Page 22 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
She bites her bottom lip. "So no excuses, Mr. Grumpy Hero."
"No excuses," I growl, catching her mouth again in a kiss that deepens with promise and permission.
As I lift her onto the desk, her thighs lock tightly around my hips, and I press my lips to hers once more. This time, the kiss is deeper, rougher—as if I can't get enough of her taste. My hands roam eagerly across her body, seeking the curve of her waist and the warmth of her skin, all while listening to the soft gasps that escape her lips.
She arches into me and her nails scrape lightly down my back, causing me to growl against her mouth. The world fades away until all that remains are our mingled breaths on each other's necks, the heat of our cores pressed together, and the tremors in our bodies that mirror one another's. Nothing else matters but this whirlpool of desire engulfing us.
As she gasps my name, I tighten my grip on her hips, grounding both of us in a reality we had been hesitant to acknowledge. I clumsily pull her tank top over her head, revealing flushed skin and delicate lace that I promptly push aside with a low growl of approval. My mouth latches onto her breast, tongue swirling over the sensitive peak before my teeth graze it just enough to make her arch with a gasp, her body trembling beneath me. Her scent is wild and warm, skin tasting faintly of citrus and want, and the way she presses into me, thighs tightening at my hips, shreds the last of my restraint.
Her hands dive under my shirt, fingers hot and demanding as they explore the lines of my stomach. When she tugs, I don’t hesitate—I haul the shirt over my head and toss it aside without looking. Her eyes blaze as I press her harder into the desk, hips grinding slow and deliberate between her thighs, the friction drawing out a gasp that punches straight through me.
I drop one hand to her leggings, fingers fumbling to find the waistband in my urgency. I peel them down in one swift motion, kneeling briefly to drag them past her knees. She lifts her hips to help, a breathy whimper slipping free as I trail my hands up the soft inside of her thighs.
Her panties are damp and clinging, and when I push them aside and slide two fingers through her slick heat, she moans—low and shattered, her back bowing off the desk. Her body pulses—hot, desperate—around the curl of my fingers, hips rocking instinctively as if her need has a will of its own. And the sound she makes when I whisper her name is one I’ll never forget.
The first glide of my fingers through her slick folds nearly knocks the air from my lungs—hot, soaked, and impossibly tight. My breath catches as her body clenches around me, a velvet trap that draws a groan from deep in my chest. The scent of her arousal rises thick between us, and every nerve in my body goes taut with need, straining toward the promise of her.
With one hand, I release myself from my pants and grip my erect cock tightly before positioning it at her entrance. My voice comes out low and ragged as I warn, "Last chance."
"Stop talking and fuck me," she whispers back with a fiery gaze.
My restraint snaps like a live wire in the rain. I thrust into her with a deep, guttural groan, the desk groaning beneath us with every powerful drive of my hips. Her legs lock tighter around me, heels digging into my back as if anchoring herself to the only thing that matters—this. Us. Her nails rake across my shoulders, sharp crescents of pleasure-pain that only drive me harder. Her mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing skin, tongue tracing a path that has my entire body shuddering.
Each snap of my hips as I pound into her slams us deeper into this primal rhythm, fast and filthy, our bodies slick with sweat and intent. I can't tell where I end and she begins—all Iknow is that I never want to stop moving inside her, never want to lose this frenzy of connection and raw, pulsing need.
Her body clenches around me, a fierce, rhythmic grip that sends heat searing up my spine. I groan her name, burying my face in her neck, and drive into her one final time as my release crashes through me—hot, blinding, all-consuming. My mouth finds hers in a kiss that’s more than hunger, more than satisfaction—it’s surrender. A claiming. A promise scrawled in breath and sweat and skin. Her name isn’t just etched into my bones—it’s written in every beat of my heart.
I’m falling. Fast and hard. Into her heat, her chaos, her relentless light. And for the first time in a long damn time, I don’t want to stop. I want to crash. I want to burn.
CHAPTER 7
KATE
Morning fog clings to the windows like a bad decision—blurred, lingering, impossible to forget. It smells faintly of salt and damp cedar, the briny tang of the sea mixing with the earthy musk of the pines outside. The pale morning light filters through the haze, blurring the hard edges of the furniture and giving the room a ghostly, dreamlike quality. For a moment, I lie still, caught between sleep and waking, not quite ready to face the hollow space beside me.
For a full sixty seconds, I lie perfectly still, waiting for the warmth of Sebastian's body to register next to mine. But there's only cold cotton and silence. The space where his body should be feels like an accusation. I reach for warmth that isn’t there and find nothing but the chill he left behind.
My mouth still carries the bittersweet tang of lemon muffins—and regret—sharp and lingering on my tongue. There's a low, insistent throb between my legs that makes it laughable to pretend it was all just a dream. I can still feel the rough scrape of his stubble trailing down my throat, the intoxicating heat of his breath against my skin, the way his fingers dug into my hips with just enough command to make me arch into him without thought.
The echo of his mouth lives in the tremble in my thighs, the burn behind my knees. My body remembers what my heart isn’t ready to admit. It’s not just memory—it’s a brand, seared deep into every muscle still humming from his touch. My thighs ache—not from shame, but from being stretched wide, wrapped tight around a man who kissed like he meant to erase every rational thought in my head. A man who claimed me with hands rough and reverent, mouth hot and commanding, leaving behind bruises that feel like possession. A man who carried me home, tucked me in with surprising tenderness, and then disappeared like none of it mattered—like I was just another notch carved into his dark, brooding armor.
Unless I imagined the whole damn thing—a fevered dream of heat, stubble, and the sound of my name on his lips—there’s no way I can explain the ache between my thighs or the phantom grip of his hands I feel still ghosting across my skin.
I sit up slowly, wincing as the sheet drags across my hypersensitive body. It feels as if every nerve ending has suddenly come alive—maybe for the first time in my life. The ache is real. So is the scent of sawdust and sex clinging to me. I press a hand to my chest and breathe through the rising tide of emotion I don’t know how to name.
What I do know is that he’s gone.
No note. No knock on the door. Not even the flicker of movement across the lawn where his silhouette should’ve been. No sign that he’d ever been here at all.
Just absence. A cold, yawning hollow that echoes louder than silence. The bed still bears the imprint of his body, a faint indentation beside me that dares me to believe last night mattered more than the heat of it—despite the fact that I remember him tucking me in and vanishing like a ghost before I could even open my eyes. Coward. Gentleman. Take your pick—I still don’t know which one he’s playing. It makes no sense, andyet there it is. Physical proof that he was real. That we were real, even if only for one night.
"Classic doomed romantic heroine," I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and reaching for the hoodie I discarded hours earlier. “Let a man pound the breath out of you one night and vanish before the coffee brews. That’s on-brand for me.”
My laptop is still perched on the little writing desk by the window. The screen glows faintly, casting eerie shadows across the room. I cross the creaky floorboards, every step exaggerated in the silence, and settle into the chair. The cushion is still warm from yesterday, or maybe it's just my nerves tricking me. As I open the file I’d left unfinished, a breeze rattles the windowpane, sending goosebumps up my arms despite the hoodie. The cursor blinks like it’s judging me. It mocks me. Like it knows I’ll end up typing his name no matter how hard I pretend I’ve moved on.
CHAPTER 8
AFTERMATH
