Chapter 10
TEN
Dean
The elevator ride to our room feels like descending into the seventh circle of hell, not because of the heat—though the resort's air conditioning is once again struggling against the Hawaiian humidity—but because of the woman standing an arm's length away, pretending she didn't just kiss me senseless on the deck of a catamaran. Brooke's shoulders are pink from the sun despite her ridiculous hat, her hair curling wildly from the salt water, her lips still slightly swollen from our "performance." She hasn't made eye contact since we left the boat, maintaining a careful bubble of space between us even as we stand in this metal box alone together.
"You're sunburned," I finally say, breaking the silence as the elevator crawls upward.
Brooke's hand goes to her shoulder, wincing slightly at the contact. "Missed a spot with the sunscreen, I guess."
"I have aloe in my bag." The words come automatically—taking care of her is a reflex I never quite unlearned. "It'll help."
"Thanks," she says quietly, still not looking at me.
The elevator finally reaches our floor, the doors sliding open with a soft chime. We walk down the hallway in continued silence, the weight of unspoken words growing heavier with each step. When Brooke swipes the key card and pushes open our door, we're hit with a wall of stagnant, hot air.
"You've got to be kidding me," she groans, stepping inside. "The AC's out again?"
I follow her in, flipping the light switch. Nothing happens. "Looks like power's out in the room."
Brooke moves to the phone, lifting the receiver to her ear. "Dead," she reports, slamming it back down. "This is just perfect."
"Probably a blown fuse or something." I pull out my cell phone, checking for a signal. "I'll call the front desk."
While I navigate the automated system, Brooke throws open the balcony doors, seeking any hint of a breeze. The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, rendering her efforts useless. By the time I reach a human at the front desk, she's pulled her hair up into a messy bun, fanning herself with a resort magazine.
"They're aware of the issue," I report after hanging up. "Power outage in our wing of the resort. They're working on it, but it could be a couple of hours."
"Hours?" Brooke looks at me in dismay, sweat already beading on her forehead. "It must be ninety degrees in here!"
"At least," I agree, peeling off my still-damp t-shirt and draping it over a chair. "And the humidity isn't helping."
Her eyes flicker briefly to my bare chest before darting away. "What are we supposed to do? Sit here and melt?"
"We could go down to the lobby. Or the pool."
She shakes her head. "I can't face more socializing right now. Not after..." She trails off, but we both know she's referring to the kiss, to Chase, to the complicated web we're weaving.
"Suit yourself." I kick off my shoes and drop onto the couch, trying to look more comfortable than I feel in the oppressive heat.
For a few minutes, we exist in awkward silence, both trying to pretend we're not acutely aware of each other's presence. Brooke paces the length of the room, periodically checking her phone as if expecting a message announcing the triumphant return of air conditioning. I watch her from under half-closed lids, appreciating the way her sundress clings to her in the heat, the flush spreading across her chest.
"This is ridiculous," she finally declares, her patience visibly snapping. "I'm going to die of heatstroke in this dress."
Before I can respond, she reaches behind her back, unzipping her dress in one fluid motion. It falls forward, revealing a matching set of pale blue underwear and the smooth expanse of her back. My mouth goes dry.
"What?" she challenges, stepping out of the puddle of fabric and kicking it aside. "It's not like you haven't seen it all before."
Last night. This morning. Years ago. I've mapped every inch of her body with my hands and mouth, know the constellations of freckles across her shoulders, the small birthmark on her left hip. But seeing her like this—half-naked and defiant, sweat glistening on her skin in the golden afternoon light—hits me like a physical blow.
"No objections here," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.
She rolls her eyes but I don't miss the way her gaze lingers on my chest, my arms, my face. "Don't get any ideas. This is purely practical."
"Purely," I agree, not believing it for a second.
Brooke moves to the minibar, retrieving two bottles of water. She tosses one to me before cracking open her own and taking a long drink. I watch, mesmerized, as a droplet escapes the corner of her mouth, trailing down her neck to disappear between her breasts.
