Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dexter
The day doesn’t feel real.
It feels like I’m borrowing it. As if I’ve slipped into someone else’s skin.
Like I’ve stepped into a version of myself I never expected to meet, stripped of all those layers I add so no one could get close to me.
I’m somehow raw in a way that feels unfamiliar.
Everything about this day feels suspended.
Fragile. The air tilts around us, almost listening, waiting to see what we’ll do with this narrow stretch of stillness before the world tilts back into noise.
Sunlight pours across the terrace in wide, golden strokes—bright and bold, not shy about where it lands.
It slides over the tile, over the curve of Aly’s shoulder, catching in the damp ends of her hair like it wants to stay there.
Her skin glows—still kissed by saltwater.
That ocean-blue swimsuit hugs her like it was sewn onto her, clinging to every curve like it knows what it’s holding.
The gauzy tunic drapes over her thighs, sheer enough to hint, not enough to hide.
She sits on the terrace, legs folded beneath her, her strawberry daiquiri sweating in the sun beside her.
She hasn’t touched it. Hasn’t moved. Her gaze stays fixed on the horizon, mouth parted like she’s trying to make sense of something the sea keeps just out of reach.
Like it’s telling her a truth so old, so personal, it bypasses language entirely and goes straight to whatever part of her still dares to believe in wonder.
And fuck, I can’t stop watching Alyssa.
She’s not trying to be anything right now. She’s just existing in a moment so unfiltered, so her, it makes my pulse trip over itself. The sun paints her in light so rare, I want to bottle it and carry it.
There’s a reverence in the way she sits there, like she belongs to this place. Or maybe like the place has finally made room for her.
And all I can think—aching, visceral—is how I’d trade every stage I’ve ever stood on just to keep her in this stillness a little longer. To be the one she turns to when the ocean runs out of answers.
Rosie, my guitar, rests against my knee. My fingers drift over the strings—not playing, just touching. Feeling her. The silence isn’t empty. It pulses with something deeper than sound. Like a song holding its breath. Waiting for the right moment to speak.
And then, I hear Aly hum. It’s not a melody, not something you’d catch unless you were listening closely. But I notice. Of course I fucking notice.
It’s almost absentminded. But it moves with rhythm. With intent.
Like the start of something inevitable.
And maybe that’s what this is, a beginning I never expected to want.
I clear my throat, fingers still on the strings. “You hungry?”
It’s not exactly subtle, but I need her closer. Need something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve dragging her into my lap and seeing how far she’d let me go before stopping me.
She startles like she forgot I was here. And fuck, that smile. Small, groggy, all lips and half-lidded eyes—it lands somewhere below my ribs and doesn’t miss.
“I could eat,” she says, voice husky from sleep or sun or something I want to be the cause of.
“Perfect,” I reply, though nothing about the way I feel right now is calm or casual. I need to keep my hands busy or they’ll find their way to her.
The kitchen is stocked—eggs, chiles, tomatoes, mangoes, warm tortillas in a cloth-lined basket. The air smells faintly of lime, ocean, and Aly.
She steps inside as I crack eggs into a bowl.
“You can actually cook?” she asks, arms crossed, one hip resting against the counter.
“I can pretend real well,” I murmur, eyes dropping for a beat to the edge of her thigh where the tunic splits. My pulse ticks up like I’ve downed three shots of espresso instead of the one a few hours ago.
She grins like she knows. Like she sees it all. “Pretend away, Rockstar.”
I sauté onions and tomatoes, tossing in jalapenos I sliced a little too thin—maybe to impress her, maybe to distract myself from the way she’s standing at the island across from me, barefoot, sunlit, too fucking close for clarity.
She reaches for a mango and a knife. Then slices it open with practiced ease. Juice runs down her fingers—slick and golden—and without hesitation, she lifts her hand and licks it clean.
It’s not performative.
Just . . . hungry.
My pulse nosedives into hell.
Her lips close around the pad of her thumb, slow and languid—like she’s savoring the taste of sun and sin. She sucks, just a little. Just enough to make my cock twitch and my pulse stutter like it doesn’t know how to keep time anymore.
Then a drop of juice slips down her wrist, gleaming, and she follows it with her tongue. A flick. A glide. Something primal presses against the back of my teeth.
I grip the counter with one hand with more force than finesse. Aly doesn’t even know what she’s doing. Or maybe she does.
