Page 145

“Clay,” she whimpers.
Her body’s tense as a coiled up spring. Bun undone from my fingers, her braids scatter over her shoulders, long and thick and stunning. Sweat beads on her dark skin and her nostrils flare with exertion.
She’s so freaking perfect.
“Not yet,” I growl.
I slam the master bedroom open, kick it shut with my foot and lay her on the bed. Bending over her, I growl an instruction in her ear.
She breaks. Her back arches, her head flings back against the pillows. She releases it all in an explosion of unmatched devastation. I lap it up, every taste I’ve craved, every flavor of her satisfaction.
Damn.
I need inside her as much as I need my next breath.
But I stay where I am, kissing her through it. Enjoying the view.
Island’s back is still arching off the bed. Her hands are digging into my shoulders.
Flickers of pleasure.
Poetry in motion.
It’s enough to send me to the brink.
Pulling away to grab protection makes me feel like I’m being murdered. I can still taste her on my tongue, still feel the heat of her on my face. Moonlight splices through the window, falling on Island’s brown lips parted in the shape of an ‘o’.
She looks electric.
Growling, I surge toward her and kiss her until she can taste herself. My jeans are so tight it’s freaking unbearable.
And it gets even more unbearable when her slim, soft fingers determinedly flap at my zipper.
She’s addictive, drawing me in, putting a spell on me.
I trace kisses down the slope of her neck. My body’s shuddering with a demanding heat, insisting I bury myself in the hot, fluttering decadence between her legs.
But when I move to push my jeans and boxers down, Island suddenly goes stiff. The dazed look in her eyes fades as her gaze locks on something on the dresser.
That’s when I remember, even before my eyes land on the frame. We’d taken it on our fourth anniversary. It was Anya’s first time cutting her hair that short and it made her eyes even bluer than usual. We were on a boat, enjoying the water.
It was a moment that was meant to last forever. I had to take the picture.
My ardor cools like someone dunked a bucket of ice on my head. I groan silently, easing back as my eyes shift from the picture to lock with Island’s.
A vein in her neck pops out. Her body, that had been soft and fluid under me, turns rigid. She sits up and pulls the blanket over herself.
Grief pulses through me.
It feels like someone’s twisting a knife under my ribs. I don’t know what to say. What to do.
“Hey,” I grip her chin and bring her attention back to me, “look at me.”
She does and the ache in my chest deepens at the softly bruised expression on her face. I gather her in my arms and rock her back and forth to chase that look away from her eyes.
“Just look at me,” I whisper.
“Is that enough for you?” Her voice is muffled against my chest. “Canyoujust look at me?”