Page 11 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

T he boardwalk smells of fresh cedar shavings and impending trouble. I adjust the lens cap on my Nikon, squinting past sun-bleached banners when the sound of a hammer cracks through the humidity.

Aeron’s leaning over the railing fifty yards down the dock, shirtless and sweaty in the noon glare. Sunlight catches the sweat tracing the valley of his spine, that old scar on his shoulder blade a pale comma against olive skin. I click the shutter before my brain catches up.

“Enjoying the view?”

He doesn’t turn. Just keeps securing a loose plank, muscles in his back flexing like tidal currents.

I step closer, camera dangling from my neck like a shield. “Could’ve hired a crew. Town’s buzzing with volunteers.”

“Done faster myself.”

“Or you’re a control freak.”

I kick a stray nail into the water. It sinks with a condemning plunk.

He finally faces me. Sea glass eyes crinkle at the corners. “Here to work or critique?”

“Documentary purposes.” I tap my camera. “Future generations should know how stubborn you looked hammering in the apocalypse heat.”

A droplet slides down his sternum. I track its path with scientific focus.

He snorts. “Thought you hated nostalgia.”

“Professional duty. Unlike some, I don’t hoard mementos.” His shoulders tense—the journal in his nightstand drawer between us like a third body.

The harbor bell rings. He wipes his brow with the discarded shirt from his back pocket. Smirks when I glance at the scar slicing his ribs. “Still hate swimming, or just the company?”

Ink-stained fingers tighten on my camera strap. “Beat you to Marker’s Rock at sixteen. Still bitter?”

“You only won because you counted the starter.”

The old buoy bobs in the distance, paint peeling.

I toe off my boots. “Prove it.”

He stills. “Sunstroke’s got you hallucinating races.”

“Chicken, Harbor Prince?”

He drops the hammer.

The splash as we hit the water steals my breath. Salt stings my eyes, but I surge forward, channeling every ounce of competitive spite. His strokes eat the distance—effortless, infuriating. I duck beneath a wave, kick harder.

Our hands slap the barnacled rock at the same time.

“Tie,” he rasps, treading water.

“Bullshit. My elbow grazed first.”

“Your ego’s writing checks your limbs can’t cash.”

Sunlight glints off his collarbone. Our legs brush under the surface.

I swipe soaked hair from my face. “Best two out of three?”

Saltwater drips from his hair onto my porch boards as I fumble with the door latch. He crowds behind me—all heat and damp skin and that infuriating self-control. My camera bag tumbles to the floor as the door clicks shut.

His calloused hand slides up my ribs beneath soaked cotton. “Still documenting?” Teeth graze my earlobe.

I arch into him, hip hitting the kitchen counter. “Insurance against you—ah—denying this later.”

He rips my shirt over my head. The air rasps between us when his gaze drops to my nipples pebbling under wet lace. His mouth claims it.

I bite his scarred shoulder in retaliation. Tastes like seawater and stupid years wasted not doing this. My nails carve trails down his back as he carries me toward the wall, denim grinding against my bare thighs.

“Wait.” His growl vibrates against my throat. Hands still.

I sink teeth into his bottom lip, drawing copper. “Fifteen years, Aeron. Fucking move .”

He slams me against the unplastered wall. My leg hooks around his waist after he tears my shorts aside. His cock drags through my wetness once—a taunt—before shoving in. I scream into the hollow of his throat as he stretches me wide.

"Fuck, it's been so long," I whimper.

Our eyes lock. The raw hunger there steals my breath more than the stretch. His hips snap, pulling nearly all the way out before driving back with a force that rattles the framed photos on the wall. Each thrust cracks another piece of my cynicism.

He seizes my wrists, pinning them above my head. “Mine.”

“Prove it.”

His pace turns brutal. The slap of skin drowns my gasps. I bite his forearm when the coil snaps, muffling a shout against his skin.

He doesn’t let up. Every thrust rams me harder into the wall, my shoulders scraping plaster as his cock splits me raw and perfect. Our sweat mingles with saltwater still clinging to our skin, the air thick with the musk of him — seaweed and pine tar and relentless want.

“Look at me.” His voice grinds against my temple. I don’t. Can’t. My eyelids flutter as he drags his tip to my entrance before slamming back in. “Evie. Look .”

I force my gaze up. His pupils swallow the seaglass green, strands of silver hair sticking to his throat. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, over the scar I bit ten minutes—fifteen years—ago. My hips jerk, seeking friction. He denies me, pulling out until just the head stays lodged.

“Bastard,” I hiss.

His thumb finds my clit, pressing hard circles. “Say it again.”

I choke on a moan as he sheathes himself fully, the stretch bordering on pain. His free hand fists my hair, wrenching my head back. “Say. It.”

“Bastard—fuck— Aeron ?—”

He pistons into me, the slap of skin drowning my curses. My nails gouge his biceps, but he only drives deeper, bending me impossibly backward. The wall creaks. A framed photo of the old boardwalk crashes down, glass shattering. He doesn’t flinch.

“Touch yourself.”

“What?”

His thumb leaves my clit. “You heard.”

I fumble between us, fingers slipping on slick flesh. He watches my hand work, jaw clenched. His rhythm stutters when I moan. “That’s it—squeeze— fuck ?—”

The coil snaps without warning. My back arches off the wall as the orgasm rips through me, thighs quaking around his hips. He fucks me through it, prolonging the tremors until I’m sobbing.

His teeth sink into my shoulder as he comes, a guttural snarl vibrating my spine. I feel him pulse inside me, hot and endless. We collapse sideways onto the floor, his arm caging my ribs, cock still twitching in my pussy.

Rain peppers the roof.

His breathing evens into low tides against my neck. I count three ship's bells from the harbor—midnight anchoring itself in my ribs. My leg twitches under the deadweight of his thigh.

I slip free like a fish from a net.

Dressing in the dark, my fingers tangle in bra straps turned inside out. His shirt from the boardwalk rests on the armchair, smelling of sweat and cedar. I hurl it toward the laundry pile. It catches the edge of Aeron's open nightstand drawer instead.

Moonlight reveals the compass we found at sixteen, its glass fogged with age. Our initials carved on the journal beneath it, bracketed by a lopsided heart.

"Sentimental prick." My whisper cracks.

A floorboard creaks as I step into boots. Aeron shifts, silver hair spilling across my pillow. His hand slides across cold sheets, fingers curling into emptiness.

The Nikon weighs heavy around my neck. I pause at the door, thumbnail digging into the strap's frayed edge. Rain taps Morse code warnings on the roof.

And without another sound, I slip out, unsure where I'm even going.