Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Alyssa
The night settles slowly over the small town beach, the air humming with salt and the faint hiss of the sea. Dinner lingers between us—grilled fish, roasted peppers, crepes drizzled with cajeta. And of course, there’s him.
Unexpectedly dreamy Dexter Vaughn.
His voice still curls around my pulse, the way it did when he leaned close to ask if I was still hungry, his breath grazing my cheek like a dare. I just shook my head before I responded, ‘Yes, for you.’
The sky has gone indigo, the moon a thin, watchful crescent above the palms, and the speakers play a ballad that keeps that quiet, almost wistful ache suspended between verses.
Dexter clears the plates even though I tell him not to.
“You’re my guest. Relax,” he says, disappearing into the villa with a lazy smirk.
I walk to the edge of the terrace. Below, the sea stretches out in molten swells, breathing slow, like it’s trying to lull the world to sleep. I wrap my arms around myself, even though I’m not cold.
The air smells like lime and smoke and ocean.
A minute later, he returns with two glasses of lemonade. He hands me one. Our fingers brush. The touch is fleeting, but it sends something through me—slow, molten, knotted with memory and want.
I take a sip just to avoid the ache that’s building in my throat.
“I’m still impressed about the dinner,” I manage, setting the glass on the coffee table nearby before settling back against the railing. “You’re an amazing cook. Crepes with cajeta for dessert? Unexpectedly delicious.”
He leans beside me on the railing. “I’m that good only when trying to impress someone.”
I glance at him, eyes narrowed. “And? Was it worth it? All the work?”
“For you, yes.” He smirks. “I’m guessing it was mission accomplished, huh?”
“That’s dangerous,” I murmur. “Now I’ll expect it every night.”
His gaze drags over my face, slow and searing. “You say that like I’d mind.”
The words drop between us like something half-confessed.
It’s too much and not enough. I laugh softly to cover the sudden flood of feelings that threaten to choke me. But it’s too late. The thought is already there, fully formed. Unforgiving.
What would it be like?
Waking up to this. To him. Every morning.
Coffee poured into mismatched mugs. Guitar strings humming in the next room.
His voice low—still rough with sleep, like gravel dipped in honey—before noon.
Dinners made from scratch while music plays low in the background and his hand brushes the small of my back.
Arguments about nothing. Laughter over everything.
The intimacy of knowing someone in the smallest gestures. Shared mornings. Unrushed nights. The rhythm of routine. The gentle ache of love made ordinary, the magic in choosing each other over and over.
I swallow hard. Because I know better. That future isn’t mine to imagine. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The wind picks up, brushing my dress against my thighs, tugging at the ends of my hair. He doesn’t move. Just watches me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“You ever notice,” he says quietly, “how silence feels different with some people?”
I glance sideways. “Different how?”
“Like it’s full and peaceful instead of empty and awkward.”
He’s right. This quiet isn’t a void—it’s alive, threaded with everything we’re not saying but somehow already know.
We stay like that for a while. Saying nothing. Letting the night deepen. The music hums low from the speaker now, nothing but saxophone and longing, bleeding into the sound of the surf.
His shoulder brushes mine—barely there, but it might as well be a fire. I feel it everywhere. And me? I’m trying not to imagine forever. Also hoping that this doesn’t shatter too soon, like everything good that happens to me.
It’s a balance of staying positive while remembering that this isn’t how things work out for me.
When he finally speaks, he says, “You look like you’re somewhere else.”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Everything.” One word that helps me avoid the reality of it all.
He nods, his jaw tense. “Same.”
I risk a glance at him, and he’s watching me. After a couple of beats, he speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Did it mean something to you? Earlier.” He breathes. “Me touching you. Making you feel just a little bit of how much I want you?”
The air leaves my lungs, because the word want feels like much more.
“It wasn’t nothing.” I press my lips trying to figure out if this is what I want to say, and I do. “I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”
He reaches out. His hand slides over mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist as if grounding himself.
“Come here,” he says.
He pulls me close to him. We’re so close I can feel the heat of his body, and suddenly I’m close enough to see the lines at the corner of his mouth, the slight bruise along his collarbone from where my teeth might’ve caught.
“I haven’t had many good things in my life I didn’t fuck up,” he whispers. “But this? You? I want to try. Even if it scares the shit out of me.”
I cup his face, letting my thumbs trace the stubble along his jaw—slow, reverent, like I’m memorizing him by touch. I press a tentative, aching kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He catches my lips with his, and everything stills.
This kiss isn’t like the one before—no rush, no frenzy. Just quiet gravity.
It’s not want. It’s need.
My mouth opens beneath his, and he groans low in his throat like he’s been starving, and I’m the only thing that tastes like home. The kiss unfolds like a prayer—slow and sacred, like we’ve both been waiting our whole lives to get it right.
My fingers thread through his long hair as he stands, his hands skim beneath the thin straps of my dress, fingertips tracing the slope of my shoulders like he’s memorizing the moment. Like this is sacred.
“I’ve been thinking about this all damn day,” he murmurs against my jaw, voice low and thick. “About how you looked when you came for me. How you’d look if I lost myself in you, not just to touch you, but to remember what it feels like to belong somewhere.”
My breath catches. “Dex—”
“Just . . .” His mouth grazes the edge of my cheek, slow and wrecked. “Let me have you again.” His hands tremble, just slightly. “Unless you don’t want to.”
I pause. Not because I’m unsure, but because I want him to feel it when I say it. I want him to know this isn’t heat alone. It’s not just lust or leftover emotion from earlier.
I meet his gaze. “I want you.”
His breath shudders out, like I’ve knocked the air from his lungs. His eyes darken—something raw flickering there, something that looks like awe.
He leans in, forehead resting gently against mine, his voice almost reverent, pleading. “Say it again.”
“I. Want. You.” I brush my lips against his. “All day,” I whisper, letting the words curl between us. “I’ve wanted this. You. Not just your hands, but your mouth, you inside me, claiming me.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle tics near his temple as if he’s holding himself back. His fingers trace the hem of my dress, slow as if waiting for permission that I give with a look.
He exhales through his nose and reaches for the thin straps, easing them down one by one. The fabric slides under his fingers, catching slightly on my skin before giving way. He pushes it past my hips, his knuckles grazing my thigh, until it pools at my feet.
I’m bare beneath it—no bra, only a pair of cotton underwear.
He stills, eyes darkening as they fall to my chest, something raw and reverent in his gaze, like he’s seeing something sacred instead of sinful.
“You came out here like this?” he rasps. “Fuck, baby.” His hand curves over the side of my breast. Reverent. Possessive. Almost undone. “You were just . . . walking around with nothing under this thing?”
His mouth finds my collarbone first. Then the dip beneath it. Then lower.
He drags his lips across the curve of my breast, his tongue tracing circles before closing around my nipple.
Heat floods through me, surging up my spine as I arch against him, needing more than his mouth, needing all of him.
His stubble rasps along my skin as he moves, and I gasp—because it’s not gentle, not soft, but it’s exactly what I need.
“I could taste you for hours,” he mutters against my breast, tongue flicking, teasing, lingering like he’s chasing a memory.
And then . . . then, he lifts me.