XIV RIDE THE STORM （AUGUST）

XIV

RIDE THE STORM

(AUGUST)

I have no fucking clue what to do with Miss Eleanor Lark.

For once, I'm not ready to pull my hair out when I say that.

I lean back in my office chair, looking out at the late-afternoon skyline.

Seattle is always strange this time of day. The sky wants to be bright and grey at the same time, until an odd smoky haze clings to the horizon and outlines the taller buildings and the tops of the trees. Right before it all melts up into a cool, deep blue that looks almost backlit.

Behind me, my laptop sits ignored. A minute ago I was engrossed in a project proposal Elle posted to the company intranet.

Her proposal was simple—adding a few more new characters to Inky's collection of friends to help bring him into modern times. The concept art is very similar to my aunt's, but not quite on point.

While Elle's great at adopting another artist's style, there are differences.

The penguin looks softer in her hand, a tad more whimsical.

I see her loving hand in every line with her Inky drawings. I can imagine her style as I read about her koala bear called Kiki, this sweet-as-pie creature who's always smiling and wearing a giant sun hat as she harvests tea leaves. Her own imagination gives Inky's new pals a fresh cheerfulness.

Honestly, I can't believe she's still here.

Putting all this work in with Aunt Clara.

Showing up bravely with a smile on her face that rivals her cartoons—especially after the way I curb-stomped her heart.

Facing me down.

Infecting me with her courage to say the shit I need to say, when I've been fighting myself for days to figure out how to make peace and give her the apology she deserves.

I never expected that we'd find a way to carry on.

If she'd taken my apology and told me where to shove it, putting an end to our bizarre entanglement, I wouldn't have blamed her one bit.

Somehow, though, she's still a part of my life.

And I can't deny just how much that eases the tension in my chest, freeing me to breathe again.

Fuck, why can't I stop?

Why is she always first, second, and third on my mind?

Why can't I forget how she looked straining under me, unafraid to show her pleasure, and every time she screamed, I just wanted to hear her louder, louder—

"Hey." A pencil bounces off the side of my skull. "Earth to asshole."

I jerk up, blinking.

My eyes are slightly sore after staring at the sunlight for so long.

When I swivel my chair, Deb is standing over my desk. She's trim in a navy blue sheath dress with short sleeves and a chunky black vinyl belt. She props her hands on her hips, eyeing me.

"Oh, now you notice I'm here?"

"You did try to blind me with a pencil." I kick the pencil away from my chair and send it skittering across the floor. "How long have you been here glowering?"

"Oh, I've been saying your name for like three minutes, nerd. You've been on Mars."

"Pardon me for being lost in thought. Someone has to do the thinking around here."

Deb bares her teeth, clearly not amused.

"Makes me wonder what you were thinking about." She smirks.

I roll my eyes. "Did you want something, or did you just come here to gab?"

"Yeah, stupid brother. Your fiancée"—she stresses the word, taunting but not cruel—"is waiting in the lobby. You forgot you were going to go out straight from work, didn't you? Since Elle's too polite to text you the kick in the head you need, I'll do it for her."

I blink and glance at the clock on my laptop screen.

6:07 p.m.

Fuck.

"I didn't forget," I snarl, standing quickly and throwing my suit coat over my arm. "I just lost track of time."

If I haul ass, we can still make our ticket time.

If we miss it, we can go out to eat until the next showing.

"Someone's in a hurry." Deb keeps smirking as her gaze trails after me toward the door.

"I'm late," I growl.

"Sure, sure, that's all it is," Deb says mockingly.

I stop before the door, impatience vibrating through me as I turn back to her. "Why are you being so smug?"

Deb whips out a folded paper she had under her arm and shakes it out so she can hold it up.

It's a tabloid magazine.

Elle and I are on the cover, sitting next to each other on the beach, passing a container of strawberries and another one with cold chocolate fondue back and forth. She laughs brightly with her hair in tangles across her face from the wind.

I just start swearing.

"How the fuck is someone following us this closely without being noticed?"

"Dunno," Deb answers too cheerfully. She taps her manicured green nails against the headline. BAREFOOT BILLIONAIRE'S BEACH BOUDOIR! "But you look like you're having fun for once, Mr. Barefoot Billionaire."

I grit my teeth.

The image stops me cold.

I don't recognize myself on that cover.

I'd taken my suit coat off. My socks, too, because Elle insisted that the sand would be warm under the surface if I just dug my toes in.

She was wrong—it was goddamned arctic—but I kept my toes buried in the silky-soft sand anyway while the wind flipped my hair. My vest was half-unbuttoned because she'd stuffed me so full of sandwiches it was getting uncomfortable.

And I'm laughing.

She's pointing toward the shore. A sea lion pup was doing barrel rolls in the shallows until it hit a deeper pool and sank with a splash, only to pop back up with a comically confused look on its face.

Even I couldn't help it.

The little pup almost reminded me of one of Aunt Clara's characters.

But that man in the photo—

I don't know him.

I only see myself in the mirror when I'm shaving and styling my hair, or in press photos.

I never smile.

I'm always serious, thinking about anything besides how I look, beyond making sure I'm professional and clean and respectable.

Yet around Elle, I turn into someone different.

Apparently, I become a functioning human being.

"What's that, big brother?" Deb teases. "Did you say something? Oh? You're stunned silent, is that it? Embarrassed someone caught you smiling?"

I just flash my sister a disgusted look.

Then I turn and stalk right out the door.

After a quick ride down the elevator, I stalk into the lobby. Elle's right there, staring at something on her phone, stifling a laugh with her fingers pressed over her mouth. I know that look, and I shake my head as I step closer.

