Page 131 of The Rookie

The restof the trip is exquisite.

I wake up the next morning tangled in sheets and Griffin Knox. His arm is draped over my waist, his breath warm against my neck, and my body aches in the best way possible—like a reminder of just how thoroughly he claimed me last night.

I don’t move. I don’t want to disturb the rare quiet between us, the softness in the way his fingers brush absently against my skin even in sleep.

And by exquisite, I mean—Griffin Knox is ruining me in the best way possible.

I didn’t think it was possible for one man to be this good. This relentless. This… obsessed.

Because it’s not just sex.

It’s everything.

It’s the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that exists.

It’s the way he touches me like he’s memorizing every inch of me.

It’s the way he makes me feel like I’m the most important person in the world.

My heart tightens as I carefully slip out of his hold, tugging the sheet around me as I pad to the window. Outside, the sun is rising over the ocean, casting golden streaks across the waves.

And honestly?

I think I might be in trouble.

Because this—whatever this is—is starting to feel like more than just a fling.

But I don’t let myself think about that. Not now. Not when I have one more perfect week with him.

So we get reckless.

We have fun.

And God, do we have fun…

We sneak into the infinity pool after hours—Griffin lifting me onto the edge, pulling me into his lap, teasing me about getting caught, before kissing me senseless.

We rent a jet ski—Griffin driving like a maniac while I scream behind him, gripping his waist, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

He takes me salsa dancing—his hands on my hips, his voice low in my ear, whispering all the things he’s going to do to me when we get back to the hotel.

We get drunk on a rooftop bar—Griffin running his hands up my thighs under the table, making it nearly impossible to focus on the conversation.

He eats mango straight off my fingers in bed—his eyes dark, his lips teasing, his tongue dragging over my fingertips just to drive me insane.

I ride him in the shower—water pouring over us, my back pressed against the tile, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth worshipping my skin.

We get room service and never leave the bed—me sprawled on his chest, tangled in sheets, his fingers trailing absentminded circles on my bare skin.

And every second, every touch, every moment—it feels like we’re on borrowed time.

Friends with Benefits.

Are you kidding me?

Like we both know this doesn’t last past Mexico.

Like we’re pretending that won’t hurt.

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