Page 38 of Drift
For the first time since we’d left the clubhouse, a spark of humor tried to break through the tension pressing against my ribs.
I held back a smile. Instead, I shook my head and leaned a shoulder against the wall, my arms folded over my chest. “I’ll live.”
“Not comfortably,” she muttered, still glaring at the couch like it was the enemy.
“Comfort’s overrated.”
Her lips twitched, like she wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy. The silence stretched between us again, heavy and warm, filled with the faint sound of waves and the steady creak of the old house settling around us. It was comfortable, but the tension was building. Soon it would be thick enough to cut with a knife.
Eventually, she sighed and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m going to take a shower. Maybe a nap after.” Her voice was soft, careful. “What am I supposed to change into?”
I moved toward the duffel I’d dropped and unzipped it. “Here.” I grabbed one of my clean T-shirts and a pair of cutoff sweats—shorts for me, damn near pajamas on her—and tossed them over. “They’ll do for now.”
She caught them against her chest, her gaze flicking from the clothes to me. “Thanks.”
My head tilted in a gesture of acknowledgment, and she disappeared down the short hall, the bathroom door clicking shut a moment later. Water hit the pipes a few seconds after that, its rush cutting through the stillness.
Dropping onto the couch, I rested my elbows on my knees and stared at the blank TV. The sound of the shower carried through the quiet house, muted but clear. My mind betrayed me, painting pictures I shouldn’t be seeing—steam curling aroundher bare shoulders, soap sliding down soft skin, and water beading along the curve of her neck.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my attention anywhere else. Counting the ticks of the clock hanging on the wall. Breathing in the smell of salt through the cracked window while trying not to notice the faint smell of vanilla mixed into it. Focusing on anything but the image of her naked and wet behind that flimsy door.
By the time I heard the water shut off, my pulse was thundering in my chest. I rubbed a hand over my jaw, reminding myself to breathe.
Then the door opened, steam billowing out before she appeared, like yet another fantasy I didn’t know I had come true.
Every part of me went tense. Hard.
Damp hair trailed down her back, my T-shirt clung to her curves and hung just low enough to make my thoughts turn dark. The cutoffs hit mid-knee, the waistband cinched tight, the drawstring bow sitting right above the dip of her stomach. Her feet were bare with pretty purple tips. I wasn’t sure when I’d begun to find feet sexy, but they were only adding to the state of my body.
The clothes were nothing special. They shouldn’t have affected me the way they did. But they were mine, and seeing her in them did something to me—something primal. Something that threatened to break my control.
I knew I should look away. This sight was dangerous because it screamed that she was mine. Not in words. But in ways that truly mattered.
Finally tearing my eyes away, I glanced up to see her staring back at me. Shit. She’d caught me ogling.Of course she did.
Her gaze held mine for a long second—steady and searching, like she was trying to figure out what I wasn’t saying.
I turned away first, my jaw locked tight, forcing my attention to the window and the dark line of the dunes beyond it. My pulse still pounded, my body sizzled with desire, and my cock was so hard it ached.
The house was quiet, but it didn’t feel peaceful anymore. It felt like I was standing too close to the fire.
14
ALANNA
Three days. That was how long we’d been holed up in the beach house, pretending the outside world didn’t exist while Chance did his best to ignore the chemistry between us.
The ocean crashed in steady rhythm beyond the dunes, wind hissing through the weathered siding, but nothing could distract me from Chance. I was acutely aware of his every movement, to the point where even his quiet exhales seemed to vibrate through the walls.
He didn’t talk much. He never really did. But I somehow knew when his gaze was on me.
No matter where I was—reading on the couch, working on my laptop, or wandering barefoot across the sand—he tracked me. And that awareness was starting to feel like a touch all its own.
I’d pushed back in subtle ways. Stretching a little longer than necessary when I caught him glancing up from his phone. Brushing past him in the narrow kitchen instead of stepping aside. Drawing out mornings in the oversized shirt he’d lent me the first day we arrived, even though my bag of clothes had shown up yesterday.
He hadn’t said a single word about it.
That, more than anything, told me he’d noticed.
