Chapter 21
JESS
The next morning, thunder throws the first punch. So much for the beach. I burrow under the covers, not quite wanting to wake up yet, but my stomach is demanding to be fed.
So I shower and throw on a pair of denim shorts and a flowered crop top. I brush my damp hair in a ponytail and head into the kitchen. There’s no one around and I do a doubletake at the time. But nope, it’s nine a.m. and I’m surprised Eli isn’t cooking up a storm.
So I raid the fridge, finding a leftover sandwich from yesterday and apple slices. While the coffee percolates, I eat.
Wind howls down from the bay, tugging at the eaves, rattling the deck chairs like they’re gossiping.
I hurry out barefoot, wincing as cold rain pelts my shoulders, and grab Churro before the storm can swallow him whole. The stuffed penguin’s felt beak drips saltwater, and my plush shark lounges beside the door as if he knew I’d come.
My chest tightens—ridiculous how even these stuffed things feel like proof that I belong somewhere.
Back inside, I place mine and Eli’s stuffed animals on a towel on my bed. If Churro’s still wet, I’ll toss him in the dryer.
I head back to the kitchen. Part of me debates going and waking them up. Except I remember last time I went to wake up Cassian—how he grabbed me, pulled me under him, the weight of his body pinning mine. My face flushes hot at the memory, and something low in my belly clenches.
Rain needles the windows, and thunder rolls over the roof like a bulldozer. There aren’t any other paperbacks, so I pull the crossword puzzle book that Eli got Rowan at one of the stores when we were souvenir shopping.
5 Across: Talk trash to. Taunt. Easy.
4 Down: Pillowy. Hmmm…soft.
I take a sip of my coffee.
9 Across: Under pressure. I tap my nails on the table, thinking. Instant Pot is too many letters. Oh. Steam.
12 Down: Keeps things warm.
Dang, no wonder Rowan is obsessed with these. Totally addicted now to figure out what these clues are for. Okay, Keep things warm? Microwave? Nope. Stove and oven are too short. Fire…fireplace?
Body heat.
I snort into my mug. Yeah, that’s Eli’s contribution for Rowan.
“Stealing Rowan’s crossword book? Bold move,” Cassian clicks his tongue as he leans in the doorway, a smirk sliding over his mouth.
His shirt hangs half-buttoned, revealing the lean lines of muscle I’ve been trying not to stare at for weeks.
His dirty blond hair curls at the ends, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach flip—heat and humor tangled together.
“You know, most people keep their stuffed guys off the bed. Makes the competition nervous.”
“Competition?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, feigning seriousness. “Can’t have to share pillow space with a shark and a penguin. Bad for morale.”
My laugh comes out quieter than I expect. “You jealous?”
“Should I be?”
The kitchen narrows to just the space between us. The scent of him reaches me—salt and rain and that darker, warmer smell that’s uniquely Cassian, like amber mixed with leather. My pulse stutters, then races, reckless and wanting in a way that terrifies me.
“Depends,” I say, trying to sound casual even as my voice goes breathless. “Churro and my shark don’t tease me nearly as much.”
“Then they need to step up their game. I wouldn’t waste a chance to be with you and see how much teasing you can take.”
The words land hard and fast. He’s watching me now with those dark green eyes, tracing every place the lamplight touches—my damp hair, my throat, the curve of my mouth.
His hand slides along the table with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity skittering up my arm. He’s testing, asking permission without words.
I push back from the table, heart tripping, and stand before I can overthink it.
“Coffee?” I ask the cupboard more than him. I set the mug down before I drop it. He’s already behind me, breath warm against my neck, and the part of me that planned coffee evaporates.
His mouth trails lower, and I’m half-gone when he suddenly stills, breath ragged against my skin.
“Jess.” His voice is gravel. “Before this goes further—are you sure?”
My throat tightens with all the vulnerability I’ve been swallowing. The words come out jagged, defensive in that way I hate about myself. “I’m not a virgin.”
He blinks, then laughs softly, not mocking—gentle. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “I just didn’t want you to think this doesn’t matter. It does.”
Cassian’s thumb grazes my jaw, tilting my face toward his with achingly gentle pressure. The warmth of his hand steadies everything trembling inside me—all my sharp edges and soft fears.
“I’d want you if you’d slept with fifty men,” he says, and there’s no judgment in it. Only certainty. Only truth.
