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“And we will.”
I turn away and march onward, pushing against the wind like it’s a game I’m determined to win. I can’t hear Ethan’s response, but he turns off the light and chases after me.
The gazebo has built-in benches so there’s nothing out here to take back to the house, and that’s good because I’m too tired to lift another thing. My legs are jelly and my arms are burning but none of that matters right now.
I just want to see the ocean. Want to hear it. To experience this.
I get it now, what Ethan said about wanting to feel alive. I want the same thing. I want it so fucking bad I will face down the storm for the chance.
The Atlantic is roaring like an angry goddess. Even from all the way up here I can hear the waves slamming against the shore. Despite the heavy cloud cover and the darkness of night, my eyes have adjusted enough to take in the sheer size of them. They’re twice as big as any of the waves I’ve seen all summer. Some more than twice. Three times. At least.
My stomach drops.
“Feeling alive is overrated,” I mumble, but my voice is lost in the wind.
“What?” Ethan yells.
“You’re sure we’re safe up here?” I ask, loud this time.
Ethan rests his hands on my shoulders and leans against my back. His chest is a hard warm wall protecting me from the wind as he speaks against my ear. “From the hurricane, we are.”
His words are inviting and terrifying all at once.
I turn around in his arms to face him. I shouldn’t encourage him, shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t even say anything. But I do. “What’s the danger?”
He runs his hands down my shoulders, down my arms, down to my waist, his large hands circling the small of my back and then lower. I’m sure he’s going to cup my ass but he doesn’t. I’m in pajama shorts and a hoodie, and his fingers play at the leg hole of my shorts. One finger slides under the fabric, stroking my thigh, and my breath catches in my lungs.
“Not all danger is bad.”
But this kind most definitely is. It’s not easy, but I step away. One large step back until it’s the railing that’s touching me instead of his hands. The empty space between us seems to expand into infinity.
“I’m not going to have sex with you,” I blurt out.
I expect him to act cool, or to insult me, or to do or say just about anything besides what comes out of his sinful mouth.
“Get prepared, Arden.”
“For the hurricane?
“For me . . .” He steps forward, towering over me like Poseidon himself, equally as powerful as that ocean. His voice is low and languid and certain. “I want you, Arden. And when you’re ready to admit that you want me back, you’re going to willingly come to my bed, and then I’m going to fuck you so hard that you forget your own name.”
Twenty-Two
Igape at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie. So many lies. He knows exactly what he’s talking about—I do want him.
But I know better.
A want isn’t a need. And while I may want him, I also need to protect myself from this man. This player of games. This god who thinks he can rule over my body.
“We’ll see,” he challenges. And then he turns away and begins the walk back to the house. “Get your tight ass inside,” he calls back to me. “We’re not coming back out here until it’s over.”
I follow, all the while wondering if he’s talking about the sex or the storm.
The rain hits us before we make it back inside, the clouds opening up like a curtain to let the downpour fall. I’ve never experienced rain like this before. It’s relentless, buckets of water instead of distinguishable water drops. And it’s icy cold.
It mixes with the warm August air in a violent clash.
Conversation with Ethan long forgotten, my body goes into full-on flight mode. My muscles ache and I feel like I’m running through quicksand as I sprint for the side door that’s not boarded up. I fly past Ethan and he chases after me, calling my name and saying something else but I can’t hear him. All I can do is run.
