Before
BEFORE
Just as my lungs spasm, Michael powers upward. The world brightens. My head breaks water. I gasp, hauling in fresh plumes of air.
We’ve surfaced inside a cave, but it’s like no cave I’ve ever seen. Waterfalls pour in through gaps in the roof, along with moss-tinted spears of sunlight. Everywhere I look, water gushes over smooth white stone. Light refracts from a central pool, painting the grotto with dancing brilliance.
A sound of amazement slides from my lips. Michael tows me toward a pebbled beach, where he lays me beneath him and braces his weight on his forearms.
I can’t decide where to look: at the myriad channels carved smooth by the water, or at the heart-stoppingly beautiful man inches from my face.
Within moments, Michael wins. Droplets trickle from his nose to splash against my forehead. My legs squeeze around him, locking our hips flush. When I feel him against me, a slow, excruciating dance starts up in the base of my stomach. A second heartbeat forms there, one that begs for him with every pulse.
Never in my life have I slept with someone I just met, but despite my earlier resolve, I decide I absolutely would right now. I’d let him have me here. I don’t care about the freezing water or the illogic of it all.
But to my abject disappointment, he doesn’t try for that. He just smiles his incredible smile and says, “What do you think?”
“I think Greece might actually be boring after this. This is the most magical thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Worth it, then?”
“And then some.”
“Perfect.” He shifts, his bare stomach sliding against mine, which sends another pang lancing through me. “And now I have a question for you. As promised.”
My breath falters. He looks serious again, even more so than when I first got into his car, which tells me my earlier suspicions were off the mark. This isn’t about staying in touch, but something else entirely.
“I said I wouldn’t ask you to stay,” he says, “because I think it’s incredible that you want to go. But I will ask you for time.”
My heart catapults up my throat.
“Spend your month with me,” he says, his earnestness stunning. “Go to bed with me at night. Wake up with me each day. You can get a job in Seattle, earn enough for your ticket, and in thirty days, I’ll drive you to the airport myself. I won’t say a word to stop you.”
“You mean live with you? In your house?”
“It’s a condo. But yeah.”
A tingle starts in my temples. Despite the icy wavelets lapping at my legs and the rocks digging into my back, warmth suffuses me. “Have you ever lived with a girl before?”
“No. But I’ve never met you before.”
I pause. “I’m not that special.”
“You are,” he says. “You know how I know?”
“How?”
“Because I’ve brought girls here before. A few times.”
I frown.
“Hey, don’t give me that look,” he says, good-natured. “I just mean to the pool. You’re the first one who’s agreed to come in here . I kept hoping that someday, someone would. And look. Here you are.”
My fingers creep up to brace against his shoulders. I study him long enough to decide I couldn’t care less about his history or where this strange sorcery came from. I just know that if I go back to Seagrove, or, worse yet, let him buy me a ticket to Athens, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
I open my mouth to say so, but Michael stops me.
“I have one condition, though.”
I arc an eyebrow. “ You have a condition? When you’re the one propositioning me?”
“I’m not propositioning you. Yet.”
I flush. “Still. Bold move.”
“I’m kind of a bold guy, in case you haven’t noticed. And yeah, there’s a rule. No sex. Not until the month’s over.”
I wonder if I’ve heard him correctly. “You want to live with me but don’t want to have sex with me?”
He chuckles and undulates his hips against mine. It makes me breathless. Mindless with want. “I think you can tell I want to have sex with you about as badly as I want my heart to keep beating.”
“But?”
“But I’ve never asked a girl a question like this before, and if we do this, I want to know you. Really know you. And I want you to know me. I don’t want you to be one of those weekend girls you accused me of having.”
“It’s not an accusation if it’s true.”
“Fine,” he says. “But that’s them. This is you. It’s different.”
I can’t believe my ears. It sounds like punishment, being this close to him without reaching the kind of completion my body is screaming for. “Is this because you’re terrible in bed and don’t want me to find out?”
“I’m incredible in bed,” he says. “And I’m probably going to regret this idiotic rule in about five minutes. I think I regret it right now. But it’ll give me a chance to do things right. Because for once, I think I actually want to.”
