Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IVY
The kiss does not end like a movie. There is no fade to black. There is no swelling orchestra.
There is just the sharp, stinging realization that I have set fire to the only safety net I had.
I pull back, gasping for air. My lips are tingling, swollen and sensitive. My heart is hammering a rhythm against my ribs that feels less like a heartbeat and more like a warning siren.
Brooks is staring down at me. His eyes are blown wide, almost black in the twilight. His hand is still on the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my windblown hair, holding me like he's afraid that if he lets go, I'll disintegrate into sea foam.
"We have to go," he says. His voice is rough, a jagged thing.
"The party," I whisper, though I can't remember why the party matters. "Your parents. The senator."
"Screw the senator," Brooks says.
He grabs my hand. It's not the polite, performative grip of a fiancé. It's a clamp. He pulls me toward the stairs, moving with a single-minded urgency that scares me a little and thrills me a lot.
We bypass the main deck. We bypass the bar. We practically run down the gangway to the tender bobbing alongside the yacht.
The sky above us cracks open.
The summer storm that has been threatening all afternoon finally breaks. Fat drops of rain pelt the teak, turning it slick.
“Perfect,” Brooks mutters.
He helps me into the small tender. The driver looks startled to see us.
“Take us to the dock,” Brooks orders. “Now.”
The ride back to the mainland is a blur of wind, spray, and silence. I am shivering, though I'm not sure if it's the cold rain or the aftershock of the kiss. Brooks takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. He pulls me into his side, shielding me from the spray with his body.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The heat radiating off him says everything.
When we reach the dock, the rain is pouring down in torrents. We run to the SUV. Brooks tosses the driver a folded bill, "Get a cab. I'll drive." He guides me into the passenger seat.
The drive back to Eastmoor is silent. White-knuckled.
I stare out the window at the blurred trees. My mind is racing, trying to find a logical foothold.
Clause 4. Asset. Liability. Breach of Contract.
The words swirl around in my head, but they have no weight. They evaporated the second his mouth touched mine. I look over at him. His hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. His jaw is locked. He looks like a man holding on by a literal thread.
We skid to a stop in front of the guest cottage. The rain is torrential now, turning the gravel drive into a river.
"Run," Brooks says.
We sprint for the door. Brooks reaches it first, yanks it open, and we tumble inside.
The door slams shut, cutting off the roar of the storm.
A suffocating silence descends on the cottage.
We are dripping wet. My hair is plastered to my face. My crochet cover-up is soaked, clinging to my bikini like a second skin. Brooks's white dress shirt is translucent, sticking to his chest, revealing the definition of every muscle underneath.
He locks the door. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoes like a gunshot.
He turns to look at me.
"Ivy," he says.
"I need a towel," I blurt out. I start backing away, my bare feet slipping slightly on the hardwood. "I'm wet. I'm cold. I need to... I need to decompress. We should talk about this in the morning. When we're dry. When we're logical."
"Logic has left the building," Brooks says.
He takes a step toward me. Water drips from his nose. He looks wild.
"Brooks, stop," I say, though my voice lacks any real conviction. "We have four weeks left. If we do this... if we cross this line... I can't go back to the pillow wall. I can't go back to pretending."
"I don't want to pretend," he says.
"You said I was an asset!"
"I lied."
He closes the distance in two strides. He backs me up against the sturdy mahogany door. He plants his hands on the wood on either side of my head, caging me in.
"You're not an asset," he says, leaning down until our noses are touching. "You're a plague. You're an obsession. I haven't slept a full night since you tackled me because all I do is lie on the other side of that ridiculous wall of pillows and think about this."
"Think about what?" I whisper.
"This."
He kisses me again.
This time, there is no hesitation. There is no gentle exploration. It is a claiming.
His mouth is hot, demanding. He kisses me like he's starving and I'm the only sustenance in the world. He tastes of rain and expensive scotch and pure, unadulterated need. I make a small, desperate sound in the back of my throat and grab his wet lapels, pulling him closer.
The contract burns to ash in my mind.
His hands leave the door and roam over my body. He grips my waist, his thumbs digging into my skin through the damp crochet. The friction of the wet fabric against my skin is maddening. He slides one hand up, tangling it in my wet hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss.
