Chapter 27 #2
It’s a low-grade fever that’s been simmering since the night I met her, finally breaking through the skin. Her hands are on my chest. Then in my hair. Then pulling me closer like she can’t get close enough.
I walk her backward without breaking the kiss, her back hitting the cool wall behind her. She gasps, and I take the sound into my mouth like it’s mine.
“You taste like mango,” I murmur against her lips.
She smirks. “You taste like a bad decision.”
“Yeah?” I press into her, letting her feel every inch of what she’s doing to me. “Then we’re even.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Dex . . .”
“Tell me to stop,” I say, my forehead resting against hers. My voice is low, frayed with restraint. “Just say the word.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she kisses me again—this time with fire. No hesitation, no pause. Her mouth opens to mine, hungry, reckless. And fuck, I lose the thread of thought. I grip her hips, walk her backward until her spine brushes the wall. She gasps, but it’s a not protest. It’s permission.
I lift her with one arm. Her legs wrap around my waist without thinking, like this has always been waiting.
She pulls at my hair, desperate and unguarded, her mouth still on mine, her breath filling every part of me that’s been too hollow for too long.
My free hand slides up her thigh—wet skin, slick from the ocean or from want, I don’t even know anymore.
The gauzy tunic rides high, forgotten, and her swimsuit’s in my way.
She arches against me, needing more. Needing everything.
My fingers tease the edge of the fabric, tracing along her hip, down until I find the place she’s burning for me. Her breath catches. My name slips from her mouth like a broken vow.
“Dex—”
“I’ve got you, Aly,” I whisper, not breaking the kiss. “Just let me.”
Her hand fists in my shirt, dragging me closer, lips parted like she can’t decide whether to kiss me or confess something bigger.
She breathes my name—not a whisper, but a surrender—a plea that finds its way through me.
I don’t wait for another sign.
One hand stays at her back, keeping her pinned between me and the wall, while the other slides beneath the hem of her tunic. The fabric clings to her thighs, damp and warm from the sun and the pool, but it’s her swimsuit I want gone.
She gasps when I find the edge of it. When I hook my fingers under the elastic and pull it aside—not rushed, not rough, but with purpose. Like I’ve been dying to get to this exact place. This exact moment.
And I have.
She’s slick. Hot. Fucking unreal.
I drag my fingers through her slowly, savoring every reaction—how her mouth parts, how her head drops back against the wall, how her hips chase my hand like she’s been waiting forever for this. My mouth finds her neck, tasting salt and sun and something sweeter that’s all her.
“Dex . . .” It’s more breath than voice, like she’s unraveling in my hands.
My thumb circles gently, slowly, because this moment deserves more than a rush. It deserves worship. She shudders against me, forehead pressed to mine, her lips parted like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
“You’re killing me,” she breathes, voice barely there.
I press deeper, tasting the way she clings to the edge of control. I can feel how close she is, how her body coils tighter each time I move. I kiss her again, and this one feels like everything I’ve held back since the second I saw her on that terrace.
“I want you,” she says. “God, I—Dex, I want—”
“I know,” I breathe, my mouth still against her skin. “I know, sweetheart.”
I move against her slowly, finding the rhythm that pulls another sound from her throat—half-plea, half-promise. Every breath she takes turns into something I can feel. The air thickens with it, heat rising between us until the whole world seems to narrow to the space where our bodies meet.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
Her eyes find mine, dark and wide and wrecked with want. My thumb traces a slow circle at her hip, coaxing another shiver. She trembles, caught between restraint and surrender.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Stay with me.”
The sound she makes tears through me it’s so ragged, raw that it nearly undoes me. Her fingers cling to my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. And maybe it is. Her body goes still—taut, trembling—for one suspended second . . . then she lets go.
She collapses against me. Spent. Trembling. Alive in a way that sets every nerve in me alight.
I hold her close. One arm locked around her waist, the other cradling her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek like I need her to feel me even when she can’t speak.
“Next time,” I whisper against her skin, my voice rough, “you’re coming in my mouth.”
She shudders.
And fuck, I mean it. I want to memorize every inch of her. I want to taste every place she hides. I want to worship her like she’s the only religion I’ve ever believed in.
Because this isn’t just lust. This isn’t just heat and sweat and hunger.
This is everything I didn’t let myself want.
And now she’s in my arms—wrecked, glowing, wrapped around me like I’m something she wants to hold onto—and I know.
I’m already fucked.
I want mornings like this. Afternoons where we don’t make it out of bed. Late nights where I get to watch her unravel in candlelight. I want to wake up to her humming off-key while brushing her teeth. I want to cook for her, make her laugh, and undo her with my hands a hundred different ways.
But more than anything, I want her to trust that this isn’t temporary.
I bury my face in the curve of her neck, just breathing her in. Her heartbeat is still fast against my chest. Mine’s no better.
She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
There’s no need to fill the silence. Not right now.
But in my head, it’s loud.
Don’t fuck this up.
Don’t let her slip through your fingers.
And it’s terrifying how much I already need her to stay. If only I knew how to keep her.