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I’m a fan of nature, but I won’t be outdone by some distant greenery. I fiddle with a few strands of my fringe, my foot brushing his ankle.
Catching a breath, he drops his resistance to take in my seduction. “Are you trying to send me to ICU?”
I shake my hair playfully, spreading it across my back.
Before he decides what my real intention is, the heavens open.
“Whoa!” Clayton looks up as he scrambles to ditch his jacket, then spreads it across my shoulders. The lining is still warm from his body heat as if the man himself is hugging me.
“Is this part of the plan?” I squint.
He bores into me as his shoulders rise and fall. “Well, I shall make it part of the plan.” He swallows the distance between us, taking my face in his hands, his veiny palms covered with the gift from the heavens. His drenched fringe drops, wrapping his forehead as water batters his diamond-shaped face.
That’s how a hero is supposed to be. Raw, hasty, and sexily sodden.
The intensity in his eyes sharpens as his gaze dips to my slightly parted lips. Strangely, I don’t mind if he parks his kindness now because what’s taking over is hunger—one that shouts he can’t wait to have me.
His hand shifts to the back of my head. A groan vibrates against my lobe as his fingers dig into my hair, indulging in the texture despite the rain steadily soaking every strand. He draws me to him, and his lips press to mine.
I welcome his pucker. It’s softer than I anticipated. Heat coats my lips despite the pelting rain, quickly becoming a need in my core.
Clayton Hartley has been my fantasy, but I never actually imagined our first kiss. It was never relevant. But here it is, I’m kissing the man who should’ve been out of my reach and out of my life. It sets me on fire, but he’s not the flame. He’s the oxygen that keeps it alive.
In fact, the manisthe oxygen I breathe. My lungs can testify to that.
Clayton opens his mouth wider, relishing my lips. I part them, inviting his tongue to sweep mine. With precision and authority, he teases my palate.
I nudge myself to kneel right in front of Clayton without breaking the kiss, then brush my pelvis against his.
That makes him release a feral grunt. He pulls me toward him as if I’m still too far. My breasts press against his chest. With the lacy material of my dress soaked in water, and his thin shirt laminating his torso, the contact is almost like a skin-to-skin.
He pants, his face flushed. “Let’s go back.”
I hesitate. I haven’t had enough of him. But he’s already started rowing, and as I watch his arm muscles swell inside the wet sleeves, my reluctance evaporates with the wind.
We reach the jetty in no time. I don’t know how he balances it, but with me securely in his arms, without my feet touching anything, he carries me back to dry land into the sheltered warmth of the cottage.
The only noise I hear is the crackling of wood. Apparently, Guillaume has left.
Clayton lays me down on a wooly rug right by the fire. Fragrance from the cedar wood and wildflowers infuses the smoky air, bringing out the sacredness of this place. Even if Clayton and I don’t end up together, I feel we somehow belong here.
By now, he has ditched his soaked clothes and stripped to his underwear. His briefs are just slightly wet, but I can see the contour of his formidable cock. His six-pack abs glisten with sweat, moving in and out following his breathing. He places himself on top of me. Water drops from his fringe onto my face.
His restless hold declares he has to have me now, and there isn’t a single fiber of me saying I shouldn’t take him. My body begs me to, to the point that I get weak with impatience.
Clayton plays with my dress strap, pulling one of them down my shoulder, pondering.
“Going to recreate our first meeting, are you?” This cottage is almost as dim as the space of our first meeting. But tonight, I see the stranger in the dark in a new light.
“No.” He sweeps his thumb across my cheek. “I’m going to create a new chapter.” My earring clinks as he unhooks it off my lobe, observing it closely as if the process is a ritual that arouses him. Because soon he nibbles my bare ear as he hums erotic moans.
His touch sends my eyes closed with a sigh. I feel his palm pressing against one of my breasts, his thumb seeking my nipple. He strokes the tip—twice, three times—and I purr like a contented kitten.
Clayton shifts himself up. Something draws a grunt out of him—it might’ve been my thigh brushing on his manhood. He then pulls me up, supporting my back so he can unzip my dress.
I square my shoulders, rolling them in a smooth motion so my dress drops to my waist, giving him an unobstructed view of my breasts.
“Jesus, Isabelle.”