"What terrible thing has Miss Joly said now?"

Elle starts and glances up at me with wide eyes.

She's sweetly casual today. The more time she spends with my aunt, the less she wears office attire and instead shows up in whatever's comfortable—and most fitting.

Today it's high-waisted jeans that hug her hips in lickable flows, clinging tightly to her legs, ripped in artful slashes over her creamy-soft thighs. Plus, a thin white long-sleeved crop top that exposes a dick-teasing flash of her belly. Her navel flirts in and out of the ragged holes in what used to be a long-sleeved black Cure concert shirt, now stretched thin with just a hint of screen print paint still showing here and there.

Her hair is up in a messy twist, secured with colored pencils. It falls in sprays into her face, a few tips kissing her eyelashes and the wings of color lining her eyes. Shades of pale green and blue match the remnants of paint on the shirt, making the tawny color of her irises flash like gold.

Her mouth is a rich rose pink, dotted with a subtle blue liner the same shade as her shadow, fading toward the kissable part of her lips in hues of blended purple. Paired with her chunky, strappy blue heeled pleather sandals.

She looks fun and flirty, while I'm the same stuffy overdressed asshole I always am.

"... August?" Elle laughs, and I realize she's been talking to me this whole time. "Are you even listening?"

I shake myself. How does she make me lose my head just looking at her?

"Sorry, it's been a long day," I deflect. "What did you say?"

"I asked how you knew it was Lena."

"Because you always laugh a certain way when she says something inappropriate, and then you try to hide it." I arch a brow. "That girl never grew a brain-to-mouth filter."

"Aw! Aren't you the cutest fiancé, noticing how I look when I talk to my friends?" She hooks her arm in mine, bracing up on her toes to kiss my cheek.

She makes it look so natural, the way she leans into me with her scent wafting and the plush warmth of her mouth against my skin, my beard.

For a second, I give in and kiss her back, barely keeping a growl from exploding into her mouth.

"C'mon. If we drive fast, we'll just make our showtime," she whispers.

"If we're late, it's my fault." I let her tug me toward the parking garage exit. "I was wrapped up in reviewing your proposal."

Even as we step out into the dimness of the garage, she brightens, lightening the shade of the day. "Did you like it?"

"If we could get Aunt Clara to return to the series, it would be an excellent way to relaunch it for a new generation." I take the lead, drawing her toward the waiting car. I see Merrick already stepping out of the driver's seat to meet us. "I can see your personal touch, though. Will you let me see your portfolio sometime?"

The way she flushes so prettily, it's clear her portfolio is very damn personal.

"I—sure," she says, ducking her head before she quickly changes the subject. "Rick's driving today? It's not just us?" She glances at him as we draw closer. "No offense."

"None taken, Miss Lark," Rick answers politely, bowing as he opens the door for her. "Trust that I won't be accompanying you into the theater. You'll have each other all to yourselves."

I clear my throat, avoiding his eyes, while Elle's blush deepens.

She doesn't say another word as she ducks into the back seat, while I round to the other side and let myself in. Since we've cleared that hurdle, things between us have been at once easier—and far more difficult.

That day on the beach made this insanity too real.

We forged an intangible bond.

Whether it's friendship or something more, we weathered the storm I created and came out of it on the other side with a new understanding, a new trust.

That only leaves me more self-conscious than ever about the employees in the office whispering a little too loudly behind our backs. I can already imagine their comments, blabbing about how the girl with the magic touch finally revived the dead fish—fish, really?—and about how I am, apparently, quite fucking whipped.

First, I'm no one's simp. Not even Elle's.

Second, I shouldn't react, when this is all still pretend.

It leaves me feeling embarrassed nonetheless, and Elle's blushes and body language have made it clear she feels the same.

She still looks flustered as Merrick starts the car.

I offer an olive branch to the silence.

"Are you really making me watch a film called Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey? Hardly sounds appropriate for a children's franchise."

She snickers. "That's the point! It's awful but it's also pure camp. And since Winnie-the-Pooh is now public domain, people can do anything they want with the brand. I'm not watching it because I'm a big horror buff. I'm interested in the artistic freedom when copyright laws get loosened up." She flashes me a wickedly amused look. "Plus, a lot of people go to bad movies just to have an excuse to make out in the dark without missing anything important."

The copyright mention sobers my dick up, thinking of the case with Marissa.

Not enough.

Every time her hand touches my arm, her shoulder brushes me, her apple-sweet hair teases me, I remember how her mouth surrendered to mine.

Her heels digging into the small of my back.

How burning hot she was inside—so tight, so wet, gripping on me like she never wanted me to pull out.

I keep those thoughts to myself, letting Elle tease me as she pleases on the ride to the Thornton Place theater, just twenty minutes from the Space Needle and with a clear view of the spire jutting up to the dark, reddening sky.

She's still fucking impossible.

I'm just not sure when I stopped minding.

At the theater, I help Elle out while Rick pulls away to park. Elle slips her hand into mine so easily, not even seeming to notice that she's done it—or the way my fingers reflexively tighten on hers.

She looks over her shoulder, watching the car pull away. "So he's just going to wait in the car while we watch a movie?"

"He'll likely run a few errands, or enjoy dinner somewhere. I don't police what he does with his time while he's waiting to pick us up again. Let the man enjoy himself."

"You billionaires are so weird."

Damn it, I smile and look down at the top of her head. More butterflies, this time little paper-craft things woven into her hair.

"You don't like to wear the same look twice, do you?"

Elle tilts her head up to me with a soft, startled sound and shrugs. "I like trying different things. It's fun. And if I look awful one day, who'll notice?"

Me.

Very much me.