"Stop staring," she says without looking at me.
"Can't help it." I take a swig of my own water, not bothering to hide my appreciation. "You're something to look at, Callahan."
She flushes deeper, though whether from the heat or my words, I can't tell. "I thought we were going to talk about…this. Whatever this is."
"You want to have that conversation now? Half-naked and sweating?"
"No," she admits, moving to the bed and sprawling across it, limbs spread to maximize the surface area cooling her skin. "I don't know what I want."
That's not entirely true. There's hunger in her eyes when she looks at me, the same hunger I felt in her kiss on the boat. She wants me—that much is clear. What's less clear is what she wants beyond the physical, beyond this week.
I stand, unbuttoning my still-damp board shorts and letting them fall. Brooke's eyes widen as I stand before her in just my boxer briefs.
"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice higher than normal.
"Getting comfortable." I stretch deliberately, watching her watch me. "Purely practical, right?"
Two can play this game of pretending we're not affected by each other. I move around the room, gathering the aloe vera from my bag, retrieving more water from the minibar, all while acutely aware of her eyes following my movements.
The room grows hotter as the afternoon wears on, the sun beating down on the balcony doors we've left open in the futile hope of a breeze. Sweat trickles down my spine, pools in the hollow of Brooke's throat, creates a sheen across both our bodies.
"This is unbearable," she groans, rolling onto her back. "I feel like I'm melting."
I glance toward the bathroom door, an idea forming. "The shower."
"What about it?"
"Cold water." I stand, extending my hand to her. "It's our best option for cooling down."
She looks at my offered hand skeptically. "You want us to shower together."
"I want us not to suffer heatstroke." I keep my voice deliberately casual. "But if you're worried you can't keep your hands off me..."
She narrows her eyes at the challenge. "Fine," she says, taking my hand and allowing me to pull her to her feet. "But this is just about cooling off. Nothing else."
"Understood," I agree, fighting a smile at her stern expression.
The bathroom is marginally cooler than the main room, the tiled surfaces providing some relief from the heat. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature to cool but not shockingly cold.
"Ladies first," I say, gesturing to the shower.
Brooke hesitates, suddenly uncertain. "Maybe we should take turns."
"And let one of us continue to roast while the other's in here? Come on, Brooke. We're both adults."
She bites her lip, considering, then nods once. "Turn around."
I raise an eyebrow but comply, turning my back as I hear the rustle of fabric that means she's removing her underwear. My imagination doesn't need much help picturing what's happening behind me.
"Okay," she says after a moment. "I'm in."
I turn to find her already under the spray, water sluicing over her body, her face tilted up to the showerhead. She's positioned herself strategically, showing me her back but still giving me an eyeful of curves and smooth skin. My body responds immediately, predictably.
"Your turn," she says without opening her eyes. "I won't peek."
I strip off my boxer briefs, already anticipating her reaction when she inevitably does peek—because we both know she will. Sure enough, as I step into the surprisingly spacious shower stall, I catch her eyes fluttering open, then widening as she takes in the full view of me.
"See something you like?" I can't resist asking.
She flushes but doesn't look away. "Just making sure you're keeping your distance."
"Of course." I make a show of pressing myself against the far wall of the shower, though it still leaves barely a foot between us in the enclosed space. "Better?"
Water cascades over us both, cool enough to provide relief from the heat but not so cold that it's uncomfortable. For a few minutes, we manage to maintain the pretense that this is purely about temperature regulation, both facing the showerhead, letting the water rinse away the salt and sweat of the day.
But then Brooke shifts, reaching for the shampoo, and her hip brushes against mine. The contact, brief as it is, sends electricity through me, and judging by her sharp intake of breath, she feels it too.
"Sorry," she murmurs, not sounding sorry at all.
"No problem." I step back, giving her more room, but my eyes remain fixed on the water droplets trailing down her spine, between the perfect curves of her backside.
She begins to lather her hair, arms raised, completely unself-conscious in her nudity despite the tension crackling between us. The sight of her like this—wet, naked, utterly beautiful—is more than any man could be expected to resist. I feel myself hardening further, desire pooling hot and insistent despite the cool water.
