chapter 6

I Want Him To Say, He Loves Me.

She really wants to get burned.

His control snapped. He dropped the towel, grabbed her arm, and started pulling her towards the house. "We need to talk," he growled, the words barely audible over the party noise.

"Let go of me," she said, trying to pull her arm free, but her struggles were half-hearted. This was what she wanted.

"Not here," he said, pulling her through the sliding glass door and into the empty living room. He didn't stop there. He dragged her up the stairs, down the hall, and into the one place they hadn't desecrated yet. Her bedroom.

He kicked the door shut behind them and slammed her against it, his body pinning hers. "What the hell are you doing?" He snarled, his face inches from hers. He was furious, but inside the anger, she could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his cock pressing against her stomach.

"Making you see me," she shot back, her own anger rising to meet his. "I'm tired of being your dirty little secret, Desmond. I'm tired of the boathouse and the dock."

"So your solution is to provoke me in front of your father?" He asked, incredulous. "To wear that… that bikini and douse yourself in your mother's perfume?"

"I wanted to see if you still wanted me in the daylight," she said, her voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "And you do. Don't you?"

His answer was a kiss, as brutal and consuming as the one in the boathouse. He ground his hips against hers, a clear, unapologetic statement of his desire. He was losing control, and it was the most exhilarating thing she had ever experienced. She was winning.

She broke the kiss, turning her head to the side. "No," she gasped. "Not like this. Not another quick, dirty fuck against a wall."

He sighed, his body rigid with frustration. "Then what, Anna? You want roses and poetry? You want me to tell you I love you while your father grills burgers twenty feet away?"

"I want you to admit it," she said, her voice gaining strength. She pushed against his chest, and he actually stepped back, giving her space. She looked him dead in the eye. "I want you to admit that this is more than just a mistake. I want you to admit that you can't stop thinking about me. That you want me as much as I want you."

"That's a suicide pact," he said, his voice raw.

"Then let's die," she whispered.

She reached behind her back and untied the strings of her bikini top. It fell away, exposing her breasts to him. The look on his face was one of pure, tortured agony. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He was trapped.

"Anna," he started, a warning in his tone.

"No," she said, cutting him off. She took a step to him, closing the distance he had created. She took his hand and placed it on her breast, over her heart. "Feel that? That's not a mistake. That's real."

His thumb brushed against her nipple, and she shuddered, a visceral, undeniable reaction. He felt it. He knew.

"This is real, too," he said, his voice hoarse, as he moved his other hand to the tie of her bikini bottoms. He didn't undo it. He just held the string between his fingers, a threat and a promise.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she challenged, her breath hitching in her throat.

He answered by pulling the string. The bikini bottom floated to the floor, leaving her completely naked before him. In her room. With the afternoon sun streaming through the window, illuminating every curve, every flaw. There was no hiding.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down, a stark contrast to his earlier aggression. He stretched out beside her, propping his head up on his hand, just looking at her. His eyes were no longer just lustful; it was possessive, reverent, and deeply, deeply troubled.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he said, tracing the line of her collarbone with his finger.

"I'm not playing," she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her, and this kiss was different. It was deep, a kiss of surrender. He was no longer fighting it. He was giving in.

He explored her body with a patience that was both thrilling and agonizing. He kissed every inch of her skin, learning her in the daylight, memorizing her with his lips and tongue. When he finally entered her, it was a slow joining, a claiming that was so much more than just sex. It was a vow.

He moved inside her with a deep, steady rhythm that built the pleasure not into a sudden explosion, but a rolling wave that crested and crested again, carrying her higher and higher until she was sure she would drown in the sensation. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting all of him, wanting to erase the line where she ended and he began.

"Look at me," he whispered, his voice strained. She opened her eyes, and what she saw in his, stole her breath. It wasn't just desire. It was adoration. It was fear. It was everything.

"I'm here," she whispered back. "I see you."

That was her undoing. And his. He shuddered against her, his body tensing as he found his release, and the feeling of him, hot and possessive inside her, sent her over the edge into a blissful, peaceful oblivion.

Afterward, he didn't leave. He didn't tell her to go. He gathered her into his arms, and they lay there in the tangled sheets of her bed, the sunlight slowly fading to a soft, golden glow.

"We're in hell now, aren't we?" She murmured into his chest.

"No," he said, kissing the top of her head.

"Hell would be without this."