I really do need to stop.

Right fucking now.

Before this spins too far out of control to ever rein it in.

We join the crowds streaming into the theater but skip the line. I pass my phone over a QR code scanner, and we're waved through.

A question about concessions gets a wrinkled nose about syrupy Coke and greasy movie theater butter, so we skip it. As we make our way down for what promises to be a ghastly film I cannot believe I let this woman talk me into, I ask, "How did things go with Aunt Clara today?"

"She stopped packing up the studio," Elle answers. "Progress—I think? Though I bet she realizes I'm stalling for time by getting her to teach me how to draw Inky." Elle sighs. "Today she suggested I'm getting good enough to take over the line. I don't want that. It would be an honor, yeah, but it would just feel ... wrong."

I glance at her, my chest going tight.

She doesn't just admire my aunt, does she?

Elle genuinely cares about her, and what's best for her.

She wouldn't even dream of accepting what could be a career-making opportunity, if it means taking anything away from Aunt Clara.

"The fact that you have her drawing again, even if it's only to teach you, is something no one else has managed. You're goddamned brilliant," I tell her.

Blinking, she casts me a startled glance before looking away with a blush that's so enticing I want to shove her against the nearest wall and kiss her breathless.

For someone so brazen, she can be surprisingly soft.

"It's nothing," Elle whispers. "If anything, I'm getting the good end of this. She seems to enjoy drawing again, but I know I'm a pest."

"You're no such thing," I toss back firmly. "She's not faking it, Elle. It's easy to tell she enjoys your company."

I don't expect the frank question that follows.

"Do you?"

"I—"

Fuck.

I certainly don't mind it.

How could I? I'm paying you well enough to not be too disagreeable.

But the way she looks at me—the near innocence with which she asked that question, that strange childlike wisdom that demands honesty—has only one answer.

"Yes," I say firmly.

Of course, she lights up like Christmas.

For such a complex, intelligent young woman, she's remarkably easy to please at times.

"Why the pause, Gruffykins?"

"Don't start." I roll my eyes. She hasn't let up on that Gruffykins crap at all. "I had to stop myself from demurring, if you must know. Honesty is the best policy with you."

"With me? Not with others?"

"Not for a long time." I sigh. The damnable thing about being honest is that once you start, you have to continue. "I don't outright lie if I can help it, obviously."

"But you deflect and close off," she finishes with a small smile like she plucked the words right from my mind.

"Guess those were the words I was looking for. Damn." I eye her. "You're starting to get me a little too well, Miss Lark."

Her lips shine with a mischievous grin. "You mean like how you only call me Miss Lark when you're trying to create distance."

"Not this time."

"Huh? Then were you"—she mock-gasps, fluttering her fingertips to her lips—"teasing me?"

"Now she catches on." I smirk.

With a delighted laugh, Elle turns to walk backward, pulling me along by my hand. "There may be hope for you yet." She dances away, dragging me toward the door to our assigned theater. "C'mon! The best seats are in the middle."

I let her drag me along like my arm is a leash.

She bounces into the low-lit theater. The previews haven't started yet, and we have our pick of seats in the sparse crowd.

True to her word, she plunks us right down in the middle, wiggling into the seat at my side and leaning against me.

Dutiful "fiancé" that I am, I stretch my arm along the back of her seat.

She fits against me so well, the curve of her shoulder tucking into my body.

My nostrils flare as I inhale her.

Of course, she smells divine.

Still not as good as that night with sweat and the fresh-washed shower smell, with the scent of my shampoo, my body wash on her, the smell of our sex clinging to the sheets and—

Enough.

I clear my throat, adjusting my seat so my slacks fit a bit looser around the hard-on from hell, and eye the blank white screen. "I hope you know I'm docking your pay for making me watch this."

"I hope you know being a freelancer for years means I probably know labor laws better than you do," she throws back without missing a beat.

"Nothing ever fazes you, does it?"

"Well, a few things," she admits. The hurt on her face as she ran away flashes in my memory. But she's still smiling, looking at me like I never did something so terrible, and it was all just a bad dream. "But I know you're all empty threats, Gruffykins."

I thud my head back against the seat. "You're never going to stop with that Gruffykins shit, are you?"

"Nope!"

Only, at some point she will.

At some point we'll "break up," and I'll never have to hear Gruffykins again.

We're not really together.

Even if we're together in the moment.

I'm saved from sinking into one of my ridiculous brooding spells by the lights going down and the screen lighting up with the usual green ratings screen for the first trailer. Elle makes an excited sound and burrows deeper into her seat, catching my wrist. She pulls my arm closer around her.

"Cold," she whispers. "Keep me warm, Gruffykins."

It is chilly.

Dutifully, I wrap my arm around her slender body, pulling that delectable scent and delicious warmth closer.

I resign myself to seeing horrors beyond human comprehension as we watch the trailers. If the film itself is as campy as the previews, I've just condemned myself to new circles of hell.

As one clip blends into another, Elle stiffens, her eyes widening, before she turns her head subtly, her eyes cutting to the side.

"Um, I think I just heard a camera go off behind us," she whispers.

"You cannot be serious." I don't turn around. I trust her judgment, and I don't want to give us away.

She turns a little more, her gaze searching, before she faces forward again, slumping against me. "Maybe someone's just making a bootleg of the movie."

"Why? It's going to be terrible. Plus, this is the age of digital leaks."

"Hey. This is going to be a cult classic. Pure grindhouse masterpiece."

I frown. "Grind-what? What does coffee have to do with it?"

Elle stares at me. "Oh my God, you are an alien. So adorable."

"Stop using that word," I growl.

"‘Cute'?" she ventures.