"Can you help me with my back?" she asks suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. "I can't reach the sunburn."
She knows exactly what she's doing. The innocent request, the vulnerable look in her eyes—it's a calculated move, an invitation disguised as practicality.
"Sure," I say, reaching for the body wash. "Turn around."
She does, presenting her back to me, and I squeeze a dollop of the coconut-scented wash onto my palm. My hands meet her skin, and we both inhale sharply at the contact. I start at her shoulders, working the lather gently over the pink, slightly tender skin, feeling her melt under my touch.
"That feels good," she sighs, her head dropping forward.
I continue down her back, my movements slower, more deliberate than necessary. My thumbs trace the knobs of her spine, the dimples at her lower back. Her breathing changes, becoming shallower, quicker.
"Dean," she whispers, and it's not a protest but a plea.
I step closer, eliminating the space between us, my chest against her back, my arousal evident against her. My hands slide around her waist, up over her ribcage to cup her breasts, and she gasps, arching into my touch.
"Still just cooling off?" I murmur against her ear, nipping gently at the lobe.
"Shut up," she breathes, turning in my arms to face me. "Just shut up and kiss me."
I don't need to be told twice. My mouth finds hers, hungry and demanding, all pretense abandoned. Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me closer as her body presses fully against mine, skin to skin, nothing between us now.
The kiss deepens, tongues tangling, breath mingling. Her hands roam my chest, my back, gripping my shoulders as I back her against the tiled wall. The cool porcelain against her heated skin makes her gasp into my mouth, the sound driving me wild.
"Brooke," I groan as her hand wraps around me, stroking firmly. "Are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure I want you," she says, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected clarity. "Right now. Everything else can wait."
It's enough. More than enough. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press her against the wall. She's ready for me, hot and slick despite the cool water still cascading over us both. I enter her in one smooth thrust, both of us groaning at the sensation of being joined again.
"God, yes," she breathes, her head falling back against the tiles. "Dean, please."
I begin to move, setting a rhythm that has her clutching at my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. The shower continues to rain down on us, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure of being inside her again.
Her lips find mine, the kiss messier now, all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. I shift my angle slightly, and she cries out, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls.
"That's it," I encourage, repeating the movement that made her voice catch. "Let go, Brooke."
Her body tightens around mine, her breathing becoming erratic as she approaches the edge. I can feel my own release building, a pressure at the base of my spine that grows with each thrust.
"Dean," she gasps, her eyes flying open to meet mine. "I'm going to?—"
"Yes," I growl, increasing my pace. "Come for me, sweetheart."
She does, spectacularly, her body clenching around me as waves of pleasure wash over her. The sight of her coming apart in my arms sends me over the edge, my own release crashing through me with an intensity that leaves me momentarily blind.
For long moments afterward, we remain locked together, her legs still around my waist, my forehead resting against hers as we catch our breath. The water, which now feels almost warm in comparison to our cooling bodies, continues to fall gently over us.
Finally, I ease her down, making sure she's steady on her feet before releasing her. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair plastered to her neck, her lips swollen from my kisses. She's never looked more beautiful.
"That was..." she starts, then shakes her head, seemingly at a loss for words.
"Yeah," I agree, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. "It was."
We finish our shower in relative silence, the air between us charged but no longer tense. There's a new understanding here, something that goes beyond the physical release we just shared. Whether Brooke is ready to acknowledge it is another matter entirely.
As we step out, wrapping ourselves in the hotel's plush towels, I can't resist asking the question that's been on my mind since she first called our night together a mistake.
"Still a mistake, sweetheart?"
She looks up at me, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, her expression unguarded for once. The smile that curves her lips is small but genuine.
"Maybe some mistakes are worth making twice."
It's not a declaration of love. It's not even an admission that this is more than physical attraction and convenience. But as she turns away to dry her hair, I can't help feeling something shift between us—something that feels dangerously like hope.