like plates on a barbell.
And while mostly he’s the same, he’s also.
.. more somehow. Like someone turned up the contrast. Like he’s gotten really really cut lately.
Amara.
You are officially objectifying this man.
Good.
He notices me staring and cocks an eyebrow. “See something you like?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, which is the understatement of the year. Speaking of eyebrow cocking, my gaze momentarily drops to the bulge in his pants before jumping back to his face.
His mouth quirks. Then he’s reaching for the hem of my dress. “Can I?”
I nod and lift my arms so he can pull it over my head.
The cotton whispers against my skin as it comes off. Then I’m sitting there in my plain black bra and underwear, feeling suddenly very aware of every soft curve and imperfection.
This is totally fine.
It’s not like he hasn’t seen me naked before.
Except that was five years ago.
Before stress-eating through law school finals.
Before too many late nights with takeout at my desk.
Before my body decided to settle into this softer version of itself.
His eyes sweep over me and I have to fight the urge to cover myself.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly. Then he drops to his knees in front of the bed.
Wait.
What?
“Lie back,” he instructs.
I do, because apparently when Corin Saelinger tells you to do something in that voice, your body just complies.
He hooks his fingers in my underwear and I lift my hips so he can slide them down.
“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he says. “More than you ever have been.”
He reaches up, unhooks my bra.
Then I’m completely naked and he’s still partially dressed and kneeling between my legs, and this feels incredibly unbalanced.
“Corin—”
“Let me,” he says. “Show you.”
And then his mouth is on me.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Okay.
I’ve had cunnilingus before.
Obviously.
From him, even.
But this.
This is different.
This is methodical and patient and completely devastating.
He was never this good before.
Never.
Or maybe I just forgot...
Impossible to forget this.
He finds every sensitive spot like he’s spelunking my pussy. His tongue does this thing that makes my back arch off the bed, and when I try to squirm away because it’s too much, his hands pin my hips down with effortless strength.
“Stay,” he commands against my pussy, and the vibration of his voice sends fresh heat rolling through me.
I’m making sounds I don’t recognize. Half-words and gasps and probably something that sounds embarrassingly like begging.
“Cor.. Cor.. Corin..” I slurp, one hand fisting his hair.
He adds his fingers, curling them just right, and I can feel another orgasm building already.
Which should be impossible.
I don’t cum multiple times.
That’s not how my body works.
I never came multiple times with anyone before. Not even him.
But apparently, I can now.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”
The praise breaks me and I cum hard, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other tangled in his hair.
Through the haze I hear him make a choked sound. His whole body goes rigid. And when I manage to lift my head, I see the wet spot spreading across the front of his linen pants.
Did he just—
Oh my God he just came from going down on me.
He’s still kneeling there, breathing hard, looking slightly dazed.
“Sorry,” he says after a moment. “That wasn’t... I didn’t mean to...”
“Don’t apologize.” My voice comes out rough. “That was... that was really fucking hot.”
He laughs. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into what I assume is the bathroom. I hear water running. While he’s gone I try to get my brain back online.
Okay.
Recap.
You came twice.
He came once.
Untouched.
From pleasuring you.
That’s... that’s actually incredibly validating.
Also terrifying because now you’re definitely going to overthink this tomorrow.
He emerges a few minutes later wearing only fresh briefs, and I watch as he retrieves a condom from his wallet on the nightstand.
“Still good?” he asks.
I nod. Because despite every logical reason to stop this now, I’m not done. Not even close.
He prowls back to the bed and suddenly we’re kissing again. Hungry and deep. His weight presses me into the mattress and I can feel him hard again already, which seems physically improbable but I’m not complaining.
His hand finds mine in the sheets. Threads our fingers together. Then he squeezes three times.
The signal hits me like a freight train.
The three-squeeze cue.
Our old consent check.
He remembers.
I squeeze back three times.
Yes. I’m sure. Don’t stop.
After that, there are no more questions.
Just his hand sliding up my ribs.
His teeth grazing my collarbone.