"Not that one either," I bite off.

Elle just grins unrepentantly. "‘Sweet'—"

"Shh!"erupts from the row behind us.

"Oops," Elle whispers, dropping her voice—and herself, sinking down in the seat and wiggling closer. "Well ... just in case they're watching us, should we put on a show?"

It takes a moment to get what she means.

I arch a brow.

"You're enjoying this part too much," I whisper back.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself, Gruffykins." She lets out a suppressed laugh and twists to face me, pushing up the seat rest that's been the only barrier between us. "C'mere. I'll show you how to do a stage kiss."

"How do you know how to do a stage kiss?"

"Theater kid. Duh. Are you really surprised?"

"Not in the slightest."

She grins and reaches up to stroke my cheek, my jaw. I don't realize how cold it truly is in here until the warmth of her slender fingers burns into me with their slight pressure.

"Tilt your head that way," she says. "I'll tilt mine the other, and then ..."

As I oblige, she pushes up, her mouth coming close to mine, offering her sweet-scented breath. When her lips touch me, it's below my bottom lip.

A warm imprint of a kiss. Not the heated lock and pressure and slick caresses I suddenly ache for more deeply than I have any right to.

"See?" she whispers, her lips moving against my skin in caresses that rouse a shudder against me. "Easy."

Whispering back like this is awkward, to say the least. "I know it's dark, but can they not see our lips aren't touching?"

"Not with my head tilted this way," she answers. "My face blocks where our mouths would tou—mmn!"

I shouldn't have tilted my head to ease the slight strain on my neck.

Because suddenly those syllables are pressing into my mouth.

And I lose all sense.

All reason.

All control.

Her strawberry mouth fits mine like we were made for each other.

The whole damn movie becomes a blur.

The sounds of screaming, hacking blades, and sinister voices fade away until I can hear only our mated breaths. It's like no matter how we pretend, some part of us knows and draws us back to each other again and again.

Our dueling lips meld until there's no room to breathe between us.

Nothing left but the air sizzling between this kiss as my lungs grow tight.

I don't care.

Tonight, I'll indulge, even if I can't be the man Elle needs me to be.

I can't risk hurting her again, but for now I need to taste her more than I need to breathe.

Heat. Velvety skin. Lust.

The dark lusciousness of her mouth, so soft and reminiscent of the feeling of plunging into yielding flesh and feeling her arch against me. Her inner depths open to let my tongue probe and seek and claim within her. I feel every taste of her like I'm thrusting into her all over again, the cold of the theater vanishing when I'm just a thin shell over a dark roaring fire.

The way she submits to me.

The way she leans in and clutches at my shirt like she'll take everything I have, if only I just give it all up.

Give.

Some warped, deep part of me wants to.

Some devil part of me wants to break myself into pieces until I can be just as open as her, meet her halfway, feel this thing unrestrained as I groan and sink deeper into her mouth.

Mine, goddammit.

Mine.

Just for tonight.

I capture her lips, biting them hard enough to leave my mark, loving how her sweet flesh gives and plumps and rises for me.

Elle spills a whispered moan and goes trembling against me, her mouth so ripe and waiting.

"August ...," she breathes, and I taste my own name in her mouth. It's never tasted this warm, this vibrant.

I'm definitely neither of those things.

That stark reminder of who I am—a stunted, broken thing who can only hurt her—dashes that heat and leaves me ice cold.

I break back sharply.

Fuck.

I feel like a human knife, all frigid edges, as she looks up with confusion. Then with a flicker of hurt, like a small animal hoping the carnivore won't sink its teeth in.

"Elle." I swallow hard. "I'm sorry."

There it is.

Her smile.

Lovely as always, and yet now I know it's not real.

"For what?" she asks brightly, turning to face the screen again. She nestles against me comfortably like nothing's happened, her head resting against my arm. "At least now we can be sure it was convincing." She glances at me from the corner of her eye curiously. "Do you think I should stay over tonight? Since we're clearly still being followed."

I look at her helplessly. I want to say something to bridge this distance, but what can I say?

So I only shake my head. "Not tonight. I'll be on the phone all night with the legal team. It'll just keep you awake."

"From the guest room?" Her lips curl in wry amusement.

"You've never heard me shouting at Little Key's lawyers."

"That's fair."

I turn my gaze to the screen as the previews fade, the screen goes dark, and then the flicker of the opening credits and music rises.

This disquiet feels wrong.

"Tomorrow night," I say impulsively.

Me, impulsive? Ha.

This little brat is scrambling my wires.

"Would you like to go ballroom dancing?"

A stunned look flies at me. "Wait. You're actually asking me instead of telling me five minutes before I have to be ready?"

Teasing. It restores some of the ease between us, and I smile slightly.

"I said I'd try." I snort.

"Shh!"rises from behind us again, more irritable than ever.

We both slouch down guiltily in our seats.

She stifles a giggle behind her hand, waiting before whispering, "You'd better get me a nice dress."

I can only hold my smile as I sigh and settle in to find out what kind of atrocity the rest of this film will be.

"I will," I promise, dragging her hand to my lips. "I won't have my woman looking anything less than fucking magnificent."

For all that Elle insisted I buy her a nice dress, she's been cagey about letting me actually see it.

I hadn't even meant to go to the political fundraiser tonight.

I've already made my donations, and I'm not a fan of rubbing elbows with politicians or their orbiters, especially when anyone who shows their face is assumed to be currying favor for their own interests.

I have no need for that shit.

I make my own way, and I've staked my career on my good reputation alone.

Still, when I remembered the event had ballroom dancing, and I thought she might enjoy it, how could I resist?

