8. CHAPTER EIGHT

After their Funky Peach Summer Sour, Clint opened up a Wild and Light Crisp Apple ale, and they enjoyed that as they devoured episode after episode of Elementary. Then he popped the cap on a Hippy Island Hibiscus IPA, and by that third beer she was in a blissful state of drunk drowsiness. Not that it took much to get her there since she rarely drank more than a glass or two of anything ever.

She was grateful that he didn't press her about her family or her past life.

Besides her brother, she wasn't in contact with anyone from St. Louis.

And she preferred it that way.

Her PR team was top-notch at keeping her past out of the tabloids, off the internet, and they squashed anything that even mentioned Brooke's parents. Several cease and desist letters went out monthly, and so far, they'd worked.

But now that the world thought she was dead, would those letters and her PR team continue to work?

It was nearly midnight when Clint rebandaged her feet, putting the ointment on first, then gallantly carried her up the stairs to bed. He waited for her to brush her teeth, wash her face and use the bathroom, then he set her down as if she were made of porcelain on the guest bed. In her slightly beer-tipsy state, she half expected him to lean down and kiss her forehead. Though she probably would have grabbed him by the collar and brought his mouth to hers instead.

But he didn't.

He set her down, wished her goodnight, and retreated to his own room. Leaving her in her bed, sexually frustrated, more than a little buzzed and confused about life.

She slept through the Monday morning noise of Talia getting ready for school, and didn't wake up until she heard Clint climb the stairs. Then, like some kind of invalid, she called out to him.

He knocked on her bedroom door.

"Come in," she said, hating that she couldn't even get out of bed.

Ugh. Doctor's orders.

"Good morning," he said, busting out that dimple, causing her cheeks to get hot.

"I have to pee," she said frantically.

His brows shot up his forehead, and he swooped into the room and scooped her up.

He smelled incredible as she looped her arms around his neck and he carried her across the hall to the bathroom. "I hate that I can't walk," she said with a deep exhale through her nose.

"It's not for forever. I do wonder if it might be easier if you slept in my room."

She nearly gave herself whiplash and knocked his chin with her forehead as she glanced up at him so fast.

"I mean, I'll sleep in the guest room," he blurted. "At least you'll be in one place and not have to open the door and crawl across the hallway."

The idea of sleeping in Clint's bed sent a thrill chasing through her, but she quelled it with a pressed smile. "I think I'll be okay. Hopefully, it's just for one more night."

"Well, the offer is there." He glanced at the tub. "You going to be okay?"

Her brows squished together and she blinked a bunch of times as she thought about the difficulty of getting across the bathroom from the toilet to the shower, and how she would stand in the shower.

"Just use my soaker tub again," he said, leaving the bathroom and marching across the hall to his bedroom and into his lavish en suite. He plunked her on the toilet, which had the lid down. "Or my big stand-up shower. It has a bench. I'll stay upstairs. You can call me when you're ready."

He turned to go, but an involuntary whimper burbled in her throat before she could stop it and he spun back around. "What's wrong?"

Shit.

"Nothing," she said quickly.

He gave her a curious look, but then turned to go and closed the door behind him.

She used the toilet, having been near bursting by the time he set her down, and sighed as she hopped like an idiot to the sink to wash her hands.

"Everything okay in there?" he called through the door.

"Just peachy," she said. "Funky Peachy Summer Sour ale, in fact."

His chuckle caused her nipples to pebble beneath Clint's tank top.

She cringed at the fact that she'd been wearing the same clothes since yesterday.

And it'd be another day until the stuff she ordered arrived, so she would probably have to make do with more of his clothes.

"Need help getting to the tub or shower?" he asked through the door.

No.

But also, yes.

She hated being so helpless. But she really liked it when Clint picked her up and carried her around. She told the independent side of her to be quiet and let the damsel in distress that panted like a pathetic puppy in the corner, finally have her moment. "Yes, please," she whispered.

Besides, Clint seemed to be getting something out of being the hero. They were both benefiting here. If she thought for a moment that he considered her an inconvenience or a burden, she'd make sure she did everything on her own. But something told her he got something out of this, too.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh-huh."

He opened the door to find her standing at the sink, balancing on the tippy toes of one foot, doing her best to stay off the bandages.

"Tub or shower?" he asked.

"Tub, please. I need to soak. Everything is still really achy." Not seeming bothered at all, he looped one arm under her legs, the other around her back and with zero effort and no manly grunts, he carried her over to the soaker tub. "In you go," he said playfully. "I assume you can figure it out from here?"

"I think so," she replied.

He set her down carefully, but when he went to pull away, she yelped.

"What's wrong?" he paused with his arms still around her.

"I ... I think my hair is caught on your button." Like yesterday, he wore a sexy plaid button up and jeans. That seemed to be his go-to wardrobe.

"Shit. Okay. Sorry." He leaned back, but she yelped again.

"How did this happen?" She glanced down between them, but somehow her hair had wrapped around his button enough that she could barely tilt her head to see what was going on without it pulling on her scalp.

"Hang on," he said, letting go of her, but remaining bent over. He brought his hands between them and started to work the buttons free of their holes, however, somehow, maybe it was a ghost that shoved him, or he lost his footing, but just as he released the last button, Clint lost his footing and he fell on top of her, face-first into her breasts. "Shit!"

His arms flailed as he blindly searched for the edges of the tub with his hands.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, still slightly smothered by her chest.

He must have really lost his balance because, as she tried to help him, she noticed over his shoulder that one foot was now in the air.

To be fair, it was a really deep tub.

He finally hoisted himself up by the edges of the tub, but her hair remained tangled in his button.

Clint's heavy breathing stirred dangerous things inside of her, not to mention his manly woodsy scent and the heat radiating off his body.

"Fuck, Brooke, I'm so sorry," he intoned. They were practically nose to nose.

And at that moment, she completely forgot about her cut-up feet, her hair tangled around his button and the fact that he'd just left a face print in her breasts. All she wanted was his lips on hers. His body on hers.

She swallowed and her gaze fell to his mouth.

His lips were full and hedged by his nicely trimmed dark beard.

Licking her lips, she pulled her eyes from his mouth. "It's okay. Total accident ... right?"

"Of course it was," he exclaimed, almost like she'd questioned his chivalry. Then he peeled off his shirt over his head without even completely unbuttoning it. "There." He stood up to his full height, his face flushed, chest lifting and falling rapidly beneath his ribbed white tank top. The tattoo on his chest and along his collarbone peeked out again. This time, she could have sworn she saw the top of a bird's head. An eagle maybe? He also wore a chain necklace, and from what she could tell by the imprint beneath his top, he wore dog tags.

The tank top wasn't completely opaque and the shadow of the tattoo, which appeared to be quite large, was noticeable the longer she stared at his well-defined chest.

With her pulse racing and temperature ratcheting up to volcanic levels, she made quick work untangling her mane from the buttons, then thrusted the cotton button-up back toward him. "Thank you. Sorry."

"I'm sorry," he said, accepting the shirt. "I lost my footing. The tub was deeper than expected when I bent over. I ... I never meant ..." His gaze landed on her chest, and he scratched the back of his neck before looking away. "I didn't mean ..."

"It's okay." She needed to put the poor man out of his misery. "Accidents happen. It's all good. Thank you for carrying me up here."

Clint's grim smile told her he was going to be mentally flagellating himself once he left the bathroom. Meanwhile, she would spend her bath wishing he'd taken it further. Wishing he'd kept his face there, or better yet, moved his mouth higher. Like to her lips.

He walked over to the cupboard where the towels were kept and grabbed her two big fluffy white ones, along with a washcloth.

"What time are you heading to work?" she asked, worried that she was monopolizing his regular working hours.

"Normally, I'm there by now. But I'll keep myself busy here until you're ready to get out. Not a big deal." His smile wasn't convincing or reassuring at all. And he left her zero room to argue because he closed the door, leaving her with her cut-up and infected feet, confusion and arousal in an empty bathtub.

A bathtub that definitely had enough room for two.

Clint slammed the heel of his palm against his forehead. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He bounded down the stairs to make himself busy.

Not that he really had anything to do but wait.

And visualize Brooke upstairs in his tub again.

She really needed to stay off her feet.

Grayson was right. Some of the cuts were infected, and it had to be because she walked on them, opening up the fresh scabs and not letting them heal properly.

So if he needed to play babysitter to the starlet and keep her off her feet, he would.

The siren call of his beer down at the pub grew louder, though.

A text message made his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he fished it out just as he made his way into the kitchen. It was from Bennett. Island elders meeting is tonight. Bonn Remmen had all his affairs in order. It's an open meeting anyone can attend to hear the reading of the will.

Well, shit.

They'd definitely have to go to that. Not only to pay proper respects to Bonn, the elders and others close to Bonn, but to also get the scoop on the fate of Bonn's land.

He replied to Bennett. We'll definitely go.

Bennett sent a thumbs up.

He'd already cleaned up breakfast dishes and put away the carafe for his French press, but Brooke would probably be hungry, so he went about making some scrambled eggs and turkey sausages for her. Cooking would be a mediocre distraction to what currently paraded through his mind, which was intrusive and increasingly suggestive images of her naked in his tub.

Then he thought back to that temporary but very memorable moment where his face was smashed perfectly by her breasts. She smelled so fucking good, and her tits were so incredibly plush and soft.

And now he had a boner.

Just fucking great.

Grumbling to himself about how he was a forty-four-year-old man and not a fifteen-year-old boy with an uncontrollable libido, he nearly missed Brooke calling out for him.

He took the stairs two at a time and had to stop himself from bursting into the bathroom. Composing himself—somewhat—and clearing his throat, he made sure his dick was behaving itself. Then he rapped his knuckles against the door. "I'm here."

"I'm ready to get out," she said.

He slowly opened the door to find Brooke, wrapped up like a goddess at the spa in both towels. One was around her hair, all twisted up, the other around her body. She sat in the now empty tub and the room smelled like his body wash.

"All clean?" he asked like an idiot, resisting the urge to slam the heel of his palm into his forehead again. For one, she wasn't a child, and for two, could his question be any more rhetorical? He became a blithering idiot around this woman. She probably wanted to get as far away from him as humanly possible.

"That was so nice," she said, wrapping her arm around his neck as he bent down to scoop her up. "Thank you."

He carried her out to his bedroom and plunked her on the bed. "I checked the tracking for the stuff you ordered yesterday. It's en route and should be here by ten tomorrow morning. So only one more day of wearing all my clothes. If you're okay with that?"

Her smile was sweet. "It's totally okay. I appreciate everything you're doing for me, Clint. Truly."

He went to his dresser and pulled out a pair of dark green board shorts with a drawstring and a black ribbed tank top. Then he set them down for her on the bed. "I'll leave you to get dressed," he said, exiting his room quickly. He hung out in the hallway and within a minute, she told him he could come back in. His phone vibrated in his pocket as he opened the door.

No spare crutches at the clinic or anywhere on the island it would appear. Grayson texted. I'll keep looking.

Clint made a face at his phone as he read the message and a little thrill rippled through him. He could carry Brooke for a little longer.

"What's that face for?" she queried, pulling on the last sock.

He shook his head and stowed his phone back in his pocket. "Oh nothing. Just Grayson letting me know he can't find a spare pair of crutches anywhere so it looks like you're at my mercy for a little while longer."

Her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile, and that made another surge of excitement race from his chest to his toes then back up where it settled in his groin.

"I'd really like to brush my hair," she said, as he scooped her into his arms and carried her out into the hallway. "I've just kept it in a braid, but I'd like to give it a comb if I can? I used some of the conditioner you had there. I hope that's okay?"

"Of course. I'll grab Talia's." Still holding onto Brooke, he ducked them both into Talia's room and grabbed her detangling brush off her dresser before heading down the stairs. "We need to redress your feet, too."

"I checked them out in the tub and I think they're looking better." Her pout was adorable. "It was so stupid of me to go walking up the hillside yesterday. Every step hurts, but I just ..." She swallowed and averted her gaze. "I just wanted something normal. And I love just ... walking." Her cheeks turned pink, and she glanced away from him. "God, that sounds so stupid. But I go for long walks every day. Whether it's in my neighborhood, or around the hotel where I'm staying for a film shoot. I make a point of just getting out and exploring." Rolling her lips inward, she pulled in a deep breath from her nose. "I did it a lot as a kid. It was easier to just ... get out of the house, get out of the way, than stick around."

Intrigue flashed inside him. There was a new puzzle piece about Brooke's past.

Did she have a complicated home life as a child? Add in that she didn't appear to trust the police and only had her brother left ...

What did all of that mean?

Were her parents abusive? Were they dead, or just dead to her?

And why didn't she trust the police?

Her little snippet about her childhood was an important corner piece he could now add to the jigsaw puzzle that was Brooke Barker.

"You probably think I'm more foolish than the kids. I feel like Talia would know better than to go trekking around the hillside with cuts all over her feet."

He gave her a playful look. "Have you met my child? She would do it in bare feet. At least you had socks and my sandals on. Weren't they way too big for you?"

"They were, yeah. My feet kept slipping out of them. It was still really stupid. And now you're left carrying me so that I don't develop necrotizing fasciitis or gangrene."

Clint snorted and set her down on the couch. "I'll make sure neither of those things happen. And, for what it's worth, I don't mind carrying you."

Her huff of disbelief had him chuckled.

"You just need to play damsel in distress for another day or two, then you and your animal sidekicks can go frolic in the wildflowers all you want."

"I have no animal sidekicks. What kind of a Disney princess does that make me?"

"A crappy one."

She snorted. "Exactly. I need a pigeon or a toad or something." Her sigh was sad. "I mean, honestly, I really want a dog, even though I know that's a boring animal sidekick. But I'm not picky. Chicken, cricket, even a worm."

She was funny. And he liked that she could poke fun at herself. Jacqueline had never been very good at that. She took things really seriously. "As long as we listen to Grayson—I mean Dr. Malone—you'll be recruiting animal sidekicks and frolicking in no time."

While she brushed her hair, he went to the kitchen and retrieved the eggs and sausage he made her, along with a cut-up orange and some tea.

"But even Disney princesses must eat." He handed her the plate, set the tea on the end table, then he returned to the kitchen and brought back a tub of warm salt water.

"I really did hit the jackpot washing up on your beach, didn't I?" she asked, her mouth full of eggs as he gently picked up her feet and put them in the warm water.

"Well, I don't know about that ..."

Her gaze hit him hard and hot and he swallowed as he sat back on the couch, watching her eat.

"No, Clint. I did. You've gone above and beyond in every way, and I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you."

He smiled at her but didn't say anything. Because what could he say?

That he was doing this more for himself than for her?

That the guilt of Jacqueline's death still hung heavy across his heart and as he helped Brooke, some of that guilt-squeeze eased enough in his chest so he could breathe without strain. Because that's what it was.

Even though he hadn't caused Jacqueline's death, he still felt guilty over it.

He still felt guilty over the way things were between them when she left. That neither of them seemed to have the courage to just say enough was enough and end the marriage as friends, rather than continue on and become enemies.

He loved her, but he hadn't been in love with her in a while. And she hadn't been in love with him for a while, either. She resented him for keeping their family on the "boring" island. And even though he loved where he lived and where he was raising Talia, he did feel guilt over putting his feelings above Jacqueline's. She hadn't been happy for a while, and he ignored it. He convinced himself she'd eventually learn to love the simpler, quieter life. She just needed to give it time.

His dark thoughts were interrupted—thankfully—by the ping of the tablet on the end table.

Brooke's eyes went wide at the same time his did.

They were both thinking the same thing. Her brother. She'd left the browser with her new email address open, so there was no other ping the tablet could make. He reached over and detached it from the charging cord, then handed it to her. Her hands trembled slightly as she set down her plate on her lap and took the tablet. "Do you think ...?"

Clint shrugged. "Gotta check to make sure."

Her throat undulated, and she nodded, sliding her long, slender fingers across the screen. "God, this is weird. My heart is hammering so wildly right now."

He took the plate from her lap and put it on the coffee table, then she slid closer to him so he could see the screen, too.

And there it was.

An email from Rocco.

She hadn't even opened it yet, and the tears were already starting to trickle down her face. "This is really weird ..." She sniffled. "Why am I crying?"

"Because your brother just found out you're alive. And it's the first person from your life that you're making contact with. It's a big deal."

Her head bobbed, and she opened the email.

Thank God!

Creek! I'm so sorry. I'm booking a flight today. I should be there by tomorrow morning. Then I'll come find you. We'll figure this out.

When I heard the news on social media, I nearly killed a macaw I was treating.

I love you and we will figure this out.

If our shitty childhood and being raised by that bastard taught us anything, it's that we're resilient, strong and we don't take crap from anybody. Especially bullies.

I'll email again when my flight is confirmed.

-Stono

Shitty childhood.

Bastard.

Bullies.

More pieces, this time edges, fit into place.

"How'd he know you were here?" Clint asked.

She smiled through tears. "He doesn't know I'm on the island. But I fell into the water in Washington State off Seattle, so he knows that I'm here. I also used some secret hints that only he would know. We'll email more details later." Now the tears were falling with abandon down her face, but she was smiling. Sucking in stuttered breaths, her lips trembled, and she swallowed hard.

Clint hesitated for only half a second before he wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. She turned into him immediately, her fingers tangled in his tank top, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder then her body shook with sobs.

He rubbed her back.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," she blubbered. "But knowing that my brother knows I'm alive just ... that he's not grieving me ... that he's not alone ..." She glanced up at him with red-rimmed, wet eyes. "It's just me and Rocco."

Clint held her tighter to him, tucking his chin on the top of her head, because if she looked at him like the way she was looking at him for much longer, he was going to kiss her. Something in her eyes—the relief maybe—said she sought more than just comfort. "The tears don't have to make sense. That's what I tell Talia all the time. Sometimes tears just don't make sense, but they need to happen in order for the world to make sense again."

She pried her head out from under his chin, and he took a deep breath, stealing himself and his resolve.

She was vulnerable.

She was confused.

She was a castaway the world thought was dead.

And more than anything, she was temporary. All the thoughts cannoning around in his head were unwise. They were fueled by unbridled lust, by loneliness, and his own warped hero-complex. He needed to keep a firm head on his shoulders and not let his dick do the decision making.

But when her sad eyes met his, and she cupped his cheek, everything he told himself to do, all the mental coaching on how to behave, dissolved into the ether like a puff of smoke. "You're a good man, Clint McEvoy," she whispered. "And an incredible father."

Then, before he could respond, or try to maneuver some space between them, she lifted up and pressed her lips to his.

They were salty from her tears, but soft and oh so warm.

The kiss was gentle. Delicate almost. He could sense her hesitation and when she pulled away and opened her eyes, there was worry there. Like she'd overstepped and read things wrong.

She hadn't.

Not in the slightest.

He studied her green eyes. They were bright and the shade of hanging moss. Her slightly swollen lips trembled, and her gaze shifted back and forth across his face, searching for an answer. For reassurance.

He knew he shouldn't.

But every cell in his body wanted to.

Every cell in his body needed to.

Cupping her face, he tipped his head down and took her mouth again.

Just like the last kiss, this one was slow and sweet. But when she released his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, it grew hotter, harder and more deliberate.

His heart drummed a heavy beat against his ribcage, and his dick pressed impatiently against his jeans as she deepened the kiss, pushing his lips further apart with her tongue and taking control.

He welcomed her into his lap as she stepped out of the tub of warm salt water and straddled him, her knees on either side of his thighs. She rocked against him, feeling his erection along her inner thigh and moaning.

That sexy, feminine moan dissolved the last of his resolve, and he grabbed the back of her head with a growl and bucked up against her.

She pulled away and for the briefest of seconds; he thought she was having second thoughts, but when her eyelids dropped to half-mast and her gaze raked him from his cock to his hairline, her chest heaving, he read her mind perfectly.

They crashed back together, a messy force of hands peeling away clothing and lips drifting across bare skin. She tore off his tank top and reared back, her eyes zoning in on his tattoo. The eagle, globe and anchor with the small script words Semper Fi underneath.

"You're a marine?" she breathed, touching his tattoo with her soft fingertips, then hesitantly touching his dog tags.

He nodded stiffly, and his voice was hoarse when he said, "I did two tours in Iraq."

She moved her fingers back to his tattoo and lifted her gaze, leaning forward, pressing her lips to his. He tried to move things along faster, but she shook her head and pressed her palm to his tattoo, murmuring, "Uh-uh."

He swallowed hard and sat back against the couch, his hands on her bare hips. She was topless, and he had a hard time keeping his eyes off her tits. The nipples were tight and hard. A muted red, and practically screaming for his mouth.

But she kept her hand on his tattoo. Kept him sitting there, under her spell. Under her control.

Languidly, without a care for time or his angry erection prodding her in the thigh, she kissed across the planes of his face. The corners of his mouth, along his jaw, down his neck, along his collarbone, over the span of his chest. She made a point of pressing a longer kiss to his tattoo, almost as if saying a silent thank you.

Emotion clawed at the back of his throat as he watched her. As she peppered warm kisses over his bicep, picked up his arm and continued to kiss down his forearm until his hand. She pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, then guided his hand to her breast.

He cupped it gently, and she pushed forward, encouraging him to get a little more forceful.

Taking the nipple between his thumb and finger, he gave the nub a small tug, and she moaned again.

Flicking her gaze up to his, her nod barely discernible. But he saw it.

Oh, fuck, did he see it.

He dipped his head and brought the same nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking it with his tongue as Brooke arched her back, letting her hair tumble down behind her.

She pressed her breast into his face and another one of those sexy moans rumbled up from the depths of her throat as she rocked against him.

She drove her fingers into his hair and held him in place. Held his face to her chest. His mouth to her nipple. All he could do was move to the other breast, sucking on that delicious raspberry and reveling in her moans and sharp inhales.

"Clint," she whispered, yanking on his hair, to pull his mouth free and his head up. "Please ..." She bit her bottom lip and glanced down between them to where they were dry humping, almost without even thinking about it. His hips rocked of their own volition, and it seemed hers did, too.

He nodded, and she carefully climbed off him, removing the shorts she wore so that she was very quickly naked. It wasn't like she wore much to begin with. Just shorts and a tank top. No bra, no underwear.

He had a bit more work ahead of him and had to stand up and drop his jeans and boxers. He didn't remove them completely, but once his cock was free—and much happier because of it—he sat back down. She went to climb on, but he stopped her. "I ... I don't think I have any condoms."

"I have an IUD, and as soon as I found Flynn cheating, I got tested and haven't been with anyone since."

"I'm clean," he said, his voice gravelly as his hands found her hips and he guided her back into his lap. "I haven't been with anyone in ... well, we had this discussion last night."

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Wow."

"Yeah," he breathed. "Might be a little rusty."

Her smile took the last remaining molecules of oxygen from his lungs as she lifted onto her knees, reached between them and grabbed his cock, angling it to her center.

When that first bit of wet heat hit his cockhead, he nearly came on the spot.

Holy fuck.

"Hopefully, it'll be like riding a bike," she said, all sexy grins as she sank down, taking all of him inside her.

Her hands found his shoulders, and she started to lift and drop.

It was heaven. Pure. Fucking. Heaven.

She pressed her tits up toward his face, and he dropped his head to capture a nipple again, flicking it with his tongue. But she yanked on his hair hard enough to make him grunt and claimed his mouth again.

This woman took control.

He liked that.

He liked that she initiated things. He wasn't taking advantage of a confused and vulnerable woman. She was leading this. She was setting the pace.

And Brooke's pace seemed to be warp-speed, because as soon as their lips collided, she started to ride him less like a bicycle and more like a mechanical bull.

And the woman knew how to ride a mechanical bull.

She lifted up, then slammed down, her perfect ass hitting his thighs as she took his entire length inside her hot, tight pussy.

He reached around and grabbed those ass cheeks, squeezing them and loving how fucking firm and perfect they were. She said she worked out and he could tell. Everything about Brooke was tight, fit and well taken care of. Her pussy was completely bare, which was probably from laser hair removal or something.

She was still kissing him. Still plundering his mouth. And he was here for it.

He squeezed her ass and bucked up, pushing his tongue against hers, savoring her sweetness, but also really loving how aggressive she could be.

It was a new side to Brooke. And he liked it.

So far, she'd been so reserved and quiet. Almost timid.

But knowing she had this sexy lioness buried deep inside her just turned him on even more. Just added to another one of her layers. It was another piece of the Brooke puzzle, and he was finally getting an idea of who she was.

In control.

All the time.

And the moment she didn't feel that control anymore, she closed off the world. She retreated and put up all her shields.

But now that she knew she could trust Clint, and that her brother was on his way to help, she was letting down her force field. She was showing Clint who she really was. And he really liked the real her. The uninhibited Brooke.

Her tits bounced between them, and her nipples would scrape his chest when she rocked forward. "Oh God," she mewled, breaking the kiss and rocking forward against him even more. "Clint ..."

His lower belly tingled with heat and the growing need to come.

His balls tightened up against his taint, and he pushed his feet harder into the floor.

He was left with minimal mobility in this position, but Brooke didn't care. She just kept riding him. Just kept lifting and dropping. Rocking forward and taking charge.

He moved one hand from her ass cheek to her breast and cupped it, working his finger and thumb over the nipple and tugging just hard enough to earn him that sharp inhale from the woman on top of him.

She tilted her head up to the rafters so her long blonde hair tickled the tops of his thighs, then she paused, squeezed his cock like a vice, and exploded around him.

He made sure to keep his eyes open and watch her as she came undone. As she let every bit of stress, worry and confusion leave her body with each sexy tremble.

"Oh God ..." she cried, her mouth parting as a strangled cry in the back of her throat emerged as no more than a forced, sharped breath.

He smiled and continued to just watch, staving off his own release, even though it pained his balls to do so. But she was exquisite.

An artistic masterpiece.

Her nipples were so peaked and red, it was all he could do not to take one back in his mouth and suck on it. But he also wanted to watch her.

When her climax finally started to recede and she released his cock a little from her vice-like grip, she dropped her chin and looked down at him with glazed eyes full of confusion. "Are you ... did you come? Are you going to come?"

Chuckling at how cute she was with her pink cheeks, puffy lips and sexy bedroom eyes, he nodded. "Just wanted to watch you first. Think you could come again?"

Her eyes widened, and she nodded before she began to bob up and down on his lap again. An impish mewl broke free of her throat. "God, you feel so good ..."

"So do you." He ran his hands from her ass to her hips, running his thumbs along her ribcage. Cupping her breasts, he glanced up at her only to be thrown over that sharp edge when she smiled at him.

He went stiff, shut his eyes and let the ecstasy consume him as his cock pulsed inside the decadent wet heat of Brooke.

The blood whooshing in his ears drowned out all other noise, but after a few heartbeats, it was interrupted by the beautiful sound of Brooke finding yet another release. She squeezed him as she came. As he came. Dropping down even more so she took all of him to the hilt. Her pussy throbbed around him, held on tight and for a brief blip in time, he thought his soul left him.

Everything felt right.

Everything felt perfect.

And if he could just hold on to this moment for eternity, it would all be okay.

But as he reached out to grasp it, to hold on, it started to slip away. Reality came crashing back around him as the pleasure ebbed like the outgoing tide.

He lifted his gaze to focus on Brooke. She had her eyes pinned shut and her mouth open again as she softly rocked against him, riding out the last tremors of her orgasm.

He just took it all in.

Slowly, she blinked open her eyes and tipped her head down, smiling at him in an almost shy, but also coy kind of way.

At that moment, he never wanted to let her go.

He barely knew anything about her, and yet, he didn't care.

She could remain an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and he'd still want to keep her.

But she was temporary and as the euphoria wore off, reality hit him like a baseball bat to the back of his skull. As fun as this was, the only way this could end was in heartbreak.

She would leave, and he and Talia would be left to pick up the pieces.

Because not falling for Brooke seemed impossible.

"Wow," she breathed.

He smiled, but already his heart began to hurt.

She carefully climbed off him, and after he pulled his boxers and jeans back up, he carried Brooke to the powder room downstairs so she could freshen up. They made sure to bring her clothes with her.

Once the bathroom door closed, Clint slammed the heels of his palms into his eyes and backed up until his butt hit the wall.

What the fuck was he doing?

He needed to get out of there.

He needed a reality check and some space. Otherwise, he was just going to want to keep doing what they just did, and they both knew that nothing good could come from such a temporary attachment. As it was, Talia was already head-over-heels for Brooke. It was going to be hard enough for Talia to say goodbye, let alone Clint—and his dick.

She let him know when she was ready to get out, then he opened the door and scooped her up, carrying her back to the couch. He plunked her down, made sure she had the remote, the tablet, fresh tea and water. Then, avoiding eye contact with her, he left.

Was it the cowardly thing to do? Sure.

Color him a coward, then.

But one thing was for sure, he could not, and would not, make that mistake again.

Brooke was temporary. And this life on the island with Talia and his brothers was permanent.

He just needed to accept the fact that he might never find a woman to share this permanency with—as much as he wanted to.