"You're cold," he murmurs against my mouth.
"I'm freezing," I lie. I am burning up.
"Let's get you warm."
He reaches for the hem of the crochet cover-up. He lifts it, and I raise my arms, letting him pull the sodden fabric over my head. He tosses it onto the floor with a wet thwack.
I am standing in front of him in just my bikini. I should feel exposed. I should feel vulnerable. But the way he looks at me, dark, hungry, reverent, makes me feel powerful.
His eyes track over me, lingering on the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts in the bikini top.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
He reaches out and traces a line of water down my sternum with one finger. My breath hitches.
"Your turn," I whisper.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers are clumsy with cold and adrenaline. I fumble the top button.
Brooks groans, impatient. He brushes my hands away and rips the shirt open, buttons pinging onto the floor. He shrugs it off, letting it join my cover up on the pile of wet laundry.
Skin on skin.
He pulls me against him. The shock of his warm, bare chest against my cool skin makes me gasp. For someone so controlled, so deliberate, his heat is startling. He shudders when I touch him, a break in that restraint that tells me no one else has ever reached him like this.
"Brooks," I say, my voice trembling. "The bed."
He doesn't answer. He moves.
He sweeps me up into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist, burying my face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.
He crosses the small room in two strides. He doesn't set me down gently, but drops me onto the mattress, right in the center.
I bounce slightly. I look to my right.
The massive stack of decorative pillows, shams, and bolsters is sitting innocently against the headboard, the ammunition I use every night to build my fortress, my safety net.
Brooks looks at the pile. He looks at me.
With a sweep of his arm, he shoves them onto the floor.
"No more walls," he says.
He climbs over me, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging me against the mattress. His eyes are dark, burning with an intensity that makes my toes curl.
"Last chance," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the mattress. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you hate me."
I look up at him. Water drips from his dark hair onto his chest, tracing the tension still visible in his shoulders. But looming over me isn't just a boss or a blackmailer; he is the man who defended me to Penelope, the partner who held my hand while we took down a titan.
"This isn't part of the deal tonight," I say softly. I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw.
"And I don't hate you."
He closes his eyes for a second, leaning into my touch. When he opens them, whatever he was holding onto is gone.
"Good," he says.
He kisses me, and his hands move to the ties of my bikini top behind my neck. One pull, and the fabric falls away. He tosses it aside.
His intake of breath is sharp. He pulls back, just an inch, to look at me. His gaze is physical, a caress that leaves heat in its wake.
"Ivy," he whispers, his voice stripped of its usual control.
He lowers his head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat, then lower. His mouth is hot, wet, and skilled. He loves the curve of my breast, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin until I arch off the mattress, my fingers tangling in his hair.
He is relentless. He kisses my collarbone, my ribs, the dip of my waist. Every place his mouth touches feels branded.
"Brooks," I gasp. "Please."
He moves back up, capturing my mouth again while his hand slides down to the ties of my bikini bottoms at my hips. He undoes them with a quick tug. He slides the fabric down my legs, tossing it away.
He stands up beside the bed long enough to strip off his trousers and boxers. I watch him. He is magnificent. Aroused, powerful, and completely focused on me.
He rejoins me on the bed, his skin hot against mine. He kisses me deeply, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me.
Then he moves down my body. He kisses the valley between my ribs, my stomach, the point of my hip.
He spreads my legs with his hands, his grip firm on my thighs.
"I'm going to take care of you," he murmurs, looking up at me, his eyes dark with promise. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
"You already have," I admit, my voice breaking.
He lowers his head.
When his mouth touches me, I cry out. It is overwhelming. He is thorough, confident, and maddeningly slow. His tongue strokes against my most sensitive spot, sending jolts of electricity straight to my core.
I grab the sheets, twisting the fabric in my fists. "Brooks..."
He ignores me, or maybe he takes my plea as encouragement. He deepens the pressure, his hand sliding under my hips to tilt me up, giving him better access. He works me with a rhythm that is punishingly good.
I am unraveling. The tension coils tighter and tighter in my belly. I am close, so close.