I consider. “Would you kiss me, at least?”
His attention drops to my mouth. “I’m absolutely going to kiss you. the day’s over.”
Heat coils in my belly. He stares and stares, but doesn’t close the distance, and in the absence of his mouth on mine, everything else heightens. His fingertips feather against my shoulder, driving a shiver into my center. His bare chest surges against mine. And his firmest place of all still presses against me, the only separation his sopping shorts and my bikini. Every square inch of him proves so delicious that I find myself savoring the idea of this slow and delicate torture.
“You realize how crazy this is,” I whisper. “Right?”
He lowers his head to my neck. “One hundred percent.” His heated answer propels freezing droplets across my skin.
“But you want to do it anyway?”
“One thousand percent.” His tongue darts out, claiming a bead of moisture.
Sensation rolls through me, leaving me quivering. “All right. Then let’s live together. For a month. See what happens.”
He sucks in a breath and raises his head. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Jesus.” He grins. “My heart’s going about a million miles an hour right now. I feel like I just won the lottery.”
I smile back, touched by his open vulnerability. He keeps surprising me with that. “Who knows? Maybe you did.”
He laughs and climbs off me, then pulls me to my feet. We manage to while away half the afternoon beneath the falling water, sifting through sparkling pebbles until our lips turn blue. When it’s time to swim back, I cling to him again, stealing his heat and gifting him some of my own.
We surface in the hillside pool and float, nose to nose. Still, he doesn’t kiss me.
I both love and hate this game, I decide. Mostly hate. I start counting the minutes, wondering how many I’ll have to endure before he finally puts an end to my longing.
Back at the car, we sprawl on the Audi’s hood while the sun bakes the wetness from our skin. After we discreetly change back into dry clothes, Michael points the car south.
“Where to now?” I ask.
He lifts my hand and kisses my fingers. The resulting zing reaches my marrow.
“Home,” he says.
I smile at that word. Home .
Because the craziest thing is, I feel like I’m already there.
When Michael unlocks the door to his— our —Seattle condo, I do a double take.
Holy shit. This guy is loaded.
He ushers me into a wonderland of glass and concrete perched nineteen stories above the ground. A wall of windows overlooks the waterfront. Outside, lights glitter. Boats bob. Beyond the rim of the Pacific, a yellow flush warms the sky.
I soak it all in with widened eyes.
Michael stays close. “Well? What do you think?”
I spin a slow circle, feeling like I’ve strayed into that movie where the unsuspecting teenager finds out she’s actually a princess, complete with her very own castle. “It’s incredible. You live here?”
I expect him to puff with pride, but he gives me a sober look. “You like it?”
“I love it.” When he doesn’t answer, I frown. “But why do you look like you kind of wish I didn’t?”
“Sorry. It’s not that. It’s just...you look natural here. Like you belong in a place like this.”
“With you,” I say, in hopes of chasing away the odd tension.
A ghostlike smile flits across his lips. “That’s the hope.”
I can respond, he turns and totes my purple bag through the door of what I can only presume is the bedroom.
Not quite ready to cross that threshold just yet, I wander, reminding myself that this must be strange for him. He’s just moved in with a girl he met yesterday. Of course he’d need a moment to adjust.
I’ll grant him as many as he needs.
The condo boasts an open layout—the kitchen flows into both dining and living room, where chrome floor lamps and sleek electronics bookend black leather sofas. On a granite-topped island, a stack of mail sits unopened, as if Michael has just returned from an extended absence.
My brow furrows as my conversation with Sarah and Brooke comes floating back. Michael can’t have gone anywhere recently—they made it clear he’s spent the past month at the office. Moodier than usual, maybe, but there .
A thought occurs, and I surreptitiously flip through the mail. Maybe Michael’s just gone through a breakup, and that’s what has thrown him out of sorts at work. Maybe I’m not actually the first girl he’s lived with, and that’s why he looked so taken aback when we first walked in.
Maybe he’s saving this mail for someone else.