We'll treat it as another publicly staged event. The wealthy donor introducing his fiancée to high-society movers and shakers.

Really, I just want to see her light up again.

I haven't seen her at all since Rick dropped her off yesterday with my credit card tucked in her purse.

I had to assume she went back to that same couture boutique where the staff know her, which is becoming her favorite store.

So I'm a little surprised when my bank alerts ping me with a four-figure purchase at a shop called Luly Yang.

Isn't that a bridal store?

I frown, racking my memory.

My thoughts start spinning, and I shut them down sharply.

Elle's just being Elle.

She'll probably show up in a wedding gown she's torn to shreds and covered in punk swatches of color in a tribute to mideighties Cyndi Lauper.

When Rick brings me to her grandmother's cottage, though, I think she can't find a new way to take my breath away.

Every fucking time, I'm hilariously wrong.

The door to the house opens before Rick turns off the engine on the G80.

I catch a glimmer of light like there's a small sun shining in the entryway of the Lark cottage. One glimpse builds so much breathless anticipation.

I'm barely aware of moving forward until my chest bumps the gate.

Until I behold the sunrise, captured in the shape of a woman.

Her dress is empress waisted, gathered at her ribs in a thin gold band. Her pale skin shines softly above a straight bodice, sheer layers of cream-colored fabric crusted in swirls of glittering gold.

It flares out into gold-embroidery sleeves so small they're almost straps, making celestial patterns down the front of the dress.

From the gathered waist, the dress sheets outward, a subtle flare falling to the floor and trailing around her. Despite its flare, the thin layers of fabric cling to her, offering hints of her thighs, her hips.

The hem of the dress is dyed in a soft rose gold ombré, fading up into the ivory of the fabric. The color draws out the whiteness in her skin, accenting her red lips.

Fuck me senseless.

Her hair is pulled up in a loose bun, her neck circled with a delicate golden chain dotted with tiny moons. There's a matching bracelet swinging from her right wrist.

Her makeup is fresh faced, dewy, and instead of her usual boldness, she's painted her lids in a pink-and-gold gradient.

This woman is the entire dawn.

I can't fucking breathe as I look at her.

I don't know—I just know if she kisses me tonight, I might be trapped in her spell forever.

Ever since Charisma's death, I've sworn I'll never love again—if you could even call what we had love. I swore I'd definitely never trust again. Never let anyone else past the walls and barbed wire that keep me safe from more agony.

Now I, August Marshall, am a damn liar.

I can't deny how much my heart drums for Elle Lark.

Thankfully, she breaks the silence with a shy sound, ducking her head. She lingers in the doorway, fingering her skirt.

"It's dragging on the floor," she murmurs, giving it a small swirl that shows off her glittering heels in pale rose gold straps. "I'm afraid of getting it dirty."

I pull the gate open immediately.

"Let me." Wild horses couldn't stop me from going to her.

Rick leans out the driver's side window of the vehicle. "Sir, I can—"

"I've got it," I snap. I don't even look back at him.

I'm not letting another man touch her.

Only me.

I'm staring like an adolescent kid as I hasten up the walk to the front step.

I'm an awestruck fool, but tonight I'll suck it up and be foolish if I must.

And I feel wonderfully stupid as I adjust my tuxedo to sink down on one knee, gathering her skirt carefully. I layer the trailing end over my arm like a bridal train.

Just a glimpse of her legs, slender and enticing.

My heart drums harder, teasing my dick to full attention, before I stand and make myself look away from her legs, instead meeting those tiger-gold eyes.

"There," I say, careful not to lift her skirt too high, holding the fabric delicately. "I'll try not to walk too quickly."

"Thank you." There's something softer about her tonight. She looks at me through long lashes dusted in gold and smiles. "You look really nice in a tux."

"I'm just another penguin now." I grin at the irony. "Perhaps I would've been more striking if I'd mirrored Inky's patterns." I turn to escort her down the walk, where Merrick waits with the rear door open. "No one will even look at me, Elle. Not standing next to you."

Shit, I can't let myself look at her, but her airy gasp catches, perfectly timed with the erratic rhythm of my heart.

I'm so damned tangled up inside, and for once, I'm glad.

It's hard to remember she isn't truly mine tonight.

That this is all just a game.

Not when her warmth walks so close to me, and I want to feel her skin so badly.

Soon we're at the car, shut up inside. The silence as Rick pulls into traffic is less awkward and more anticipatory.

Elle laughs, leaning against the door.

Her skirt fills the space between us, stretched along the seat to keep from dragging on the floor.

"We're not looking at each other. Don't tell me we got all dressed up in our fanciest clothes to ignore each other? Is that a rich people thing?"

It's an August thing,I think, but I don't say it.

I glance at her, quirking my lips. "You have a point. We're acting like high school kids on their way to prom."

"Ugh, we are." She bounces to face me, drawing one leg up under her dress and leaning toward me. "Isn't it fun, though? To feel all jittery again. To feel a little shy to look at each other just because we're wearing such nice stuff."

"I am not shy," I grumble.

But damn her, she's right.

It's hard to look at her because every time I do my entire body pulses, and I don't just mean my cock.

"You're shy," she teases, poking my cheek.

I turn toward her quickly and snap my teeth at her fingertip.

Elle jerks back, her eyes widening before she erupts into laughter. "God, you really are a wild animal!"

"I am no such thing."

She parts her lips—but if she's started to say something, she stops.

I don't need to hear it.

We're both thinking it.

I was an animal that night, wasn't I?

Heat roars through me, and I have to look away from her again.

"Hate these things." I clear my throat, tugging at the band around the neck of my tuxedo.

"Then why wear it?"