My throat tightens—not with shame this time, but with something dangerously close to hope. His lips find my jaw, then the corner of my mouth, patient.
“A hundred?” I whisper, testing him, testing this.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the smile that curves his mouth is warm, real. “Now let’s not get carried away.” Then, softer: “But yeah, Jess. Even then.”
The laugh that escapes me turns into a gasp when he kisses me. His mouth is warm, patient, coaxing instead of demanding. I taste rain and the ghost of his grin, and beneath that, the dark promise of everything I’ve been craving.
The kiss deepens, slower than I expected, a question he asks with his tongue and the slide of his palm at the small of my back. He’s learning me, mapping me, giving me space to pull away.
I don’t want to pull away.
The counter bites into my hips. I don’t care. Want climbs everywhere inside of me…from his breath at my cheek, the storm snarling outside, my heartbeat chasing his.
My fingers curl into his shirt, fisting the fabric, wanting it off him, wanting him closer.
He breaks away only long enough to say, “If you want me to stop—”
“Don’t.” The word trembles out, but it’s the truest thing I’ve said in “a long time. “Please don’t stop.”
Cassian’s next breath shudders through his whole body. Then he kisses me again, harder this time, hands sliding under my shirt to map the curve of my spine.
His palms are rough, calloused, impossibly warm against my skin. His mouth trails down my throat, finding the place where pulse meets skin. When he licks there, slow and deliberate, I forget how to breathe. A sound escapes me—needy—and I feel him smile against my neck.
“I love the sounds you make,” he murmurs, teeth scraping that sensitive spot just below my ear.
Need floods through me, dizzying, pooling low in my belly. I’m shaking with want, with the fear of wanting this much, with the overwhelming relief that he wants me too.
He lifts me easily, hands gripping my thighs as he carries me to the couch.
The lightning flashes outside, throwing light against the walls, painting us in silver and shadow.
His body covers mine when he lays me down—a shield and a spark all at once.
The weight of him feels right, solid and real, grounding me even as everything else spins.
Every movement becomes a conversation. His hand slides under my shirt, pushing it higher. My fingers clutch his hair, tugging until he groans. The quiet, desperate sound I make when he presses his hips against mine. He murmurs my name against my skin like a promise, like something sacred.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
I don’t argue. I pull him closer and make him prove it.
Then his mouth is on my breast through the thin fabric of my bra and thought dissolves into sensation.
The storm outside breaks fully, rain hammering the roof as if the sky can’t bear to keep quiet either. And the rhythm of it merges with ours—slow, then urgent, then slow again, building toward something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
His mouth finds mine again, then my shoulder, then lower. When his teeth scrape just above my collarbone, a moan catches between us, half-formed and shameless. He marks me there—not rough or possessive, just real. Just his.
“Cassian—”
“I know, sweetheart…Jess.” He catches himself, and I smile—hell, he could call me Bad Surfer Girl and I’d still answer.
My hands shake as I work his shirt open, needing skin against skin, needing more. When I finally touch him—chest, ribs, the taut plane of his stomach—he makes a sound that goes straight through me.
We shed clothes between kisses, clumsy and laughing and desperate. His jeans. My shorts. The tangle of fabric that falls away until there’s nothing between us but want and the thundering rain and our harsh breathing.
“I need you to be sure,” he says. “Because if we do this, I won’t be able to keep it casual.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Neither will I.” I reach up, cupping his face, running my thumb across his lower lip. “I want you, Cassian. I feel like I’ve wanted you for so long I forgot what it felt like not to want you.”
Something breaks in his expression—relief and hunger and something that looks dangerous that I’m afraid to name.
He kisses me, tasting me slowly, then deeper.
His hands roam, mapping me like he’s learning a language—thumbs tracing my ribs, palms sliding up to cradle my breasts, fingers teasing the edge of lace. Each touch coaxes a new sound from me, and he murmurs praise between every breath.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“Maybe that’s your fault.”
His laugh rumbles low against my throat. “Then I’m doing something right.”
He trails kisses down my stomach, each one a promise that makes my body arch toward him, seeking. When he looks up—eyes dark, lips parted—I see what’s coming, and I stop breathing just to memorize it.
His breath is hot on my thighs. He kisses and nips his way up my inner thigh and I’m trembling with anticipation and need. When his tongue strokes against my sex, I nearly come off the couch.
Each flick of his tongue sends shockwaves through me, building a tension that’s almost unbearable.