Chapter Six
Chloe
A tiny shimmer, a slight flash against the morning sun, stops me in my tracks.
My eyes fix on something tucked in the white sand, and when a wave rolls in and tugs at it, I drop Elliott’s hand and run, feet barely skimming the sand as I chase it down.
Closer now. I make it out: a seashell, catching the morning light like a small, wet jewel.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I laugh delightfully as I scoop it up before the water can pull it under.
I can’t help the happy sound that escapes me as I turn it over in my hands, tracing my fingers over the swirl of pearly white and subtle cream with hints of the ocean’s blue. It’s the biggest one I’ve found yet.
Elliott and I have fallen into a morning ritual—beach walks before he heads out for the day.
. I have never been a morning person, but it’s hard to stay in bed when I’m woken by warm hands and warmer lips.
He’s almost as insatiable as I am, and after a morning of slow or rough sex, sleep is out of the question anyway.
So I drag him down to the beach with me every morning before he has to leave.
The beach is all ours alone this early in the morning, and the private cove, tucked away from the main stretch, barely sees any visitors even in the height of summer.
“You’re not scared of being this close to the water?” he’d asked, the first morning I suggested it.
“Not as long as you’re with me. Besides, you promised you’d never let me down.”
And so it became ours. Morning walks to watch the sunrise, then he leaves for the day. I go back inside to paint or sculpt with the shells I’ve collected. He comes home in the evening, and we eat together in the kitchen before going to bed. It’s almost routine—and one I could easily get used to.
I hope I’m never found.
It’s a thought that keeps surfacing, louder each day. A part of me hopes my parents forget about me and move on. Maybe then I won’t have to face what’s coming. But I know I’ll have to tell Elliott the truth at some point—it has to come from me, not from whoever eventually shows up at his door.
I turn to find him watching me, a warm, indulgent smile on his lips.
Christ, he looks so goddamned hot with his back to the rising sun—dark hair lit gold against the soft pink and orange behind him.
My heart jumps, and I swallow the fear that sits just underneath everything now.
The fear of losing him the moment he knows the truth.
Still, it has to come from me.
God.
“Hey, is everything alright?”
Here’s an opening. I could spill everything right now, this very second, and pray he doesn’t send me away.
It’s better coming from me. I know that.
But when I walk forward and those warm hazel eyes find mine, the words dry up.
It’s not him I’m afraid of—it’s the thought of him not wanting me anymore.
Of watching his face change. What would I do if he rejected me now that I’ve gone and fallen in love with him?
“Chloe.”
I smile as I reach him. “Look at the treasure I found.” I hold up the shell. “It’s the biggest one yet.”
“Then why don’t you look happy?”
“Hmm?”
“Chloe, I can tell something is wrong,” he rasps, cradling my cheek in that gentle way of his. “Talk to me, kitten.”
I open my mouth. The words are right there. But nothing comes out. My throat feels scraped raw, and I realize that I can’t do it. At least not today. Maybe at dinner. Or tonight, in the dark, when he can’t easily send me away. Or tomorrow morning. Tomorrow is soon enough.
Isn’t it?
“I don’t think it’ll fit in the sculpture I’ve been working on,” I say instead, turning the shell over in my palm. “It’s pretty, but it’s too big for my collection.”
“Is that it?” He doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah,” I say, throwing my arms around his shoulders and pressing in for a kiss, hot and deliberate and meant to distract him.
It works. His arms circle my waist, and we kiss like two people who didn’t spend the earlier part of the morning tangled in the sheets.
We’re both breathless when we pull back, his eyes alight with that heat that never fails to undo me.
“I want to try something,” I whisper, biting his bottom lip.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. ”
“What is it?”
“I’ll show you,” I smile wickedly at him as I slide my hand down his stomach. He sucks in a sharp breath when I reach the waist of his shorts. Then, very carefully, I drop to my knees on the warm sand. The look on his face makes the boldness worth it.
“Chloe—”
I toss the shell to the side and settle my hands on his thighs. “No one comes out here this early, do they?” I ask, glancing up at him through my lashes. “Not that I’d stop either way.”
His eyes flare with something dark and possessive alongside the heat. It arouses me—that look, the knowledge that I put it there.
“You are killing me, baby.”
“I haven’t even started,” I murmur.
I pull at the drawstring of his shorts and work them down just enough, and his cock, hard and flushed, bobs free.
The sheer size of it still shocks me despite everything we’ve done this past week.
He’s warm when I wrap my hand around him—or try to.
I have no clue what I’m doing beyond what I’ve seen or heard secondhand, but I don’t let it show.
I open my mouth around the head, accidentally scraping him a little with my teeth.
“Fuuuck!” he roars. I move to apologize, but the look on his face tells me I don’t need to.
His pupils seem to have grown larger, and his breath is coming in shallow pants.
A shiver of heat settles deliciously in my belly when his hand sweeps through my hair and grabs a fistful, tugging gently. “Do that again, kitten. Goddamn!”
I smile, leaning forward again to take him between my lips, licking over the crown and hearing him hiss.
He tastes like salt, skin, and soap—nothing like the complaints I heard from girls back in college.
I find I like the taste of him, so I try to take more of him in.
I push too far too soon and gag, eyes watering.
I pull back, coughing and gasping for breath.
