33. Stefan
STEFAN
Stefan woke to the smell of coconut and the weight of her head on his chest.
He lay there, one arm curled around her back, the ceiling fan stirring air that smelled like salt, sex, her shampoo.
Her hair spilled across his skin, honey-gold against the white sheets. He let himself look. The sweep of her lashes, the faint freckles across her nose that makeup always hid. In sleep, all her armor was gone.
He didn’t move. Didn’t want to. She stirred beside him, her nose scrunching.
“I can feel you staring,” she said, eyes still closed. “It’s very intense for whatever ungodly hour this is.”
He traced his fingertips up her spine. “I’m not staring. I’m memorizing. There’s a difference.”
She groaned a laugh into his chest. “That’s worse. That’s so much worse.” She lifted her head, finally looking at him—sleep-creased and bare-faced. Her eyes were the warm brown he saw when he closed his own.
“I keep waiting for this to feel strange,” she said. “Waking up in your bed. Being here. It should feel strange.”
He tucked her hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft skin below. She leaned into his hand and his breath caught.
“I really do have to go.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, her hair falling across his chest. “Call time. Anneliese Morgan. Career-ending fraud. The usual.”
“Quédate.” He pulled her closer, her bare skin sliding against his. “Five more minutes. I’m not ready to give you back to the rest of the world yet.”
Her fingers traced a slow line across his chest, over his collarbone, down to rest above his heart. “Five minutes. And then I’m gone. You never saw me. This never happened.”
“Terrible liar.”
“The worst.” But she settled back against him.
He sat up, letting the sheet pool at his waist. Her gaze dropped, then snapped back to his face. Too late.
“Come running with me.”
“Stefan, running on a treadmill with a trainer is bad enough. Running outside? On sand? The last time I ran outdoors voluntarily, I was being chased by a bee.” She pulled the sheet up to her chin. “I’m not built for cardio. I’m built for sitting very still and drawing things.”
She was naked in his bed, hair a mess, ranting about bees. He wanted to keep her here forever. Joder. He was so fucked.
“Make it to the rocks before I catch you,” he said. “And I’ll never ask you to run again. Breakfast in bed for a week.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if you catch me?”
He let the silence stretch. The ceiling fan turned above them. Morning light slanted across the sheets, catching the curve of her shoulder where the fabric had slipped.
“Then I get to decide what we do next.”
Her face shifted.
She threw off the sheet and reached for his T-shirt from last night, pulling it over her head. It hung to mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one shoulder. She looked ridiculous, and he wanted to keep her in that shirt forever.
“Two-minute head start,” she said from the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. “And when I win—and I am going to win—I want breakfast for a week and an apology in writing.”
“Deal.” He reached for his running shorts. “But you won’t.”
She held his gaze for a beat and bolted.
The screen door slammed behind her. Through the window, he watched her sprint down the path toward the beach, his shirt flapping around her thighs, her bare feet kicking up sand. She looked back once, laughing, hair streaming behind her.
He gave her ten seconds. Fifteen. The anticipation coiled in his chest. The absurdity of this woman who hated running sprinting barefoot through sand because he’d baited her into it.
Then he went after her.
He came up on her fast—his feet hitting packed sand near the waterline—and the sound she let out was somewhere between a shriek and a laugh. “You said two minutes!”
He grinned, pushed harder. The sand was cool and damp under his feet. Today, the world had narrowed to her. The way she pumped her arms with the frantic determination of someone who’d never run competitively in her life.
She veered toward the tree line. He knew every root.
She didn’t.
Her foot caught—a rock, a root, he couldn’t tell—and she stumbled, arms wheeling. He could have caught her then. Almost did. But she recovered, found her footing, and kept going with a determination that left him raw.
Bien. Let her fight for it.
Fifty yards to the rocks. She was flagging—shoulders hunched, stride shortening. Stubborn as hell and refusing to quit.
Love.
The word hit him mid-stride. He kept running.
Thirty yards. Twenty. She might actually make it—
He went down.
