Page 17 of September’s Tide (Island Tales #2)

Chapter Twelve

Taylor blinked. “Yeah?”

David nodded. “I want to take my time with you tonight.”

There was no mistaking what he meant.

For a second Taylor looked at him. Then he smiled with a hint of shyness. “Okay.”

The walk back to the Lighthouse was unhurried, no grabbing, no fumbling kisses under the stars, only the gentle rhythm of footsteps on gravel, the rustle of night air through the trees, and the low hush of the sea at their backs.

Inside, David lit a few lamps rather than the light suspended over the table, casting the rooms in pools of amber light. Taylor peered at his surroundings.

“I always loved the look of this place.” He stared at the prints on the white-painted walls, the colourful placemats on the circular table, the tall vase at its centre, filled with shells and pebbles and pieces of driftwood.

David watched him, something warm and tight stirring in his chest. This had been his world, private and quiet, and now Taylor was inside it.

It felt… right.

He opened the door to the staircase, took Taylor by the hand, and led him up the narrow stairs to the bedroom. Taylor beamed when he saw the windows.

“This must be a great place to watch the sun rise or set,” he murmured.

“You’ve seen it before, remember? When you came over and cooked me the perfect omelette. Granted, I was kinda out of it, but that was definitely you sitting on the bed next to me.”

Only now, David was capable of appreciating Taylor to the full, and there was so much to appreciate. What he’d come to realize was that Taylor was beautiful inside and out.

Is that what makes this feel so… precious?

It wasn’t the right word, didn’t even come close, but it was all he had right then.

Taylor turned toward him, and his breathing hitched. “The way you look at me,” he whispered.

David reached for him, their mouths meeting in a deep, unhurried kiss, their tongues tangling, exploring. There was nothing rushed about this, just the quiet thrum of wanting, the ache that had softened into something deeper.

David undressed Taylor one piece of clothing at a time, pausing to touch, to kiss, to watch Taylor’s breath catch over and over again.

David’s hands mapped every inch of him: his back, the curve of his waist, the freckles on his shoulders.

He kissed his way down Taylor’s chest, bending to kiss his hips and lingering there, not out of hunger but in sheer worship. He wanted to remember every detail.

They tumbled into bed, the sheets cool against heated skin. David guided Taylor onto his back, kissed him deeply, then began to work his way lower, his tongue tracing every hollow and line. When he finally took Taylor into his mouth, the soft, stunned moan he earned was like music.

David worshipped him slowly, thoroughly. Every flick of his tongue, every deep pull was deliberate. He was savouring, not merely arousing. Taylor tugged on his hair, holding on, and when he trembled through his orgasm, David tasted all of it, swallowing him down without hesitation.

Afterward, Taylor reached for him, pulling him up into another kiss. They didn’t speak.

There was no need for words.

David settled his weight on him, pinning Taylor to the mattress.

He rocked his hips, sliding their shafts against each other, each contact punctuated by Taylor’s soft gasps, moans, and cries.

The sounds that tumbled from Taylor’s lips as David prepped him with fingers and tongue fed the need in him.

And when David finally entered him, measured and careful, the feeling of home hit him so hard it stole his breath away.

Taylor’s arms locked around him, his heels dug into the swell of David’s ass, and their bodies moved in sync, not frantically but with aching tenderness.

David buried his face in Taylor’s neck, breathing him in.

God, I can feel everything .

Taylor whispered his name once, just once, but it cracked something open inside him, and David let go. He let the feelings flood in, let the rhythm slow until it was more emotion than motion. He could’ve stayed like that forever, skin to skin, heart to heart. And

when he finally came, it was with a low, broken groan against Taylor’s throat.

They lay tangled together, sweat cooling between them, mouths meeting in languid kisses that said still here, still feeling the connection . Taylor’s fingers traced idle patterns along David’s ribs.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he murmured.

David kissed the top of his head, his throat too tight to answer.

This time, it had been about more than bodies, sweat, and cum.

It had been about them .

Taylor lay awake in the half-light, David’s steady breathing warm against his shoulder. One arm was flung loosely across Taylor’s waist, anchoring them together beneath the crumpled sheet. He hadn’t moved in a while.

Taylor hadn’t either.

Sleep had come in snatches, broken by the echo of what had happened between them. Not just the sex—though that had unravelled him completely—but the way David had touched him. Looked at him, as though he mattered.

As though he knew me, every inch of me.

Taylor’s body still felt sensitized, each breath drawing in memories of David’s mouth, his hands, the weight of him, slow and deliberate. There’d been none of the frantic coupling of previous nights. No rush. No wild need to simply get off .

It had been different.

Tender.

Unnervingly so.

Taylor wasn’t used to that.

He’d had his fair share of lovers, mostly short-lived connections, flings born from proximity or convenience. A bit of fun, maybe some affection if he was lucky, but nothing that stayed . Nothing that made his chest feel too full the next morning.

