Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
DANI
I wake up with his arms banded around me. I feel radiant. Dreamily wonderful. The bedroom seems alive with warmth, and from my angle of view, with Rhys bathed in the dappled morning light, tiny hairs of copper and gold frame his jaw like a stubbled halo.
“Hi,” I say, my voice scratchy from sleep.
His eyes roam over the morning mess of me. “Howdy. Triple orgasm hair looks great on you, FYI.”
A throaty laugh spills from my lips. “Is that where I capped out?”
“And all these years,” he says with a widening smile, “my family has considered me an underachiever.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” I flirt back, light-hearted, assuming his sarcasm also falls into that category. What child becomes a self-made multi-millionaire without full respect? “And my body votes for overachiever.”
“Speaking of your body…” Rhys nuzzles closer, groping under the duvet to interlace his hand with mine. “Beneath your firm, lady boss exterior lies a very pliant woman.”
I blush from the pleasure of remembering and embarrassment of the sounds that leaked out of me. His whispered filth and stolen kisses. There was no right or wrong, just hips and rhythm, shudder and surrender. The wreckage of the bed says it all. Pillows chucked around the room, and sheets untucked from my vicious fisting of them when Rhys sank into me with a plunderous thrust.
“There is zero chance now of exchanging this mattress for a partial refund,” I say in a mock solemn tone.
He laughs and leans in to kiss my raw and swollen lips. I feel guilty for the blooming purple bruise on the side of his throat.My teeth did that. But it’s his fault for shattering me. And he continues to tease my inner fire, rubbing our conjoined hands against the frisky throb of his erection.
“I need to replenish the supplies,” he says.“And make you a coffee. Hang here. I’ll be back in a few, K?”
“No!” I protest as he disentangles himself from our nested bodies. I feel warm, soothed, and safe. Still lost in the pleasure of newfound intimacy. “Stay with me.”
“The longer I lie next to you, unable to do a thing about it, the greater the torture,” he explains. “But I have a plan.”
He rolls out of bed and slips into his shorts while I watch, taking in the lines of his muscled back and shoulders. I think of how he dominated me, his hands firm and warm, the devastation pinching his features when he let go.
I don’t know what I expected.
Something very Rhys-like. Sweetly sexy. Gentle.
Not lights-out, boundary-pushing fucking.
Not decimating spikes of pleasures that liquified me.
Or Rhys howling something in what I think was Greek but would sound dirty in any language.
And how he studied me after, like he wanted to read me for every reaction from his handiwork, made my insides blaze even hotter.
I prop myself up on both elbows and level my gaze at him. “And what does your plan entail? Other than a dash to the drugstore.”
“Not spilling the details. But we’ll both need the power of caffeine to survive what I have in mind.”
Rhys’s eyes flash with victory as he steals another kiss, hands supporting him on the bed, our mouths crashing together. Goddamn. He still tastes like me. After a seductive tongue twirl that leaves me whimpering for more, he pulls back with a winsome smile.
He is thoroughly adorable in his transparency on how much he enjoys having an evil plan.
But I still deliver a pillow to his face.
“Hurry up then, barista. And make mine a triple shot.”
He waltzes out of the bedroom, whistling some unfamiliar tune. A minute later, the crackle of beans ground into the finest espresso granules floats through the door. An ear-to-ear grin takes over my face. Nestled against his shoulder last night, when we were in that drifting space of near sleep, drained and raw from end-of-the-world sex, he’d kissed me and said I was perfect except for my taste in coffee.
And we both laughed as hard as our spent energies could allow.
But whatever is doing the happy jig in my stomach this morning feels kind of perfect. I slept like the dead thanks to a functioning air-conditioner. Or was it the bed? Or a certain someone who tipped me over the edge of surrender?
The answer is all three and not necessarily in that order.
I curl up like a snail and let out a contented sigh, savoring the morning sunlight streaming through the window, and the promise of a day spent together. The air smells faintly of fresh linen and us. I’m somewhere else entirely—replaying moments from last night—when my eyes latch onto a journal that lies closed on his nightstand. It’s not one of those spiral-bound cheapies, either. The leather looks expensive, the rich brown worn to a luster like a cowboy’s saddle.