Hit the sand hard, rolling onto his back with a grunt that wasn’t entirely fake. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending sand spraying across his stomach.
She caught herself. Turned. Her breathing was ragged, her cheeks flushed, his shirt clinging to her with sweat.
“Stefan?” Her footsteps came back toward him—hesitant at first, then faster. “Stefan, are you—”
He caught her ankle.
She yelped. Then she fell. They were rolling, tangled in the sand, both breathing hard. Grains in her hair, in his mouth, between their bodies where his shirt had ridden up.
“You faked it.” She was gasping, delighted. “You absolute—”
He flipped them. Caught her wrists above her head, his body covering hers. Sand clung to her hair, her cheek, the collar of his shirt where it gaped open. Her chest heaved into his.
“Caught you.”
Her eyes were bright. Wild. “That’s cheating. I was winning.”
He leaned down, close enough that his lips brushed her jaw. She shivered beneath him. The sand was warm against their skin.
Her breath hitched. Her hips shifted—barely, just a fraction—pressing into him until his vision blurred.
He was on his feet, pulling her up with him. She stumbled into his chest, hands bracing against his bare skin, and he walked her backward until her shoulders hit the rough bark of a leaning palm.
"Still think you were winning?" His mouth hovered over hers.
She answered by pulling him down by the collar.
“Good answer.” he murmured against her mouth.
The kiss was nothing like last night. Last night was slow, deliberate. This was the chase still in their blood, the reckless joy of being caught.
Her back scraped against the palm bark as he pressed into her, gripping her bare hips under the hem. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Dios.
Anyone could come around that rocky outcrop. The danger of it should have stopped him. It didn’t.
“No underwear.” He pulled back just enough to look at her—flushed, panting, sand clinging to her hair. “You knew I’d catch you. And you wanted me to find you like this.”
“I was counting on it.” Her fingers raked up his back, nails biting into his shoulders. “I’ve been wet since you made that bet. Since you looked at me with that smile—the one that makes me want to drop to my knees.”
He groaned and kissed her harder, one hand fisting in her hair while the other slid between her thighs. She was slick and hot against his fingers, and what escaped her when he touched her sent a jolt straight to his cock.
“Carajo.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “All this from a foot race?”
“All this from you.” She rocked against his hand, shameless, chasing her need.
“From watching you run after me like nothing else existed. From the way you cheated just to get your hands on me.” Her breath hitched as his fingers found her clit.
“I’ve never been more turned on in my life and we need to be fast before someone hears how loud you make me come. ”
Morning light caught the flush spreading down her neck. He circled her clit slowly, watching her face—the way her eyes fluttered shut, the way her lips parted on a gasp.
He tipped her chin up until she met his eyes.Those warm eyes, hazy with want, locked on his.
He withdrew his hand. She was still watching him.
“I need my mouth on you.” His voice dropped. “Right here. Where anyone could walk past and hear you come apart on my tongue.”
“Then get on your knees and stop talking about it.”
He laughed and dropped to the sand.
Above him, she was backlit by the sun, hair a wild halo, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. He pushed her thighs apart and the shirt rode up, baring her to the morning air. The sight of her undid him.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. Another higher. She squirmed, fingers threading into his hair and pulling him closer.
“I’ve thought about this,” she breathed. “You on your knees for me. The great Stefan Cruz, kneeling in the sand because I told him to.”
“Get used to it.” He nipped at the soft skin where her thigh met her hip. “I plan to do this as often as you let me.”
He traced her with his tongue, slow and deliberate, and her head fell back against the tree. The taste of her flooded his tongue. He groaned into her, the vibration making her gasp.
He worked her with his tongue—slow circles, then faster, reading every hitch in her breath. When he slid two fingers inside her, curling them against the spot that made her knees buckle, she made a sound that went straight to his cock.
“Right there—god, Stefan, don’t change anything—” She was grinding against his face now, too far gone for self-consciousness. “I’m going to come so hard—”
“Córrete en mi boca, corazón.” He said it against her, the vibration making her gasp. “Come on my tongue like you ran all this way to do.”
