Page 64 of From the Wreckage
I curl onto my side, the sheets cool against my skin, but they don’t soothe the heat simmering inside me. My heart pounds like I just ran a mile, even though I haven’t moved.
I told myself I was going to bed early. Maybe if I got some rest, the storm of emotions would settle. Instead, I’m here replaying every stolen kiss, every brush of his hand, every time his eyes locked on mine like I was something worth worshipping.
And it’s wrong. God, it’s wrong. He’s my dad’s friend. He sits across the table like he belongs in our lives, and maybe he does—but not like this. Not in the way he invades my thoughts until I can’t breathe without craving him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing sleep to come.
Eventually, it does, but it doesn’t free me.
I’m backon the dock. The lake glimmers silver beneath the moon, and the boards creak under my bare feet. Everett stands there, waiting for me. His shadow is all sharp angles and molten heat. When his eyes find mine, I forget to breathe.
His hand reaches for me, steady and sure, pulling me into him until my chest brushes his. Until I feel his heart pounding against mine.
His scent—soap, cedar, and something purely him—wraps around me. His thumb strokes along my jaw before his mouth finds mine. The kiss is molten. Possessive. My lips part, and his tongue sweeps inside, tasting me like he’s starving. I moan into him, clutching at his shirt, the fabric twisted in my fists as his hand cups the back of my neck, holding me in place.
“Mine,” he murmurs against my lips, the word rough and raw.
His mouth trails down my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin until I shiver. His hands roam lower, sliding down my back to grip my ass. He squeezes hard, dragging me tighter against him, pressing me into the thick, undeniable proof of what I do to him.
“Brielle,” he growls, my name torn from his chest like a vow, heavy with longing and ownership. It weakens my knees, makes me melt against him, helpless under the weight of his hunger.
I arch into him, breathless, whispering his name like a prayer.
My dad’s laughter carries across the lake, warm and familiar, and guilt slices through the haze of desire like a blade.
I jerk back, my breath faltering. Everett’s eyes lift to mine, and they’re shadowed. Haunted. “I’m not enough for you.” Regret laces every syllable.
His hand slips from my waist, the warmth fading as he retreats into the dark.
“No—” I whisper, reaching for him, desperate for him to stay, but my fingers close on nothing but cold air.
I wake with a start,clutching the sheets in both fists, my body still trembling, slick with sweat. My thighs press tight together, aching from the dream—Everett’s mouth on mine, his hands gripping me, his voice rasping my name like it belonged to him.
But then he left, saying he wasn’t good enough.
I close my eyes.Stop. It was only a dream.
I twist the necklace I hide during the day, the pendant warm from my body heat. His promise is tangible even in the silence.
I roll out of bed and pad into the bathroom, trying to shake the memory. The shower hisses to life, steam curling through the room, but it doesn’t wash him away. Not when the spray pounds against my skin, nor when I close my eyes. He’s still there—his scent, his mouth, his hands.
Before I realize it, my fingers drift lower. I bite my lip, muffling a cry as I touch myself, imagining it’s his fingers. Chasing the sharp edge of the ache he left inside me.
It’s him I see behind my eyes when my release hits me, wave after wave wracking my body until I’m boneless against the tile.
When I finally sag under the spray, guilt crashes over me harder than the water. My stomach knots. My heart aches. Because it’s wrong. I shouldn’t want him this way. I shouldn’t crave him like air.
But I do. God help me, I do.
And I’m terrified of what that’s going to cost me.
By the timeI step into the kitchen, Dad is already at the table, a coffee mug in his hand. He looks relaxed, cheerful even, while I feel like my insides are tangled in barbed wire.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says. “I’m taking the bike today. You can have the truck.” He nods toward a slip of paper on the counter. “There’s a package at the post office. Can you pick it up when they open and drop it off at the shop for me?”
“Sure,” I murmur, grateful for the distraction.
“Thanks.” He stands, grabbing his keys. He leans over and kisses the top of my head. “See you later.”