A generic clicker pen branded with Miko’s Taverna rests on top, and a ribbon bookmark pokes out like a quiet invitation.
My mind rewinds, spinning back through time. Was it there last night? Half-blind with lust and the lights dimmed, I can’t say for sure.And in the umpteen Rhys videos I’ve watched, not once has he referred to a journal on camera.
But at lunch the other day, Evelyn asked him about his drawings.
All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rocket to attention.
What’s inside? Notes of inspiration? Memories? Secrets? What if he’s drawn me? The possibilities are giddy and heavy all at once. I glance at the wide-open door. My ears perk. I can hear Rhys humming while he preps our coffee. Adrenaline crackles on my skin, and I feel a rise of something sneaky and wrong in my soul.
God, it’s so tempting.
No, Dani. That is a violation of privacy.
When Amelia snapped the lock open to my eighth-grade diary, she sobbed for a full week, devastated that I didn’t secretly worship her as everyone else did. Worse, I resented her for how easy she made it all look.
And we didn’t talk for weeks until she forgave me. (Never mind that she crossed the line. I was only too happy to be back in her good books.)
Point is, do I need to know his innermost thoughts? He just made love to me like we invented sex. Do I need the ego boost of seeing our names written together with pretty hearts drawn around them?
Maybe I do.
Rhys and I have come together so quickly. What do I know about him, aside from what he reveals on Instagram? A peek into the journal mind of the least attainable man on Earth could reveal so much. The air in the room shifts, suddenly charged, as if the journal itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what I do.
I reach for it, the pad of my finger skimming the soft leather.
Just one quick look…
“Hey, Dani,” Rhys calls out.
I snatch my hand away a millisecond before he appears in the doorway. Red-faced with guilt, my heart hammering in both ears, the pressure in my chest eases when I realize he's on the phone. It's pressed against his shoulder to muffle his question from whomever he’s talking to.
“Yes?” The word squeaks out.
“Do you need anything from the drugstore?” he asks.
“Who are you talking to?”
“The taxi company,” he whispers back.
My eyes widen with the realization. “You’re having them buy condoms?”
He smiles shyly and shrugs. His eyes are bright as the day. “It saves me from having to go out. And I’m happy to pay a premium for 911 delivery.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.If Gail finds out about this, I’ll never hear the end of it. Next, she’ll accuse Rhys of orchestrating orgies with the locals.
“Is that okay?” Rhys asks, low-voiced, clocking the concern written all over my face. “I can blast into town with your truck instead if you want.”
Jesus. I can see it now. The bustling Saturday morning drugstore with the local peanut gallery weighing in on the giant box of Ultra-thins and Rhys bouncing from foot to foot, eager to have the cashier ring up the purchase.
“No, the taxi is fine,” I say. “I’ll text the security guy at the gate. That way the driver can breeze in without the third degree.”
I insisted the security company provide the contact details of every guard as part of the control process to keep the lines of communication open. And so far, no hiccups. Our hired-by-the-hour muscle men have kept the fans at bay. But I don’t trust them to keep tight-lipped when the friendly neighborhood taxi driver rolls up and jokes about condoms coming in hot.
Rhys blows me a smooch and U-turns back into the kitchen. I hear him pouring on the charm over the phone, offering a tidy bonus for expedited delivery.
Me? My focus drills back onto his journal.
I like to think I have morals and standards, but I’ve already told him one tiny white lie. About how long I’ve been a follower of his. Will he even care once I tell him the truth? If anything, he might find my pathetic crush kind of sweet.
But snooping is a lie compounded.
And betraying trust is a slippery slope. Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City once ripped into her boyfriend’s secret box, convinced he was withholding something, and that relationship bit the dust.
Rhys has said and done nothing to warrant such an intrusion. And, I remind myself, he is the antithesis of Brett. Rhys is not an inhumane lizard of foulness. And maybe this can be more than a summer fling, so why jam a fledgling us under a microscope and look for cracks before we’re fully formed?
Enough already! My my inner voice blasts. Enjoy the moment without second-guessing everything.
Relationships flourish with trust, patience, effort, and, most importantly, time.
And my bubble of positivity shrinks just a little, because time is the one thing Rhys and I don’t have.