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“Damn… that’s not what I was expecting, if I was expecting anything at all.”
“I’m sorry. I know it sounds a bit… crazy.” Can I hide under the covers now?
I keep wondering when this man is going to realize his mistake and run far away from me.
“It sounds beautiful.” He pulls the tray away, setting it on the nightstand, before crawling on top of me, pushing my legs apart with his and nestling between them, as he swipes the stray strands of hair from my face. “And there’s nothing wrong with a little crazy.”
“Hey!”
I smack his shoulder, but he catches my wrist, pinning it above my head, a grave, mildly amused rumble vibrating through his chest.
“Careful, little witch, or I might punish you for that.”
“Promises, promises.”
RONAN
I reach over next tome before I even open my eyes, frowning when I fail to find what I need—Annika. Blinking a few times, I attempt to focus on the world around me and the empty bed. I lift my head and look toward the en-suite bathroom, but the door is open, light off. She’s not there.
My head sinks back into the pillow and I rub my eyes in an attempt to wake up quicker. We went to sleep so late last night, and we didn’t even end in sex. We were talking for hours. About life, her wants, needs, dreams, and everything in between. It was surreal. Like I was living in some chick flick movie where they played a montage as the couple kept shifting in bed in all sorts of awkward positions while telling stories and laughing. This wasn’t a movie, though; this was real life… my life. This woman has turned me upside down. If this isn’t black magic, I don’t know what is.
I throw off the covers, looking for my phone to check the time, since this damn storm is keeping us in a constant state of darkness and we never know if it’s morning or afternoon. I track it down—seven twenty-three a.m. Damn, she got up early.
I’m about to head out the door when it dawns on me that I’m stark-fucking-naked, and I’m sure if Hanna is out there, she would prefer not to see quite this much of me. I washed my boxers last night and my jeans a couple of nights ago, since the very few things we brought with us we stupidly left on the boat. We’re not even sure if it’s still there on the shore, let alone our clothes. I go to the bathroom, thankful when I find my clothes dry on the heated towel rail, then I quickly wash my face and brush my teeth.
Now it’s time to find my woman.
When I enter the living area, it’s quiet, the sounds of the storm playing on repeat in the background, bashing at the windows in hectic waves. It seems to be easing down, but not enough that we could leave this house. Let alone this island. But fuck if I care that I’m stuck here. If I left, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy this incredible view—Annika sitting at the round breakfast table in the bay window, chair turned toward the ocean, a small canvas in front of her, lost in her brush strokes as she paints, completely oblivious to my presence. Her hair is wrapped in a loose bun at the crown of her head, messy strands fallen around her slender neck and soft face, and I’m not sure if I want to make myself known. There’s something about this image, the serenity of her against the tumultuous storm in the background. There’s so much perfection in this paradox.
I lean against the kitchen island, arms crossed over my chest, watching her delicate fingers swirl a brush in a small color palette, before moving it with ease on the canvas that’s no longer white.
I want this—her—for more than just now. I want her when the storm is over. I want her back in Queenscove. I want her for as long as she’ll want me. Only, I fear I’ll keep her even after that.
My bare feet start moving before I made the decision, and her shoulders jerk ever so slightly when she realizes she’s no longer alone.
“Morning, baby.”
My voice comes out croakier than it should, my throat dry. Dehydration or thirst for her… not sure which. The bare skin of her neck and shoulders comes alive with goosebumps.
“Morning, baby.” She matches my words with sweetness in her voice I want to taste.
I lean in, wrapping my arm around her chest, careful not to disturb her right arm that she paints with, and kiss the nape of her neck, before moving to that sweet spot where it meets the shoulder. She sinks into me, but doesn’t stop painting. So I sneak a peek at the canvas. It’s almost the complete opposite of her other works I have seen so far. She showed me quite a few photos on her phone, and this is nothing like them. The strokes are rough, almost chaotic, yet there’s a hidden order in all that chaos, because I can see it as clear as it looks out the window… the storm.
She painted it all; the waves, the thrashing trees, the broken skies, and the rush of the rain.
Only the feeling it gives me is not of turmoil, but of calm. A strange sense of elation. It feels as ethereal as what her and I are experiencing inside this house, even if the strokes depict the anarchy outside of it.
“It’s beautiful, Annika.”
“Thank you. I wanted to capture this moment… and maybe someday, if I want to remember what it was like, I can feel it all over again.”
I don’t realize I’m squeezing her until she stops painting. I’m jealous. I wish I could do that, find a way to experience something all over again, almost like it’s the first time. I release her and rise, standing behind her.
“You’ll have to tell me what it’s like.”
She tips her head back, and I lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. But when I rise again, she looks back at me with wide eyes.
“What?”