That quiet voice at the back of his mind reeked of disbelief. You sure about that?

He ignored it.

This—whatever this thing was with David—had begun fast, yeah. Fire and heat and hands everywhere. But tonight, David had taken his time. Looked at him as if he was something to savour. Worshipped him like they had all the time in the world.

Taylor swallowed against the knot rising in his throat.

That one quiet moan— Taylor… my God, boy, you turn me on… —still circled in his head, as intense as the moment he’d uttered it.

But it wasn’t simply the lust that had undone him. It was the way David had held him afterward, as if letting go wasn’t even an option.

Like he’d wanted to stay.

Taylor turned his head slightly, watching David sleep in the low light. He looked peaceful here, in his space. Softer, younger somehow. The usual sharpness in his expression was gone, smoothed out by rest.

And yet…

There was something David was holding back. Taylor could feel it like a hum in the silence, lurking beneath the surface, waiting.

He didn’t know what it was, and he wasn’t about to push.

But he couldn’t lie to himself either.

Something changed tonight.

Taylor had let people into his bed before, but not like that. Not with so much trust. Not with his whole self laid bare and open and wanting.

Except that wasn’t true.

Once. It happened once.

That night with Mateo.

And when was the last time I thought about him?

Two years had passed since he’d spent six months working his way across Spain.

He’d picked grapes, worked on farms, even modelled for an artist, any way to earn money.

He’d ended up in Barcelona, where he’d met Mateo in a bar.

One hot night became two, two became four, a week blossomed into a month, and by then Taylor was well and truly smitten.

Whatever Mateo felt, he’d kept to himself. Taylor had told himself not to build up what they shared. Mateo had made no promises.

Taylor closed his eyes, letting himself drift back to a rainy night, the kind of rain that turned city streets glossy and romantic, that blurred the lights and made everything feel like it was on the verge of becoming something else.

He’d lingered at the little café in El Raval longer than he’d meant to, sipping a café con leche that had long gone cold, and pretending to read. His eyes kept flicking up and down the street.

Waiting.

When Mateo finally arrived twenty minutes late, hair damp, cheeks flushed with apology, Taylor’s breath caught in his throat.

What you do to me.

“Sorry.” Mateo shrugged off his jacket, the rain clinging to his black curls. “She wouldn’t let me leave without dessert.”

Taylor had managed a smile, except forced was nearer the mark. “You could’ve said you had work.”

Mateo had stared at the table. “I didn’t want to lie.”

But you already are. Taylor couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Instead, he nodded and pushed over the extra napkin he’d been folding and unfolding. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

That night had been like every other in their brief, stolen affair: electric, tender, desperate.

Mateo had kissed him in the shadows of the alley behind Taylor’s hostel, his hands trembling as they slid beneath Taylor’s shirt.

They’d stumbled through the door of his rented room, laughing quietly, until Mateo had quieted him with a kiss that felt far too much like goodbye.

Maybe Taylor had known, even then.

The sex had been different that night, every caress slow and deliberate, leaving Taylor with an emotional pain he couldn’t ignore. Mateo had held him afterward in silence, his head pressed to Taylor’s chest as though he didn’t want to forget the way he fit there.

In the early morning, Taylor had awoken to the sound of the door closing softly.

Mateo was gone.

He left behind nothing but the scent of citrus on the sheets and the ache of everything they hadn’t said.

Later that afternoon, Taylor had gone walking, needing air, needing distraction. He wandered down to the waterfront, the bustle of La Rambla behind him, trying to convince himself it had only ever been temporary. A fling. Nothing more.

And then he saw them.

Mateo. With her.

They stood on the corner outside a jewellery shop, their hands clasped, their heads tilted toward one another. She was laughing. He was smiling.

And when Taylor passed, close enough that Mateo would’ve been able to feel the heat of him, Mateo’s eyes had flickered toward him, only for a second. Then they darted away, as if the contact burned.

As though Taylor’s presence was dangerous.

Her hand tightened around Mateo’s, a possessive gesture.

Taylor walked past, every step heavier than the last, his heart thudding in his ears.

That night, in a hotel room in another part of the city, he’d opened his notebook and written, editing, adding, deleting, until his hand cramped but he was happy with the result.

That poem was the first thing to spill out of him, pour out of him. He didn’t title it. He didn’t need to. There was grief, betrayal, and longing pressed between those lines, every word laced with the ache of being wanted behind closed doors, but denied in daylight.

There was the truth that he had never been chosen, only hidden.

But David sees me . And Taylor had let him.

David wants me .

And fuck, Taylor wanted him.

He wasn’t sure what would come next. He didn’t know if this would still feel real when the morning sunlight poured in through the window and the tide started to pull them back toward the rest of the world.

But for now, he let himself lean back into the warmth of David’s body, let his fingers brush lightly over the arm that held him close.

Because for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a pit stop on someone else’s road.

He felt chosen.

And that scared the hell out of him.