"It's a must for these stuffy-ass events. Full black-tie formal."

Elle makes an odd sound that's half scoff, half giggle. "Sounds like you don't want to go."

"I don't."At least, not for the reasons that have anything to do with more political BS.

"Huh."

I feel something prodding my arm and look down.

Elle pokes the crook of my elbow.

Over and over again, like she can't keep her hands still and has to occupy them doing something.

Pretty little weirdo.

"If you don't want to go," she asks, cocking her head and still poking me, "why are we going?"

"I thought—" With a growl, I stop and catch her hand, holding her fingers firmly. "I thought you might enjoy it more than annoying me."

Elle's grin says I've played right into her hands. Or played her hand right into mine.

Whatever.

"I won't have any fun if you're miserable, August. Can't say I'm much for big speeches either."

"So what? That's every day of the week that ends in y."

"Liar." Laughing, she twists in the seat, but somehow she has her back against my side, my arm wrapped around her, my hand still her prize. She tilts her head back against my shoulder, looking at me upside down.

Again, I'm awestruck by both her frailty and her warmth—and the way my body burns everywhere for her slender, sleek curves. "Where would you rather be tonight? If it was just you, and you'd skipped the fundraiser ... what would you be doing?"

"Hm." I run my thumb idly along the side of her hand as I think.

"Reading at home," I conclude. "Watching the moon over the waves."

"Then let's go do that! We'll watch the waves all dressed up, and you can read to me."

I cock my head. She can't be serious.

"That does sound like a better way to spend a beautiful evening," I admit slowly.

"So what's stopping you?"

"An overdeveloped sense of responsibility, for one."

The kitten's eyes glitter with mischief.

"Dude, live a little. Play hooky with me."

I tilt my head. "You really don't mind putting on that dress just to sit in my living room and read a book?"

"I really don't," Elle answers with frank sincerity. "I don't fit in with your fancy crowd anyway. I just thought you wanted to go, so I did. Plus, I got to see you dressed up." Her eyes crease at the corners. "I also made you blush, so in my opinion the night's already peaked."

Instant scowl.

The girl knows how to push my buttons.

"I did not blush," I grind out.

"Oh? You took one look at me and turned into a human raspberry." Her smile softens and she sighs. "I know you think I'm pretty, August. It's okay. It doesn't have to be a thing. It's just one friend flattering another, and I'm all about the flattery."

I exhale deeply, annoyed that she's already won me over.

"You have absolutely no shame, do you?"

"Teeny bit." She squeezes my hand and lifts the other to pinch her fingers together, barely a micron apart.

This woman is going to drive me out of my ever-loving mind.

I lift my head and look at the privacy divider. It's open just a crack, so he can hear when I call, "Merrick?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Turn at the next light. Take us home."

"Are we dropping Miss Lark off along the way?" Merrick reaches back to push the divider open enough to meet my eyes in the rearview mirror.

"No," I answer, looking down at the little wretch still tucked cozily in the crook of my arm, as if she does this every day. "No, we're not."

Elle grins with a pleased wiggle, burrowing against me.

I have no idea what's going on here.

Still, I don't push her away as Rick changes lanes and takes a sharp turn back toward my little hidden slice of Alki Beach.

The quiet is different then.

Peaceful.

It shouldn't feel so comfortable sitting with Elle like this, but it is.

It's easy to slip into idle thoughts, watching the streetlights pass and cars flowing past us, casually aware of how well she fits against me.

She'll make a place for herself no matter where she goes, and suddenly it's like she's belonged there this whole time.

When Merrick pulls into the small paved lot just off the street in front of my house, I'm almost reluctant to let her go.

He waits patiently while I guide Elle out of the car—and instead of trying to navigate carrying the train of her dress, I just sweep her up in my arms, looping the hem of the dress over my shoulder.

Elle yelps, then laughs, clutching at my jacket.

"You are getting way too used to carrying me around."

"You hardly weigh more than a feather. It's easy." I exchange a brief nod with Merrick and turn to carry her down to the beach and the scattered path of planks leading to my walkway over the water. "You'd have sunk right into the sand in these heels anyway."

"Fair point." Elle pauses, lifting her head and looking up at the night sky. Her eyes close, and an expression of guilty pleasure settles over her face. Soft gold wisps blow loosely over her brow. "Hey, just stay here a minute. It smells nice."

I stop, standing there awkwardly, until her expression draws me back.

Watching her experience the night like she's never smelled the Pacific breeze before. I wonder how long it's been since I stopped to notice it myself.

Yes. I smell that coolness, that crispness, that hint of something like mint and spice, brine and sweet night air.

More than anything, I smell apples.

Her.

Her scent radiates through me like I could cradle her inside me.

Yet I can't even cradle her in my arms for long because I blink, and there's a wriggling bundle against my chest. Knocked out of my reverie, I open my eyes to find Elle squirming forward to hike her dress up and pull at her heels.

I should be used to how spontaneous she is by now.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Taking my shoes off. You're right. They'll sink in the sand." She flashes me a wicked smile. "Put me down and come on."

I know better than to question her at this point.

I wait until she's done yanking her strappy heels off, then set her down on her feet. She immediately drops her shoes and gathers the skirt of her dress up like she's stuffing a load of laundry into her grip, ungainly and eager.

Somehow she goes from ethereal to adorable in two seconds flat.

"Take your shoes off," she orders. The night is in her eyes until blue and hazel war with each other like candles in the sea. "Let's go!"

I have no idea what she's planning.

Not until she goes racing across the pale, gritty sand toward the rolling waves. Her slender feet leave prints behind her.

I stare after her. "Elle, hold up, that's freezing—"

Wasted breath.

