Chapter 2 The Steamy Night

That Night We Didn't Make It Back

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting a honey-gold glow over the shoreline, when his hand found mine. There was no need for words-we were tuned to each other's frequency now. I felt the low hum of tension between us, an electric pull that only grew stronger with each step we took down the moonlit path back to the hotel.

But we never made it there.

He stopped under a cluster of swaying palms, the scent of salt and plumeria thick in the air. The warm breeze lifted my hair, and the silk of my dress clung to my curves. He turned to me slowly, deliberately, his eyes heavy-lidded, jaw tight with restraint.

"I should wait," he murmured, voice low and gravel-edged.

"Then don't," I whispered, stepping closer.

In one motion, he had me pinned against the rough bark of a palm tree, his lips crashing into mine with a hunger that stole my breath. His hands-large, confident, reverent-gripped my waist, then slid lower, lifting me with ease. I wrapped my legs around him, not caring about the night air or the faint sounds of the ocean just beyond.

His mouth moved from mine to my neck, grazing my skin with heat and promise. I tilted my head back, arching into him, my body aching for him in ways words couldn't capture.

"You drive me crazy," he growled against my collarbone.

"You started it," I breathed, raking my fingers through his hair.

He chuckled-dark, dangerous-and pressed his forehead to mine. "I haven't even started yet."

What followed was a blur of heat and moonlight, hands and whispers, soft moans and the wild rhythm of waves crashing nearby. He worshipped me like I was something rare and powerful, and in those moments, I believed I was. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered "mine" sank into my bones like wildfire.

Later, breathless and spent, we lay wrapped in each other on the sand, his shirt around my shoulders, his heartbeat strong beneath my palm.

"Tell me again," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

"That you're mine?" I asked, smiling.

"No," he said, eyes locked on mine. "That I'm yours."

And I did.

What followed wasn't rushed or reckless-it was deliberate, delicate, intense. He explored me with patience, as if discovering something sacred. His touch was warm, unhurried, the glide of his fingers down my arm, the curve of my waist, the dip of my collarbone all received the same careful attention.

Every kiss was a promise.

Every sigh, a confession.

It was like falling into gravity-inevitable, weightless, real. He held me like he knew I'd leave, and I clung to him like I already missed him. We moved together in a rhythm that belonged only to us, as if the stars above had slowed their spin just to watch.

Time blurred. There were no words-only gasps, glances, and the soft sounds of love echoing into the night.

And when it was over, when we were tangled together under a blanket of stars, he pulled me into his chest and whispered, "You ruined me."

I smiled sleepily, lips brushing his skin. "Good."

He kissed the top of my head, cradling me like a man who didn't want to let go.

And somewhere deep in my soul, I knew: this was more than a night. This was the beginning of something I'd never be able to forget.

But I already knew what I wanted and it wasn't the father but the child.