Chapter 19
ISLA
The smartphone slips from my fingers, clattering onto the tile beside the tub as I sink beneath the bubbles with all the grace of a beached whale at SeaWorld. The bathwater muffles the world, but not the heat rising in my cheeks.
Lavender-scented steam clings to my hair and lashes, but the burn inside me isn’t from the bath.
It’s humiliating. Mortification hot enough to scorch.
For one ridiculous, shame-filled second, I vow to stay submerged until the bubbles die, the water cools, and maybe until I dissolve into it entirely.
But reason wins, because lungs don’t hold out forever. I surge upward, gasping, hair plastered to my cheeks in dripping ribbons.
Water slides down my skin, streaking across my shoulders and collarbone, tiny rivers racing toward the bubbles below.
I wipe my hand on a towel and snatch it up with shaky fingers. The glow of the screen slices through the haze of steam. My pulse thrums, quick and shallow, as I type with thumbs that don’t quite obey:
ISLA: Can you…see me?
The dots appear immediately, bouncing with infuriating patience. Then his reply:
LUKE: Yes. The nurses thought I was having a heart attack. But it’s impossible—every drop of blood is much lower than my heart right now.
I choke on air. My mortification spikes so sharply it could slice through porcelain.
ISLA: OH. MY. GOD.
LUKE: Relax. Kidding. Cameras are only outside.
My exhale rattles out, part relief, part renewed embarrassment. Outside cameras. Right. Of course. He doesn’t actually see me. Still, the fact that he guessed…I chew my bottom lip until it stings.
ISLA: Then how did you know?
LUKE: Deck cam showed the window steaming up. Gabe left earlier. I put two and two together.
Even from a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and IV lines, Luke is somehow still the one in control. I can’t help the tug at my lips, a reluctant smile that rises even as shame simmers beneath my skin.
LUKE: Tell me how relaxed you are right now.
I stare at the screen. That has to be the medication talking. Some drug-fueled whimsy wrapped in teasing authority. But another bubble of laughter tries to escape my chest, because this is so utterly him—gruff and commanding, laced with sarcasm, always a step ahead.
ISLA: LUKE. You’re recovering from surgery.
LUKE: And you’re naked in my tub. Humor me.
The phone wobbles in my wet hands. I should shut this down, toss the phone onto the bathmat, and drown myself in lavender until I forget he ever sent that.
But the memory of his hands on me the other night rises unbidden—how they steadied me, how his mouth left me trembling. The distance between us now, the safe wall of texts, makes my pulse flutter in ways I can’t deny.
ISLA: In that case…I’m very relaxed.
LUKE: Paint me a picture.
I bite down harder on my lip. I know exactly what he’s asking. My stomach knots, equal parts anticipation and dread.
ISLA: Are you serious?
LUKE: Dead serious. Tell me a bedtime story about what you’re doing right now and how it makes you feel. I’m lonely.
The last word spears me right through the chest. Lonely. The idea of Luke lying in a sterile hospital bed, pain stitched into his body, reaching for me through words on a glowing screen—I can’t turn away from that.
ISLA: If I’m wrong about what you’re saying, I’ll never be able to look at you again.
LUKE: TOUCH YOURSELF, ISLA. THE WAY YOU WANT ME TO TOUCH YOU.
Heat pools low in my belly. My breath hitches. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
ISLA: Difficult to do that and type at the same time.
LUKE: Then just read along. Let me guide you.
I close my eyes for a second, leaning back against the smooth curve of porcelain. I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t. But my body is already betraying me, alive with the thrill of danger wrapped in the safety of distance. He’s not here. These are only words. Just words.
LUKE: Deal?
My thumb hovers. One tap. One dangerous yes.
ISLA: Deal.
The bubbles shift as I sink deeper into the water, the phone balanced carefully on the edge of the tub. The hum of the fridge from the kitchen drifts faintly through the house. Outside, crickets pulse in the dark.
The world feels far away, leaving only me, the steam, and Luke’s words crawling across the glowing screen.
The next message lands before my breath evens out.
LUKE: Wrap your hand around your throat. Just your fingertips. I want you to feel your own pulse. That’s mine now.
I swallow. Steam curls around my face. My fingers find the slender column of my neck and press lightly. Thud-thud. My heart answers to his words like a trained animal.
LUKE: A little pressure. Not too much. I want you to be aware of it. A reminder.
Heat licks low in my stomach. I obey, adding the barest edge of pressure. Not pain. Presence.
LUKE: Good girl. Now dip your hand. Get it wet. Take your time.
I slide my free hand into the bath. The water is lush and hot, a silk sheet I can’t stop moving under. I bring my palm up, tracing a reflective path from collarbone to breast, drops beading, rolling, catching on my skin like stars falling.