With a shake of my head and a sigh, I bend down to pry my dress shoes and socks off, leaving them next to hers. Just for good measure I take off my jacket, cummerbund, and the neck band as well, dropping them in a pile.

Then I do something I've never imagined I'd do in my life.

I follow this wild, reckless woman across the sand, my footprints melding into hers, and go tumbling into the icy waves after her.

It's like sticking my feet into a vat of ice.

I let out a shocked gasp and almost stumble to a halt, while Elle patters a few more steps into the shallows before squealing, her laughter rising up over the night.

"Oh my God, that's cold!" she cries.

"I could've told you that." I take a few steps toward her into calf-deep water that soaks the hems of my slacks, making them cling to my legs like a frigid film. "It's Puget Sound in February. Were you expecting a sauna?"

"Okay, smart-ass." Visibly shivering, Elle takes a few dancing steps backward, the water swirling around her ankles. "Keep being sarcastic and I'll dunk you."

"You will not." I lunge toward her and catch her waist, pulling her against me.

Our warmth collides, two opposing storm fronts swirling around us—body heat and winter waves.

"And you will not go a step more in the dark," I say. "You know what the riptides can be like out there."

"Yeah, I know." Undaunted, she leans into me. She's still holding her dress above the waves, her pretty, slender calves speckled in the dewdrop spatter of sea spray, her curves lush against me. She tilts her head up, asking for a kiss, and I want so much to answer that unspoken request. "But I got you out here, minus the stick up your butt, didn't I?"

That insolent little mouth, pink and full.

Her tits rise in pale arcs above her bodice.

The flicker of her pulse against the thin skin of her throat.

The way I feel her hips so close to mine, our clothing not nearly thick enough to mask that raw heat.

The sound is freezing right now.

And I can't feel a damned thing but fire.

My fingers clench convulsively against her back. The dip of her spine glides against my knuckles. She inhales, her smile fading into confusion, her eyes searching mine.

"August?"

I can't.

But it still kills me to let her go, step back, and take a deep breath of the cutting air to clear my head.

"Apologies," I deflect. "I was worried you'd fall."

A lingering look tells me she doesn't believe me. But she doesn't press, either, letting her smile return as she steps back, spreading her arms and pretending to wobble. Her dress trails into the shallows, swirling around her gracefully and soaking up to the knees, turning almost fully transparent and offering the silhouette of her slim, enticing legs.

"I might," she teases, her eyes wide. "Oh no, whatever would happen if I fell into the murky darkness of these treacherous inch-deep waters?"

I roll my eyes, folding my arms. "You'd be very wet, and I'd have to haul you inside before you wound up with hypothermia."

"Oh no." She feigns pure drama.

Brat.

She tilts a bit more, and the breeze pulls several locks of hair loose, licking the strawberry-gold strands against her neck.

"I'm losing my balance, Rhett. Whatever shall I do? Someone save me—save me! Where is my brave hero?"

This wretched child.

I'm not laughing.

I'm not.

I'm not smiling either.

That feeling pulling at my mouth is purely phantom.

Imaginary.

And I'm most definitely not uncrossing my arms to sweep my hands through the water. My fingers go numb as I splash her.

"I'm not your hero," I say. "I'm the kraken, and you're going under."

Elle shrieks, bursting into laughter as she dances back. Her movements slow with the drag of her wet dress. Her extremely wet dress, the splatters of water hitting her chest and stomach in splotches that offer tempting views.

Pale skin.

Lacy underthings.

Apparently, I'm the architect of my own doom because it's damned impossible to look away from her.

"You jerk," she sputters, tugging where her dress sticks to her skin. "Don't you dare do that again."

"Miss Eleanor Lark," I say, stalking closer, "you should know by now that I don't take well to being ordered around."

She freezes. "Oh shit."

"‘Oh shit,' indeed."

There's a frozen moment when we hold still like we're hunter and prey. Then with another yelping laugh she turns and sprints along the shore, flitting in and out of the rolling waves and kicking up arcs of spray, her fingers fumbling with her dress to hike it up and free her legs.

I give her a second's head start before I dart after her.

There's no hope for her to outpace me. Not with my longer legs and that dress tangling her up and weighing her down.

I let her stay ahead of me anyway.

I can't believe I'm enjoying this.

I'm fucking laughing, unrestrained, until I'm winded whenever she glances over her shoulder to see how close I am, yelps, then sprints faster with laughter trailing behind her.

The back of her dress is scooped enough for the delicate lines of her shoulder blades to entice me, the channel of her spine glittering with kicked-up spray like clear pearls. Her hair comes looser from its pins until it's a banner, begging me to reach out and wrap that sunset gold in my fingers.

I'm almost on her.

Ready to catch her.

When her foot catches on something, and this time her yelp isn't so playful.

It's panicked as she goes tumbling forward, her arms flailing out.

I'm there in a heartbeat, one last lunge of speed.

Diving, I catch Elle around the waist and pull her up—but her momentum has us both, and I can only twist, using my body as a cushion for her as we spill down on the sand.

I land on my back hard, but not painfully, the damp sand absorbing much of the blow.

Elle comes crashing down on top of me, her elbow catching a glancing blow against my ribs before she goes sprawling.

We're soaked in an instant—lying in the waves, with the water rushing up to our waists and then receding.

All I can feel is her.

She molds wetly to me like we're melting into each other. Dissolving in the water, caramelizing in the heat of our flesh, and as she inhales sharply and pushes herself up with her hands braced against my chest, I know she feels it too.

