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The flickering candlelight throws shadows across his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyes—those stormy, unreadable eyes. It’s unfair, really, how good he looks in low light. How comfortable he seems while I’m over here trying not to combust from the heat creeping up my spine.
“I guess we’ll just have to find creative ways to pass the time,” he says, that grin tugging at the corners of his lips again.
I raise an eyebrow. “Creative like arts and crafts, or creative like… murder mystery roleplay?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Depends. Are you always this dramatic?”
“Only when trapped in paradise with a cocky stranger and no Wi-Fi.”
His smirk deepens. “You could just admit you’re enjoying my company. I mean, you are my wife, after all.”
I scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. And thank you for dinner, I had a great time.”
Lightning cracks so loudly it vibrates through the floor. I jump before I can stop myself, the sound punching straight through my chest. Carter doesn’t say anything, just gently reaches over and pulls the blanket from around my shoulders. His fingers skim my skin for a moment—barely a touch, but it sears straight through me.
He drapes the blanket over both of us.
Then… he stays close. Too close.
I glance at him, heart pounding. “Is this part of the creative time-passing plan?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’m just trying to keep you warm and comfortable?”
“I think you just like the excuse.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me and I can see the hunger in his eyes.
The silence stretches. Tightens. I swallow. “This is dangerous.”
His brow lifts. “The storm?”
I shake my head, barely above a whisper. “This.”
Carter shifts slightly, facing me fully now under the blanket. “You think I haven’t noticed it too?”
My breath catches.
“The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” he says softly. “The way your lips twitch when you’re trying not to laugh at my jokes. The way your eyes soften when you forget to hate me.”
My stomach knots in that delicious, terrifying way that signals I’m past the point of return.
“You’re imagining things,” I murmur.
“Am I?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Because I’ve been trying to be good. To give you space. But every second we’re in this bungalow together, I keep thinking about what it would be like to break the rules.”
I freeze.
His hand brushes my thigh under the blanket—gentle, questioning, not pushing.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper. “Ivy, if you don’t want this, say it now.”
I don’t.
God help me, I don’t want him to stop.
I reach up instead, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, the faint stubble rough against my skin. His breath hitches as I trace the line of his cheekbone, letting my hand fall to the base of his throat where his pulse thrums wildly beneath my touch.
And then I lean in.