“Slowly,” he instructs, fingers tightening in my hair. “Take your time, kitten. Breathe through your nose.”
I nod. With his guidance, it’s easier. Although I can barely fit half of him, he doesn’t seem to mind.
Heck, if anything, my inexperience seems to work for him—the fumbling, the sounds I make when I try to take more of him.
I grip his thighs as we find a rhythm, and soon, he’s rocking into my mouth in shallow thrusts, his whole body pulled taut with the effort of holding back.
I watch his face and learn what makes his jaw clench, where he’s most sensitive—until his knees are unsteady and a vein stands out at his temple.
“Enough,” he rasps, pulling me off him by the hair. Before I can catch my breath, his hands are on my hips, spinning me onto my hands and knees in the warm sand.
“Elliott—”
“Hold still, baby.” His lips find the back of my neck and I shiver as he pulls my shorts down and off, then positions himself at my entrance.
He strokes into me slowly at first—a long, deep slide that draws a sharp cry from my lips—one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip as he begins to move.
Mine.
The word echoes between us as our bodies lock into a rhythm—like a perfect fit.
Like we were made for this. And it hurts, the thought that I could lose this it.
Lose him. I claw at the sand beneath me, a part of me seeking to mark him, claim him as he’s claimed me.
When the wave breaks, it breaks hard. I bury my face in the crook of my arm to muffle the sound, the anguish that wants to escape my chest. Tears prick my eyes that have nothing to do with the pleasure and everything to do with the terror underneath it.
I love him. I couldn’t help it—I fell in love with a man I had no business falling for, and now, I’m afraid our time together is running out.
I can’t lose him. I won’t survive it.
***
We walk back to the house in companionable silence, my hand tucked in his.
My body is deliciously sore, and my mind is quiet despite everything churning underneath.
My thoughts drift to the painting I’ve been working on—a surprise I’ve been working on for him.
Suddenly, I’m nervous. What will he think of it?
I push the doubt down and lean into him. When he glances over and smiles, the fear almost disappears entirely.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” I ask, as we take the rocky path up from the beach. “Maybe that lemon herb chicken you made a few nights ago?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I beam, and when he stops, my brows knit in confusion. I look at him, noting something about his expression that makes me follow his gaze. My breath hitches when I spot the cars parked outside his house, a cop car and the other…
“Chloe!” My mother’s voice cuts through the morning air. She’s rushing toward me, and I catch the relief on her face before she has me by the shoulders, pulling me to her. “You’re alive. Thank God!”
There are tears in her eyes as she looks me over, ones that spill down her cheeks.
I watch the emotions move across her face—shock, relief— and then, slowly, something else.
I don’t need a mirror to know what she’s seeing: disheveled hair, swollen lips, the flush that comes from a morning spent in someone’s bed.
Those eyes, so like mine, slide past me to the man standing silently behind me. “You pervert!”
“Chloe!”
My father is crossing the yard, his expression mirroring my mother’s—worried first, then understanding, then cold. The two officers standing nearby exchange a look.
“We’ve been out of our minds,” Mom says, gripping my arm.
“We reported you missing as soon as we docked and realized you weren’t on the yacht—and we’ve been waiting ever since.
We only got the call this morning that someone at the local clinic had recognized your picture from the report.
” She exhales. “We came straight here. What happened?”
“The police told us she lost her memories, honey, remember?” Dad says, wrapping a comforting hand over her shoulder as his tired eyes find mine.
Guilt rolls through me when I see how worn he looks.
I’ve been so focused on what I was running from that I didn’t stop to think about what it cost them. “We were sick with worry, sweetheart.”
I should say something. But I can’t hurt them like that. I can’t bring myself to pretend I don’t recognize them after all they went through to find me. But revealing that I know them…
I turn to look at Elliott. His expression is unreadable, carefully blank—and that terrifies me more than anger would.
A part of me wants to drag him from the crowd and confess it all.
I would time travel to when it was just us at the beach and lay it all out if I could, but surrounded by all these people, I find I can’t say a word.
“What did you do to my daughter?” Mom rounds on Elliott, stepping past me. “This man took advantage of a young woman in his care—I want him removed from this property, and I want to speak to someone in charge.”
“Calm down—” Dad starts.
“How can I?” She shrugs him off and steps into Elliott’s space. “My daughter was in your care. She was vulnerable. And you—”
“Don’t.” Elliott’s voice is low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that means something.
“No!” I cry out, pushing between them to face my mother. My heart is in my throat and fear is choking me. “Don’t blame him. It’s not his fault. He saved me—”
“He took advantage of your amnesia—”
“I don’t have amnesia, Mom!”
The words hang in the air, heavy and thick, like a sudden storm cloud. My breath hitches in my throat, and I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs.
Everything goes quiet—the yard, the people in it, even the breeze seems to pause. I can hear my own pulse in my ears and the distant sound of waves. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, but there is only one person’s reaction I’m searching for.
With tears stinging my eyes and an apology written on my face, I slowly turn around to look at the man I’ve spent more than a week with.
Elliott’s face is still carefully blank. But his eyes—those warm hazel eyes that have looked at me every morning like I was something worth keeping—are somewhere I can’t reach.
My heart drops.
It’s over.
We’re over. I don’t need the words to know that. Not when it’s written all over his face.