But no. Every single envelope bears his name. With a quiet laugh at my own folly, I abandon the pile and venture into the living room to peruse the photographs on the walls. At first, the myriad photos of skyscrapers catch me off guard, considering how uninterested Michael was in talking about his work. But he probably gets enough of it here, living in this gallery. Or maybe he just realizes most people don’t share the passion he clearly feels for buildings.
I’m busy pondering the possibilities when one photograph snags my attention, making me forget all the others. I sidestep the angular couch to get a closer look.
The picture shows a wide-open stretch of farmland in some place like Kansas or North Dakota. Ripened rows of wheat stretch away while overhead, the sky gathers like an angry bruise. From the raging purple clouds, a funnel descends, a chaotic finger reaching down to touch the orderly gold perfection of the fields.
I stare, glued there somehow. The picture radiates energy the same way a fire throws heat. I can practically smell the sulfurous tang of the storm, the restless heave of the wind.
When I blink, Michael is standing beside me. “You like this one?” His voice tightens, as if my answer holds significance.
I hesitate, not knowing what he expects. “I love it. I’m in love with it.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“It’s like...I’m there, in the calm before the storm. Like something dangerous and unstoppable is about to come turn the world upside down, and I’m caught in that moment, in the breath before a fall.”
“I know that feeling.” When his eyes meet mine, warmth fills them. Clearly, he’s talking about something besides the photo. “I know it exactly.”
My breath catches. “Do you?”
“Like a tornado’s about to blast my life apart, and I’m probably going to love every second of it? Yeah.”
The air heats between us. But instead of kissing me, he turns away.
Goddamn it.
I try to cool off by returning my attention to the photo. Only then do I catch the name inked in the corner. Grayson Drake.
My heart stutters. Grayson. Drake . That can only be the brother who wishes Michael had never been born. I step back, breaking the picture’s gravitational pull. How badly have I screwed up?
Apparently, not much, because Michael makes a casual gesture toward the framed skyscrapers—spindly confections of glass and steel depicted in black and white. “What about these? Do they do it for you?”
Really, to me, the buildings are just that. Buildings. But I don’t want to insult him, so I manage a somewhat sincere-sounding “They’re great, too.”
He laughs. “Not a fan of architecture, then?”
I shrug. “I’m not not a fan. I guess I’ve just never thought about it before.”
He smiles, all forgiveness, and guides me to the couch by the windows, where two glasses of freshly poured red wine await.
I pounce on mine, realizing how ravenous and parched I am. On the way back from Canada, we stopped at a seaside oyster farm outside Bellingham, but for all that I love shellfish, it never satiates me for long.
“I was thinking about Italian for dinner.” He flops down on the sofa beside me. “How do you feel about fettucine Alfredo?”
“At the moment? Deeply passionate.” I sample the wine. It’s divine—a Malbec, my second-favorite vintage after Cabernet.
“Perfect.” Michael pulls out his phone, then delivers a practiced order to some restaurant whose menu he clearly knows by heart. He sets his cell on the table and slings a sculpted arm over the back of the couch, facing me with wine in hand. “So.”
“So.”
“We live together.”
I twirl my glass. “We do. Which is crazy.”
“It’s balls-to-the-wall insane,” he says. “And I like it.”
I go quiet. In the face of his scrutiny, I feel shy suddenly, my tongue tied in knots.
I’ve never met a man who combines such unbridled intelligence with a raw thirst for living. And to find it all behind a face like that ...it almost strikes me as unjust. Not only to every man who can’t possibly live up to the standard Michael Drake has single-handedly set, but to me.
Now that I’ve met him, I can’t imagine settling for anything less.
Every stupid college boyfriend I ever had fades to insignificance. None of them, I realize, really meant that much. They were only practice.
I lift my glass. “Let’s toast.”
“To what?”
I peek at him through my lashes. “To today.”
He laughs. “Yes. Of course. What else?”
Our glasses clink. For the next half hour, we edge closer, titillating ourselves with fleeting touches and spirited conversation. When our food arrives, we pull apart, then devour the pasta, just to talk some more.
When it grows late, Michael turns off the lights, letting the dim orange glow from the harbor bathe the room. As he circles back toward the couch, I say, “Take off your shirt.”