LUKE: Circle your nipple with one finger. Barely there. Tease it.
A shiver ripples across my chest as I drag the tip of my finger around and around, slow spirals that tighten with each pass. The air on wet skin is a shock—cool, then scorching. My head tips back against porcelain with a soft click.
LUKE: Pinch. Gentle at first. Then a little more. I’d take it between my teeth if I were there.
A small sound leaves me, half breath, half plea. I do as he says, a tug that wakes every nerve in my body. My thighs shift beneath the water, a restless ache blooming where the heat gathers.
LUKE: Tell me what you feel.
I stare at the blinking cursor as if it could translate my body.
ISLA: Warm. Tight. Like my skin is too small.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
LUKE: You have no idea what that does to me.
I believe him. The thought sends another ribbon of heat coiling low, a sense of power braided with surrender. It’s ridiculous and reckless, and I can’t stop.
LUKE: Now slide your hand down your stomach. Slow. Stop at the top. Wait for me.
I obey, palm drifting over my ribs, lingering where breath rises and falls, then gliding lower until I hover at the edge. Waiting turns out to be its own kind of ache.
LUKE: One finger. Just inside. Say my name in your head when you do it.
I inhale, then push gently, my body opening like it’s been waiting all day for this exact command. My inner muscles flutter around the intrusion, a spill of warmth meeting my hand. Luke lives in my head, a steady, low hum. Luke, Luke, Luke.
LUKE: Deeper. Nice and slow. Feel how ready you are for me.
I sink that finger deeper, and the relief is immediate, a pressure easing into pleasure. Heat spreads through my hips, up my spine.
LUKE: Add a second. I want you full.
I bite my bottom lip and do it, a near-silent gasp breaking when my body stretches around my own hand. I move tentatively at first, then with more confidence, finding a rhythm that draws my breath into short, uneven pulls.
LUKE: Don’t touch your clit. Not yet. Make me wait with you.
I almost protest. I don’t. Something in me—something stubborn and hungry—likes obeying him. Likes the discipline of it. The ache builds into a sweet, almost painful knot. My toes curl against the porcelain.
ISLA: Luke
LUKE: I know. Hold the line.
A laugh escapes me that is not a laugh at all. A broken sound I don’t recognize. Water sloshes higher against the sides of the tub with each slow thrust of my fingers.
LUKE: Tell me what you want.
My cheeks flame, even alone in an empty house.
ISLA: You. Your mouth. Your hands on my hips. Your weight.
LUKE: Good. Now imagine my palm flat on your belly, holding you down while I take my time.
I can see it—too clearly. The sheer, inexorable patience of him. The way he would work me open with his mouth until I forgot every reason I ever had for leaving.
LUKE: Now circle your clit. Barely there. Just brush. Count to five. Stop. Do it again.
I whimper. The first pass almost undoes me. I count like I’m hanging off a cliff, and the numbers are my rope. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I stop. My body riots. I do it again, smaller circles, lighter pressure. The knot tightens, tightens, becomes a star burning white-hot behind my ribs.
LUKE: More pressure. Faster. I want to hear you.
I fumble the phone onto the edge of the tub and tap the little microphone, the red line marching across the screen like a pulse.
My breath fills the bathroom. The soft, wet sounds of my fingers mingle with it.
Somewhere in the house, wood settles with a quiet sigh, but the world has narrowed to heat and friction, and the edge that keeps skittering away when I reach for it.
LUKE: Say my name when you come.
His words are a match. I tilt my hips, change the angle, and the star inside me explodes. Pleasure floods through my body in bright, unstoppable waves. My head snaps back. I hear myself—hear the sound I make—low and desperate and his, and I don’t care that he can hear it too. “Oh, God—Luke.”
The last pulses leave me trembling, fingers gone slack, water lapping at the sides of the tub in lazy aftershocks. I blink up at the ceiling, freckles of condensation dotting the paint like a new sky.
LUKE: Send it.
I stare at the message, mortified and somehow emboldened at once. My thumb hovers. I send it.
Seconds stretch, drunk and slow. The bubbles pop in tiny, effervescent snaps against my skin. I press my free hand to my sternum, feeling the wildbird beat gradually settle.
LUKE: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.
A flush rises over my chest. I can picture him too vividly: jaw tight, eyes darker than the hospital lights can account for, monitors tattling on his pulse.
ISLA: Is there anything else I can do for you this evening, Sheriff?
LUKE: No. Good girl. Finish your bath. I’ll text later.
Three dots appear again.
LUKE: And Isla—sleep in my bed tonight.