Chapter 21 #2
He exhaled through his nose, a sound part relief, part self-reproach. Then he pulled her in. The hug wasn’t soft; it was encompassing, his body heat seeping into her. She could feel his heartbeat against her cheek. “I’m sorry, little Bea.”
“Not your fault,” she said, tilting her head up, catching a trace of guilt in his eyes.
“I should’ve known it would turn rough.”
“You couldn’t have known how rough.” Her voice was muffled against him. “You got us here.”
For a moment he didn’t answer, just breathed her in. When he finally eased back, his hand stayed resting at her nape. “Shower first,” he said. “You need to get warm.”
He pulled a clean t-shirt and a pair of boardshorts from the duffel and handed them to her.
She thanked him, shivering, before closing the bathroom door behind her.
Inside, the light was too bright. She caught her reflection and stopped. Hair plastered, skin salt-streaked, like some kind of shipwreck survivor.
And of all the thoughts she could’ve had, the first one was: thank goodness she hadn’t worn makeup. Because raccoon eyes would’ve really completed the look.
She peeled everything off and stepped into the stall. The second the hot water hit her, she folded over. Palms on the tile. Breath ragged.
Now that the adrenaline was gone, she felt the fear. The tremor started at her knees, working its way up until her whole body shook. She pressed her forehead to the tile and stayed there, wishing Rafael were still holding her. Nothing inside her had wobbled when he did.
The warmth beating down her back wasn’t the same kind as his—it spread but didn’t calm. She hurried. He’d be waiting, would be freezing by now.
Bea dried herself, tugged on the navy tee and patterned boardshorts. Enormous. No bra, no underwear, which felt scandalous. Not to mention they smelled like him.
Her own clothes were a wet heap by the sink. She wrung them out, then caught her reflection in the mirror. Human again, but only just.
She came out, clutching the hair dryer.
Rafael stood by the bed, shirt off, towel looped around his shoulders. A bead of water tracked down his neck, over the planes of his chest, disappearing into his belly button. Bea’s eyes traced the path for one treacherous heartbeat before she tore them away.
“Go get warm,” she said.
He nodded once, then the bathroom door closed behind him.
She blew her hair out until it was dry, the steady hum filling the room. After, she drifted to the window.
The storm continued to rage through the glass. Trees swayed like drunks. The sea beyond crashed against the shore like it wanted to come in. But she was inside. Dry. Warm. In his clothes.
Behind her, the water stopped running. And she was acutely aware there was just one bed.
RAFAEL
The door gave under his hand with a creak, steam curling into the room.
Bea stood barefoot at the window, his shirt falling to mid-thigh on her small frame, her silhouette outlined by the storm outside.
His heart missed a beat, then came back roaring, thudding like a war drum in his throat. His entire body focused on her, like a predator catching scent. He moved toward her, silent, every step a hunt.
She turned.
He’d waited years for that look in her eyes. The one that said she was waiting for him.
“Are you tired?” he asked. “Do you need to rest?”
It was the responsible thing to say. The out. The door she could take if she wanted to lock the night behind it. But if she said yes—if she turned away from him now—he might actually lose his mind.
Bea held his gaze for a long moment. Then, deliberately, she shook her head.
That was it. The leash around his control slipped. Vanished.
Rafael pulled her in and crushed her against him. Her softness melted into every place he was hard; the thin cotton between them might as well have been smoke. Her breasts pressed against his chest—bare, unmistakable—and the shock of it ripped straight through him.
His fingers tangled into her hair, gripping with enough bite to tilt her face back. He kissed her the way he’d always wanted to, like she was air and he’d been drowning. Bea’s hands fisted in his shirt, clutching him closer, trying to keep her balance in the face of the onslaught.
His mouth dragged along her jaw, pressing his lips to the skin just below her ear, breathing in the scent that had haunted him too long. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against her skin.
His hands mapped her in long, reverent sweeps from waist to hip to thigh.
Lifting her effortlessly, Rafael carried her to the bed, never breaking the kiss. He set her down gently, then braced himself over her. For a long moment, he only looked at her: lips swollen, eyes dark with something she wouldn’t name.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the bare skin of her stomach. The tiny tremor there nearly undid him. “Are you with me?” His voice was husky, forehead pressing to hers.
“Yes.”
That one word. And he was gone.
His mouth grazed her collarbone, tongue dragging across salt and skin, teeth catching just enough to make her gasp. The sound shot through him. Her body arched, seeking him, pulling him closer.
He groaned, mouth returning to hers, kissing her deep enough to drown them both. His hands slid under the boardshorts, fingers seeking the heat he’d been dreaming of—
When her whole body suddenly stiffened beneath him, her hands shot to his chest, pressing. Not hard, but enough. “Rafael,” she gasped. “Stop.”
For a second, he couldn’t process it. Need had stripped everything else down to instinct. She was here. Under him. Wanting. Until she wasn’t.
Then it hit. Her body locked, her hands flipped from clutching to retreat. Every cell in him rebelled. The urge to pull her back, to make her remember what she’d been feeling, tore through him. He gritted his teeth, fists knotting the sheet beside her head.
“Shit.” His voice was raw.
His forehead dropped to her shoulder. Bea trembled beneath him, her heartbeat slamming between them like a trapped bird.
Her lips were parted, eyes glassy, and then he saw it. That flicker. That shadow. The ghost behind her gaze.
King.
The name tasted like blood. The knowledge that another man’s touch, another man’s memory, still lived beneath her skin ripped through him. He’d carried it like a shard under his own, telling himself it would dull with time. That it didn’t matter, because she would be his.
But now it did matter. Because it was here, between them, stealing this moment.
A fury so quiet it felt like suffocation filled his lungs until he could barely breathe. He burned to comfort her, to claim her, to prove in that ancient way that they were still alive.
Rafael pushed himself up. He couldn’t trust himself to stay above her. To stay gentle.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. Everything in him screamed to reach for her again.
Bea sat up gingerly. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.
Her mouth opened, but no words came.
“Why did you stop me?”
There was a pause. A scramble. He knew she was reaching for a lie to protect herself and spare him.
“It wasn’t you,” she whispered, voice shredded. “It was me. I mean, it was…”
“Say it,” he bit out. “It was him.”
She flinched.
It gutted him. That tiny recoil, the admission. His hands curled into fists before he forced himself to unclench them.
For a second, the urge to speak—to demand, to burn—rose up. He killed it.
“Let’s go to sleep. You take the bed.”