The smolder from outside backlights him, but I can still make out his one-sided smile. “What? Why? You’re not trying to take advantage of me, are you?”
“No. Well, yes. Eventually. But for now, I just want to look at you.”
His smile grows. He pulls off his black V-neck and tosses it to the floor. God, he’s magnificent. I’m busy trying to get angry about it when he drops to the couch and prowls toward me on hands and knees.
I barely get my wineglass to the safety of the coffee table before he eases me back against the leather, nudging my knees apart with his hips.
My pulse skyrockets. He’s everywhere—a living artwork of muscle and skin, drenched in the storm-wild smell of woods. He comes so close that his hair brushes my forehead as he stares into my eyes.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
When he doesn’t move, I clear my throat. “Not to complain, but I can’t actually see your abs from this angle. Which was kind of the whole point.”
He chuckles, low and sultry. Orange light caresses his face and kindles twin embers in his pupils. “I’ll get up in three minutes.”
I snake my arms upward and knead at the musculature of his back. “Three? That’s oddly specific.”
He swipes his phone from the coffee table. “Well, it’s eleven ten right now. Which means your life is supposed to change in one minute. If you still want it to.”
My breath stalls. I think of the jet that would have carried me away, taxiing down the runway as we speak, engines roaring, cabin lights dimmed in preparation for its leap into the sky.
I’d rather be pinned to this couch.
“I do,” I manage. “I definitely do.”
His fingers trail up the side of my neck and stroke the shell of my ear. I pant. It seems impossible that such innocent touches could affect me so profoundly, but I turn liquid, aching with his nearness.
“I’ll do my best, then,” he says.
The time on his screen ticks to 11:11. Somewhere southeast of us, a plane launches into the stratosphere, taking my pulse along with it. Michael tosses his phone onto the floor. Neither of us check to see if it’s survived intact.
After the longest, hungriest moment of my life, he kisses me.
Except the word kiss doesn’t do it justice. Energy snaps and sizzles, foreign in its intensity, and what Michael does to me, he does with his whole body.
He kisses me like he’s starving for it, devouring, exploring, claiming. I love it. I want to erect an altar to this feeling. I rise to meet the demands of his mouth, savoring lips that seem to remake me on some molecular level.
Michael pairs the greedy force of the kiss with the tenderest of touches. His fingers brush across places most men don’t bother with—the sensitive dip of my hip bone, the delicate valley of my elbow. He touches me in gentle worship, and all the while, the kiss remains savage, a fierce joining of questing lips.
He’s a man of contrasts, even in this, and the juxtaposition of hard and soft, ferocious and tender, does something indescribable to me.
I’m floating. I’m flying. I’m coming apart in some unplanned way, and I chase the burning-down of myself until I become nothing but ashes.
When he finally pulls back, he says, “How was that? Sufficient?”
I almost toss back a flippant one-liner, but I don’t want to diminish the fact that I’m no longer the same person I was three minutes ago. “It was mind-blowing. My brain might be lying on the floor somewhere. I’ll have to go looking for it in a second.”
With a smile, he tucks my hair behind my ear, then pulls me from the couch and leads me to the bedroom, where, as promised, we go to bed without anyone’s underwear coming off.
The stardust remnants of the kiss still sizzle in my blood, though, and sleep hovers at arm’s length. I turn on my side, studying Michael’s face as he slips into slumber with his arm slung over my waist.
City-lit quiet floods the room. I marvel at what a single rise and fall of the sun can do. I’ve just moved in with a man I’ve known for a day, and not one single part of me wants to leave him tomorrow, even to go job hunting. Maybe I don’t want to leave him at all, which is possibly even more inconceivable than moving to Athens for no reason.
My future shears into halves: life if I go, life if I stay. Far-flung vistas and adventure, or scorching kisses and soul-nourishing conversation.
Not that Michael has so much as mentioned the possibility of me staying. But it’s creeping in already, tiptoeing through a back door in my mind, and I know that in thirty days, I will have to choose.
Which means I can only leap, one way or the other, and pray I make the right choice.