Chapter 10 Corin
Corin
We’ve been sitting on this futon for hours.
After I told her about Diana and Leena, after she reached for my hand, we just stayed like that. Her fingers laced through mine. Her head on my shoulder. My arm around her because where else was it going to go?
I should feel exposed. Like I just handed her ammunition she could use to destroy what’s left of my fragile reputation.
Instead, I feel lighter.
Because here’s the thing about confessions: you don’t show your hand unless you’re holding all the cards or you’ve got nothing left to lose.
I’m not quite sure which category I’m in right now.
Part of me wants to take it back. Rewind. Tell her I was exaggerating or that the details were murkier than I made them sound. Protect myself the way I’ve been protecting myself for half a decade.
But the other part, the part that’s been hemorrhaging since New Year’s Eve, just wants to stay exactly like this. Holding her. Breathing in the scent of lemon peel and bug spray and rain.
Fuck it.
I told her.
It’s done.
Can’t un-ring that bell.
She stirs against me and her hand tightens briefly around mine, like she’s checking I’m still here.
“Hanging in there?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.” Her voice is raw. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “About how much time we wasted.”
The words hit hard.
Because she’s right.
Five years of circling each other from a distance.
Five years of me punishing myself while she built a life that didn’t include me.
All because I chose silence.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For not telling you sooner. I just... wanted to leave you alone. Felt... I’d done enough damage.”
She lifts her head. I can’t see her face clearly in the dim light, but I feel her eyes on me.
“You were protecting Leena,” she says. “And me. In your own fucked up way.”
“Still hurt you.”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You did.”
Then she leans back against me, and I’m not whether to interpret that as forgiveness or something else.
A knock comes at the door.
Amara and I break apart instantly. She shifts to the opposite end of the futon. I straighten, running a hand through my hair like that’ll somehow make us look less like two people who were just wrapped around each other.
“Come in,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
The door opens. It’s Keon.
If he notices our guilty looks, he doesn’t show it.
Professional to the core.
“The storm has let up slightly for the past half hour,” he says. “Parking lot has drained enough to leave. I checked the roads... they’re passable. We should move now before the next band hits.”
I glance at my watch. Eight at night. Then I look at Amara. She’s sitting on the corner of the futon. There are shadows under her eyes that make me want to cross back to her and pull her close again.
But that’s not how this works.
She’s my employee.
We have a contract.
Rules we agreed to.
Rules we’ve been breaking for the last three hours.
“Let’s go,” she says quietly.
We gather our things. Marisol is already organizing the volunteers, making sure everyone has a safe ride. Thorne hovers near the exit, scanning the parking area through the half-open door.
Outside, the rain has eased to a steady drizzle.
Keon has the SUV idling near the entrance, headlights cutting through the wet darkness.
The parking lot is still flooded somewhat, with water pooling ankle-deep across most of the pavement, but Keon has positioned the vehicle right at the curb where the drainage is better.
Amara steps out into the drizzle first. The water barely touches her sandals thanks to where Keon’s parked. She climbs into the back seat, and then scoots over so that I can follow her inside.
Thorne meanwhile wades into the ankle-deep water on the far side of the SUV to settle into the front passenger seat.
The drive back is tense. Not between us, but between the SUV and the road.
Water pools in low sections of pavement.
The power is still out, so there are no working street lamps to light the way, and Keon is relying solely on high beams. He navigates with the kind of precision that reminds me why I hired him in the first place.
Former Royal Bahamas Defence Force. The man can drive through anything.
We pull into the resort, and he suddenly stops the SUV.
Keon cuts the engine. Points through the windshield. “Main access is blocked. Downed tree took out part of the entrance gate. Power lines came down with it.”
I lean forward, squinting through the rain-streaked glass. He’s right. A massive palm tree sprawls across the road, its trunk snapped halfway up. Black cables snake through the branches.
Fuck.
Amara leans forward, too, her hand bracing against the back of Keon’s seat. “How long until they clear it?”
“Crews won’t reach it until morning,” Keon says. “Maybe longer if the weather turns again. Power company has to secure the lines first before anyone can move the tree.”
I lean back. “Amara’s villa is at the main resort...”
