Page 99 of Burn the Script

“How long were you at the beach?” I ask, running the sponge across his chest and stomach.

“Since six a.m. Ms. Darcy’s walking group gets an early start.”

Twelve hours, by my calculation. He put in all that time and effort, walking away with a broken shell, a sunburn, and the tiny scrape on his shin. I’ll doctor it for him later.

Using the handheld sprayer, I rinse off the sand and suds as I go. “We’ll find another shell.”

The cascading water drowns out his sniffles, but only just. “I tried. For you, I tried.”

“And you’ll keep trying. For you, not for me.”

He lifts his head, and more tears flood his tired eyes. “You’re too sweet for this world. Can I keep you forever, baby?”

“There’s nothing I could want more.”

I press in closer and rest my forehead on his, needing a second to simply be. And there’s nowhere in the universe I’d rather be than right here, with Miguel.

“Turn and spread your feet apart,” I say.

The shower is more than a cleansing. It’s a rejoining, a reinstatement of the promises we spoke out loud in the light of day and whispered in the dark of night. We’ll take care of each other, trust one another, and no matter what happens next, we’ll face it together.

By the time I set the sponge aside and shut off the water, we’re both aroused and breathing hard. Miguel’s back is to the wall, one hand splayed on my stomach while the other cups my jaw, his thumb grazing my two-day stubble.

“Kiss me,” he whispers. His gaze puts off so much heat, it dries out my lips.

Wetting them with my tongue, I place my hands on either side of his head, caging him against the tile. “I might actually die if we can’t do more than kiss, Miguel.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You, in any way I can have you.”

He surges forward, claiming my lips before my eyes close. I sink into the kiss, slow it down and savor it. We’re in no rush this time. We have all night.

As I cradle his head in my hands, our tongues stoke the fire building between us. Miguel claws at my back, nails digging into my flesh like he wants to become part of me. He should know by now that he’s the most vital part, the one I can’t live without.

When we come up for air, he drops his head to the wall again, lips parted to make way for his panting breaths. God, he’s so beautiful, stripped of everything but his radiance and the love in his eyes when he looks at me.

Sliding a hand down his chest and stomach, I coax a shiver from him before gripping his cock. “Swear to me you haven’t shared this body with anyone else.”

“I could never. My heart won’t allow it.” His throat bobs, but the possession in his eyes is unwavering. “What about you?”

I smirk, remembering my infidelity. “I’ve had a year-long affair with my hand and a photo of you in a tux.”

His teeth scrape his bottom lip—a slow, teasing drag—before those dimples deepen with a stunning smile. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Guilty. So fucking guilty.”

Inferno is the only word that comes close to describing the flurry of movement that follows. Our kiss is messy and chaotic as we tug at each other’s dicks while stumbling out of the shower, hair dripping wet and skin slippery.

We make it to the shag rug by the vanity, where he lays a plea on my lips. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Only in our bed.”

Without argument or hesitation, Miguel takes my hand and drags me to the bedroom. He crawls onto the bed, back arched and ass poised in the air, an offering I can’t refuse.

I kneel behind him, running my hands along his thighs, hips, and back. “Always so good for me when you want to be spoiled.”

His growl of frustration turns into a breathy moan when I reach between his legs and grab his dick, stroking our cocks simultaneously. He writhes, elbows denting the mattress while he pushes his ass toward me.