Either way, I’m unraveling by the second.
I reach for another egg. Not because I need it, but because I need something to crack before I do.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t notice the way my breath stalls or how I can’t stop watching her mouth. It’s probably better that way.
Because if she does. If she sees what she’s doing to me—this kitchen won’t survive it.
And neither will I.
She lifts another slice of mango to her lips, tongue catching the juice before it runs down her chin. Her teeth graze the fruit slowly, a slow bite followed by a soft hum, like it tastes better than anything that came before it.
God, I want to be that fucking mango.
“So tell me,” she says, voice all faux-casual, but her eyes—her eyes burn. “Do you always escape to secret villas when things get to be too much?”
Her head tilts, a glint in her gaze like she already knows I’m seconds from losing my mind over her. Perhaps I’m just imagining everything. Either way I don’t know where to run or how to beg her for a lick or . . . something.
I force a breath. My voice drops, low and honest. “Only when they involve you.”
She smirks as if maybe she didn’t expect that answer to mean so much.
She walks over slowly, a piece of mango pinched between her fingers, her eyes locked on mine. Her hips sway with just enough confidence to undo me. She leans across the counter, her hair brushing her shoulder, and lifts the fruit to my lips.
“Good?” she murmurs, her tone casual, but there’s a dare in her eyes.
I open my mouth, let her place the mango on my tongue—but I don’t stop at the fruit. I take her finger too. Just the tip. Suck it in.
Slow. Controlled.
My tongue circles where skin meets sweetness, and her breath catches—just enough to give her away.
After a beat too long, I pull back, swallowing the fruit with a quiet groan.
“Sweet,” I say, voice low.
Her throat moves as she swallows. “You mean the mango or me?”
“Both.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just long enough for the room to shift, like the heat between us just turned into something no one can walk away from.
She leans her elbows on the counter, her fingers brushing the edge, her gaze drifting to my mouth and lingering like she’s remembering what I just did. Or imagining what else I could.
“You keep looking at me like that,” I murmur, “and I’m not going to make it to lunch.”
A slow, breathy laugh escapes her, but there’s tension underneath it. Like the wires between us are frayed and hot, one touch away from sparking.
She doesn’t look away. “You want to talk about what this is?”
“I do.” My voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint I’m fast losing.
“Because I’m not doing the whole pretend-we’re-just-friends-on-vacation thing.
I promised I wouldn’t lie. And ever since I saw you outside this morning—half-damp and barefoot, all legs and peace—I’ve been thinking about you. Wanting you. Fucking. Want. You.”
She inhales, lips parted, her expression shifting into something raw and exposed.
“I’m not immune,” she says quietly. “I haven’t been since the moment you said my name like it already belonged to you.”
That honesty sears through me.
I don’t move. I don’t need to. We’re already close—so close I could breathe her in if I tried.
Her hand hovers near my mouth, fingers slick from the mango juice, her gaze locked on mine like she’s daring me to do something about it.
Her knuckles tighten around the fruit. Her chest rises, and her eyes—fuck, her eyes—don’t look away.
I pause in front of her, close enough to feel the heat from her body radiate into mine. Close enough to see a single droplet of water slide from her collarbone, disappearing into the V of her tunic.
“You’re not afraid of me,” I whisper, needing to know.
Her voice doesn’t shake. “I’m afraid of how you make me want things I shouldn’t.”
My fingers lift, slow. I brush a damp strand of hair from her cheek, tuck it gently behind her ear. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second. But it’s enough.
“Maybe you should want them,” I say, not moving back.
Her breath hitches.
Then—her mouth opens.
And I don’t wait.
I kiss her.
This time is not tentative. Not soft. It’s full heat, full ache, like we’ve both been starving for this and didn’t know it until now.
Her hands find my shoulders, grip them like she needs something solid to hold on to.
I pull her closer by the hips, and she lets me.
Lets me guide her backward until her back hits the counter.
She gasps against my mouth, and I take the opening—tongue sliding against hers, tasting mango and something sweeter. Her fingers dive into my hair. My hands are at her waist, under the gauzy fabric, feeling the heat of her skin, the soft curve of her.
She kisses like she thinks I might vanish.
I kiss her like she’s the thing I’ve been chasing my whole damn life.
And it still doesn’t feel close enough.
It’s not soft.
It’s not slow.