Her walls fluttered. He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked.
She broke—clenching around his fingers, her whole body shaking against the tree, his name torn from her throat. He worked her through it, gentler now, until she was pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and trembling.
He rose to his feet, cupped her face, and kissed her—deep, unhurried, letting her taste herself on his tongue. She kissed him back hard, chasing the flavor, her tongue sliding against his.
“That’s what you taste like after running from me,” he said against her lips.
She made a low sound in her throat. When they broke apart, her gaze dropped—to his chest, lower, to where his cock strained against his shorts. Her expression shifted. Deliberate now.
She pushed off the tree. One palm flat against his chest. Then the other. Walking toward him, eyes never leaving his, backing him up until he caught the trunk behind him with both hands.
“I won the chase too.” Her voice was low, her hands tracing down his torso. “Now I want to taste what winning feels like.”
A wave crashed somewhere behind them. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Then she sank to her knees.
The sight of her—kneeling in the sand, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, morning light painting gold across her cheekbone—stopped him cold. She tugged at his shorts and he helped her shove them down.
She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once—then her grip tightened, testing, her thumb tracing the ridge with a curiosity that was pure Erika. “You’ve been keeping this to yourself all morning.” She stroked him again, root to tip. “Genuinely inconsiderate.”
A strangled laugh escaped him. “I wasn’t—”
Her tongue traced the underside of his cock, base to tip, and the laugh died in his throat.
She started slowly. Just the head—her tongue circling. Tasting him.
The bark bit into his shoulders, the sun warm on his face, the palms whispering overhead. And her mouth—Dios, her mouth—hot, wet, unhurried.
His hand found her hair. Not guiding. Just holding on.
She took him deeper. Inch by inch, her lips stretching around him, her throat relaxing. He watched himself disappear into her mouth and his vision went white at the edges.
“Erika—” Her name came out broken. “Your mouth—Joder—I can’t think when you—”
A voice drifted from somewhere down the beach—distant, indistinct. Resort staff starting their morning rounds. They both froze. Her mouth was still around him, her eyes flicking up to meet his.
His heart stopped.
The voice faded. Footsteps moving away.
She smiled around his cock—wicked—and took him deeper. The danger of it sharpened everything—anyone could round that outcrop, anyone could see him wrecked and shaking with this woman on her knees.
She found a rhythm—slow and deep. Her other palm pressed flat against his stomach. When she moaned around him, the vibration shot up his spine and his knees nearly buckled.
“I want to hear you beg,” she said, pulling back just enough that her lips brushed the head of him with every word. “Quietly. So no one hears how wrecked I make you.”
“Por favor, Erika—don’t stop—no pares, por favor—”
She took him to the root. Hollowed her cheeks. The eye contact undid him—her looking up at him with his cock in her mouth, morning light catching the tears at the corners of her eyes. The trust in her gaze.
“I’m going to come,” he said. “If you keep looking at me like that—Dios—I’m going to come down your throat and I need you to tell me—”
She gripped his hip and pulled him deeper. Her answer.
He came with a groan that echoed off the water—spilling into her mouth in hot pulses while his legs shook, his vision blurred, a sound tore out of him. She took all of it, swallowing around him, her eyes locked on his face.
When he finished, she pulled back slowly—holding his gaze as she let him slip from her mouth. A drop escaped, trailing down her chin. She caught it with her thumb, brought it to her lips, and sucked it clean.
His legs gave out. He slid down the tree trunk until he was sitting in the sand, boneless, wrecked. She crawled into his lap, straddling him, her arms looping around his neck. He pulled her close and kissed her—slow and deep.
For a while they just breathed. His hands on her back, her fingers in his hair. The sun climbed higher, warming the sand around them, and neither of them moved to acknowledge the world waiting beyond the tree line.
“We’re going to get caught,” she said against his neck. Not worried. Just stating a fact.
“Probably.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “Worth it.”
Somewhere in the palms behind them, a twig snapped. Stefan lifted his head. Listened. Nothing but wind through the fronds.