Her skin is spangled in diamonds—wet spray drenching everywhere, turning her into a pale sugar jewel. Her soaked dress looks clinging and completely transparent now, offering me a mouthwatering view of everything I've been craving since I found out what she tastes like, what she feels like, what I've been struggling to pretend means nothing all fucking night.

Her mouth glistens as her lips part.

Her eyes are golden witchfire.

And her flesh is so damn soft in my hands, where I instinctively gripped her hips—and now I have zero intention of letting go.

I try to be practical.

Try to rein myself in, when there's nothing stopping my cock from taking what's mine.

"You all right?" I manage. The words scorch my breath into sparks.

"Uh-huh," she answers—dazed, raspy.

There's a trembling silence.

She should get off me. I should lift her away.

But our eyes lock.

And then there's no hope left for us.

I don't know if I kiss her first or she kisses me.

I just know my hands are tangled in her wet hair, stroking it back from her face, pulling her against me as I seize her mouth.

"Elle," I whisper.

She answers with a needy moan, wrapping her arms around my neck, pulling herself against me until we're all friction and burning skin and wildness that could steam the ocean dry.

Her hunger is a challenge, baiting me to meet her ferocity as she kisses me hard, her tongue sliding against my mouth and inside to tangle and twine with mine—until she gasps as I tumble her over on her back, pinning her down and taking the upper hand.

Her mouth is mine.

Soon, all of her.

No more banter tonight.

No more defiance.

No more play.

I'm serious as hell as I subdue her with slow thrusts and firm strokes of my tongue, nipping her bottom lip just to feel its ripeness.

I taunt her with long, lingering licks and swift flicks against the tender flesh inside her mouth.

Until she goes soft underneath me, whimpering with delight.

Until she arches up, and fuck, I can almost fit between her thighs. The wet fabric clings to us both, this simulation of fucking that tortures us with denial.

It hurts.

It hurts that every time I thrust my tongue inside her mouth, I'm not thrusting in her, and I need something to take the edge off.

My fingers catch her dress.

I curse how long it is as I hike it up, up, peeling the wetness away from her skin until I can touch her naked waist.

Her ribs.

Her breasts, peeling the damp bra away to knead them against my palms.

I groan with every liquid roll of flesh spilling over my fingers.

And I nearly burst when her sounds turn high and needy, sugar drops of her pleasure poured between our crushing kisses.

Everything is slick.

Her.

Me.

Everywhere our flesh glides together, where our need meets.

I flick her nipples with my thumbs and she bites me, begging my name in a ragged groan and bruising my lip. I rock my hips against hers, and her body meets mine, pleading with her legs spreading and her thighs flanking my hips.

I can't fucking stand it anymore.

It's too much sensation, the sand and the waves, the night breeze and the burn of her skin, the taste of her and the desire flaming through me to leave nothing but ashes behind.

I feel like I'm dying and coming back to life.

I don't know.

I don't care—

I just need her.

So I plunge deeper into her mouth, chasing every taste of her, then pull back as I feather one hand down over her smooth stomach and find the line of her panties. When my fingers brush between her legs, I know it's not just the ocean water leaving her soaked.

"Elle," I whisper, almost begging.

Begging her to let me off my leash.

Her eyes slip open.

She's intensely beautiful beneath the starlight, disheveled against the sand, this wild creature of the night.

No one's ever looked at me with her softness before.

Like she sees past my issues, past my rough edges, and she'd pull them in and dull their sharpness until I can't hurt her anymore.

She curls her fingers against the back of my neck, making me shudder with her delicate touch stroking against my skin.

"Please," she whispers. "Even if it's the only time ..."

It can't be.

I won't let it be.

But I can't make that promise in stone either.

I can only steal the plea from her lips in another fierce kiss.

I can only glide my palm down her thigh, pulling it against me, spreading her open.

I can only slip her panties aside, rip my slacks open, fit flesh to flesh.

As she inhales, tensing, holding herself against me with her mouth liquid and her flesh squeezing the head of my cock, I do it.

I surge.

It feels like I'm one with the waves as I thrust deep inside her, needing her so much that I can't wait.

Can't hold back.

Can't build up to it.

Can't go slow.

Not when I need to feel her wrapped around every inch of me, taking me in, taking me home.

Elle cries against my lips, clutching me tighter, digging her nails in my neck. I let out a growl as I pull her into me, moving her body, drawing her into my rhythm.

The rhythm of the tide and the stars spinning overhead, the rhythm of my beating heart, the rhythm of desire.

This is more than pleasure now.

More than crude lust.

More than sex, when I feel her in my bones and she fills the cavities inside me.

I can't rip my eyes off her to save my life.

Her pleasure is incandescent—the way she writhes, reaches for me, gasping with every deep-rolling thrust that brings us together in this fiercest way.

We are the night.

We are the waves.

We are the lashing wind, caught in this primal dance and thrashing wildness.

Her tight, gripping body is sheer heat, sheer madness.

A dark fire inside her that I chase to feel again and again, plunging into her, searching, needing to find and grasp something that I can keep for my own.

I'm so close.

So fucking close and almost reaching, almost there, almost—

Fuck!

She lets out a cry as I fuck her over the edge.

That tightness squeezing my cock is crushing; the heat is scorching, and the wetness makes me glide so sweetly inside her—

Goddamn!

I find that dark fire—or it finds me.

With one more savage thrust, I push to her depths, everything swelling as my spine ignites.

Then Elle Lark consumes me with the ocean.

I'm still growling and kissing the sweetness from her lips when I come, making her mine this once.

Just for tonight.

And I fall with her.

I fall apart with the violent rip of pleasure tearing us in half. Mating with pure fire, unafraid of the consequences.

I give in and let myself be utterly consumed by the burn.