“Yes,” she says quietly. Then, after a beat: “I’ll just run around it. It’s not that far.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
I force myself to moderate. “Too dangerous. Look at those downed power lines on either side of the tree, and the wall. You’ll have to go over them.
Those power lines could go live at any moment if the grid kicks back on.
One wrong step and you’re electrocuted.”
She opens her mouth to argue.
“The resort’s private villas are accessible via the coastal road,” I continue.
She frowns. “Where you’re staying?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Higher elevation, better drainage. Five-minute drive. Then just a short jog through the rain to my villa.”
Keon meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “It’s the safest option, Ms. Khan. I wouldn’t recommend attempting to navigate that mess on foot. Not in the dark with electrical hazards.”
“Maybe I’ll just jog back down to the main resort once we’re there,” she insists.
“You could,” I agree. “Or just use the on-site guest cottage. It’s separate from my villa. You’ll have privacy.”
She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Okay. Maybe.”
Keon takes the coastal road. As predicted, the drainage here is much better, and we arrive without incident at The Westlight, my private villa located on the resort’s property.
We pull up to the covered entrance. The rain is starting to pick up again.
Perfect timing.
“Go,” Keon says. “I’ll handle the bags.”
I’m out of the SUV first, rounding to Amara’s side. She’s already stepping down, but I offer my hand anyway. She takes it.
The contact is electric.
Same as it was in the office.
Same as it was on New Year’s Eve.
Same as it was five years ago.
We sprint toward the main villa. Halfway there the sky opens up and the rain hits like a wall, soaking us both within seconds.
She laughs, breathlessly, and the sound fills me with exhilaration.
I can’t help but laugh, too.
I yank open the door to the soundproof study because it’s closest. We stumble inside, dripping onto the hardwood floor, and I shut the door behind us.
The room smells like wet cedar. Rain sheets the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and black.
Amara’s shivering. Not from the cold, I think. But from the thrill of running in the rain.
“Is your security team coming inside?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Anyone else here?” she presses.
“Just us.” I should offer her dry clothes. Should show her to the guest cottage like I promised. Should maintain some semblance of the professional boundary we agreed to when I signed her on two weeks ago.
Instead, I just stand there watching her wring water from her hair, and every instinct I’ve honed over the last five years is telling me to show her to the fucking guest cottage fucking right now.
She looks at me, then. Directly into my eyes. And I see...
She wants me.
I want her, too.
But...
She crosses the room. Three steps. That’s all it takes.
Then her hands are on my face and she’s kissing me.
It’s not gentle.
I respond before my brain catches up.
My hands find her waist, pull her closer. She tastes like rain and lemon peel and something I can’t name but know I’ll never get enough of.
I press her against the walnut paneling, lift her by the backs of her thighs. She’s heavier than she looks, all soft curves and solid muscle, and wrapping her legs around my waist feels like the closest thing to heaven I’ve ever experienced.
Her dress is soaked through from the rain. I can feel the heat of her skin beneath the wet linen.
This is a bad investment.
High risk.
No guaranteed return.
She’s my contract employee.
She—
“Corin,” she breathes against my mouth.
That’s all it takes. Hearing my name in that voice, with that specific mix of want and uncertainty.
And I snap.
Fuck it.
I carry her to the fucking desk. Kick the fucking chair back.
She’s already reaching for the buttons of my fucking shirt. I let her, even though my fucking hands are shaking slightly as I peel the wet dress up and over her head.
Pale skin. Freckles I don’t remember from before. A soft stomach that curves in ways that make my mouth water.
“You’re fucking perfect,” I tell her, and I fucking mean it.
She flushes. Tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Don’t hide from me.”
Her eyes meet mine. There’s vulnerability there. And trust. And... forgiveness.
Fucking forgiveness.
I’ve never wanted her more.
I capture her mouth again, but this time it’s a claiming. My tongue sweeps past her lips with possessive hunger, and she moans into my mouth, her fingers curling into my soaked shirt.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s teeth and tongue and shared breath turning ragged. I tilt her head back, deepening the angle until her throat bares itself to me. She whimpers when I nip her lower lip, then soothe it with my tongue. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest.