It's enough. I stand and take his hand in mine, and tug. It's like leading a child, hesitant and unsure of himself as we walk through the apartment. But in my room, I drop his hand and stare at him, considering. "Are you sure this is what you want?" I ask. What kind of guy doesn't want sex?
"I want you, Gwen. I've always wanted you," he says, his voice breaking. I step into him, and go up on tiptoes, kissing him. Peter makes a low noise as I trace the curve of his lips, the crooked smirk I know so well. His breathing goes rapid and unsteady as I kiss my way down his throat, sucking at the salty skin, licking over his pulse point. It beats wildly under my tongue, and I feel half drunk on just that, the knowledge that I'm driving him crazy.
Despite his hesitation, I'm still getting under his skin.
"We can stop," I whisper, and thumb one of the buttons of his dress shirt open. "Anytime you want, Peter." I follow my fingers with my lips, tracing a wet path of open kisses down his torso, licking over his abs. Bite down on his pant line, and he thrusts, moaning, into me. I tug sharply on his belt. "Off," I snap. Peter's eyes open, and there isn't any fear, any hesitation. All I see is hunger as hot as my own, and I smile, satisfied. I reach for the hem of my t-shirt, pull it over my head, then reach for my jeans. Peter's hands come down on mine, stilling me.
"Let me," he says hoarsely.
I nod, and he unsnaps my button, the sound making something deep and aching in me clench, hungrily. He eases the zipper down, and slides the jeans off my hips. Crouches there, staring at me. I'm absurdly grateful I decided to wear the matching black lace panties and bra, with hot pink accents. "Gwen," he says, and I shudder. He says my name like a prayer, a chant, a whispered plea—like it is everything he's ever wanted and never dared believe he'd get.
He leans into me, kissing me, his tongue running over the black lace, and I groan, my knees threatening to buckle. His hands are cupping my ass, fingers digging in to add just the right amount of pressure, holding me immobile as his teeth come into play, nipping at me through the lace. It's not enough—it's too much and not enough and I can't breathe enough to form a coherent thought and ask for more.
Then my panties are gone, ripped from me with a violent jerk, and I sob as his lips cover me, his tongue slipping through my folds, lips closing over my clit and sucking, his fingers on my ass tightening. His voice is hot in my ears, and I can't do anything, can't move, can't ride the tongue that's fucking into me, can't squirm away from the pleasure that's too there, too intense, too much and—
His fingers push into me, and he bites the soft skin of my inner thigh. I scream, my body clenching, the walls of my pussy spasming around his fingers buried deep inside me. I scream as the orgasm rips through me in a wave of pleasure and memories I don't want to fight, as Peter's lips cover me again, coaxing the pleasure higher. Until one orgasm rolls into another, and I can't see through the sensation.
He murmurs something, and I hear the rip of foil.
His weight on me feels right. Like coming home, like something I've missed and been too stupid to remember I've missed. He hesitates, hovering over me, and I roll my hips, reaching between us to stroke him. "We don't have to, Peter. Not if you don't want this."
His face spasms, pleasure and fear, and he groans, thrusting into my touch. "I want you, pixie. I would give all of it up, for you."
I don't understand. I don't know what he means, but then he thrusts into me, and my breath catches. Emotions play across his face, and I roll my hips again, taking him deeper, slowly. He thrusts again, until he's seated deep in my pussy, leaving me so full I can't breathe. His head drops, to rest in the crook of my shoulder, and I pet his back, easing the shivers that are shaking him.
“Fuck, Gwendolyn,” he gasps, and I laugh, high on sheer feminine power. He eases back, and thrusts hard, trying to find his rhythm. There’s a lack of finesse, a hesitant clumsiness that is endearing and sexy as fuck. I twist my hips and Peter surrenders easily, rolling to his back and letting me straddle him.
Sprawled on his back, his red hair laying like silk on my pillow, his eyes half-closed and hungry, his chest sheened with sweat—he looks right, and hot, and my pussy clenches, just staring at him. He groans, his head kicking back, and I lift, riding him slowly, twisting my hips in tiny circles as I fuck him. His fingers are clenching, rhythmic on my hips.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs softly, his voice laced with wonder. Like he didn’t mean to say it. I shudder.
No one has ever looked at me like this. Like I am the whole of the world, everything good and perfect. Like I hung the stars and the moon. Peter doesn’t make love to me, his hands skating over my skin, stroking over my skin. His lips trace over my collar bone, his fingers tug at my nipples, never stopping, never in one place long enough for me to do anything but squirm in anticipation and pleasure.
This isn’t sex. I could never call it anything so simple as a fuck. It’s a homage—he’s pouring everything into this. I don’t know how I know, except the shine of his eyes as he thrusts into me and whispers my name.
The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, obliterating everything but the pleasure, tossing me in a maelstrom of sensation. I shudder, going still on him, my head falling forward. The scream is building in my throat as the pleasure whips through me, chasing away every logical thought. I bite his shoulder, hard, to muffle the cry against his skin. Peter groans, thrusts into me again and whispers my name as his cock jerks, following me into the endless swirl of pleasure.
We lie there for a long time, our bodies cooling, until I shiver and Peter makes a disgruntled noise, jerking the blanket up over us. He rolls us to the side, curling around me and giving a soft sigh.
“What are we doing?” I whisper.
Peter laughs, brushing my hair back. “What we were always meant to do,” he says simply. “What does that mean?” I ask, leaning back in his arms.
He takes a deep breath, and I see it—the questions and answers to all of his secrets, sitting there waiting to be spilled.
“You know you don’t need to be afraid of me, don’t you?” he asks, brushing my hair back. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
I nod. If there is anything I’m sure of, it’s that Peter will protect me at all costs.
“When did we know each other? Was it Brecken Ridge?” I ask. His lips twist. “Belle told me. She hates that you followed me, you know.”
“Belle has known me for a long time, as one thing. To see that change—for you—it scares her. It scares a lot of people.”
“Tank?” I ask quietly.
He nods, leaning down and closing his eyes. “All the AGZ brothers are feeling the effects of my choice to come here. To be with you.”
“Then why do it?” I ask. My heart is beating too hard, an impossibly fast rhythm. I stare at him, and he sighs.
“Because I tried to ignore you, and this—what we had. What it could be. You were the only person to ever tell me no, do you realize that?”
His lips tip into a smile, and I feel my heart shift, a piece of it breaking off. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder as I let myself drift into sleep.
Peter is gone when I wake up. The bed is cool, and I can still smell him—exotic and wild, with a hint of the wind on the ocean. It hits me, suddenly what we did.
I had sex with Peter.
I wait for the crushing sensation of wrong and guilt, but it doesn’t come—I float on the endorphins and high of being with him.
Which is different from any guy I’ve ever been with, and a little concerning.
I shove the concern aside and roll over, curling into my pillow and inhaling the scent of Peter.
Something crinkles under his pillow. I grin, pulling out a note.
It’s short—fourteen words in scratchy, messy handwriting.
Fourteen words.
The island is real. I can prove it. And I need you to believe.
The world spins, dizzy circles that send my stomach weaving, dipping dangerously. And I
stare at the note until the words blend together and my eyes close, and I see them, burned on my eyelids, a line in the sand I had hoped he wouldn’t cross. And now he has.
“Gwen?” Micah says. I make a soft noise, and my brother steps into my room, padding across the thick carpet to sit on the edge of my bed. “Where is Peter?”
I shrug. “He was gone when I woke up.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“About what?” I ask blankly. “About him coming here and making me think we were something serious and then disappearing while I slept? Or maybe this?” I toss the note at him, and Micah plucks it from me and scans it. I see the disbelief stutter across his features, followed quickly by anger.
“What the fuck kind of game is he playing?” Micah snarls. “Does he think fucking with your sanity is a game?”
I sigh and retrieve the letter. “I don’t think he is playing,” I say softly, thinking over everything he’s said.
Everything that hasn’t made sense, seen through the lens of reality.
It can’t be real. I can believe a lot of things, but I can’t believe that. I can’t believe that I have sacrificed so much of my life—
I shut that line of thought down, because it hurts too much to think about. I stare at the note and say the one thing I never expected to say.
“I want to see the Second Star.”
Chapter 31
The ship creaks alarmingly, and I sway. I still won’t look at the corner, with the red stains and hacked up wood. I’m terrified to even be on the deck, but he coaxed me here.
The Boy is very persuasive, and the lure of escape pulled me from the cabin and the wrecked bridge to the deck to watch the horizon. His eyes gleam in the predawn light, and I shiver. My eyes are locked firmly on the water, at the little fish swarming around our boat.
“How do you know it’s safe?”
“I would never take you somewhere that isn’t safe, pixie,” he says, his voice outraged disbelief. I slide a glance at him and then refocus on the water.
“You can’t know it’s safe.”
“I know it’s safer than here, and it doesn’t hold the memories you’re fighting. I know you need to get off this boat or you’ll jump.”
I inhale softly at his words, leaning forward, tipping toward the shifting water. It is almost hypnotic.
His grip closes over my arm, and he pulls me back until I’m nestled against his chest, one arm slung companionably over my shoulders. I inhale his scent. Why does he always smell like wild spaces and the wind?
“Look, pixie,” he coaxes. The wind shifts, lifts a little stronger, almost as if it’s following his direction. I look up.
I see the mist, first. A bank of fog like on the river back home, obscuring the dangers and beauty hidden inside.
Then sunlight hits the water, and the fog lights up, a golden cloud of fire and mist. I gasp, and the Boy laughs, a full, deep noise that shakes his body. The fog burns away, revealing a tiny island. A mountain arches above the wild jungle growth, and a wide curve of sand dips in, providing a natural harbor.
It looks, impossibly, perfect, a fairy tale dream come to life.
“What is this?” I say, my voice soft with wonder.
I feel his smile against my hair, curving into the smirk I know so well.
“It’s home, pixie.”
The boat has been in dry dock for seven years. Since Aunt J had it tugged home and I was summarily stuffed into Brecken Ridge.
The murders were never solved. And because of that, despite the exorbitant expense of storing a boat for years, Aunt J refused to have it destroyed.
I stare at the warehouse, and Micah shifts anxiously. “Do you want me to go with you?”
I shake my head immediately. Something about this feels sacred, and having my brother on that nightmare boat is such an anathema I can’t quite comprehend it.
“Stay here,” I say hoarsely and push out of the car.
The warehouse is big and largely empty—one of Barrie Enterprises’ many empty holdings. The company hasn’t failed in Father’s absence but it has faltered in a way that is slightly alarming. More of our warehouses sit empty than I think Aunt J is admitting.
But that is a worry for another day—I step into the darkness and stare across the vast space to see the Second Star.
A beacon of my childhood should not be so tarnished.
The ship rests uneasily, its hull dirty from the ocean and salt. Rust streaks the sides, like still bleeding wounds. I shudder, shaking the thought, and climb the stairs, stepping cautiously onto the deck.
Some things will never change. It still smells like the ocean and copper pennies. The oak deck is dusty—it doesn’t gleam at a high polish in the sunlight. But it feels familiar and reassuring as I slip off my shoes and pad barefoot across it.
I shy away from the corner and head for the cabin. It’s where he found me, and still feels safe.
The team that hauled the yacht home cleaned the cabin, stripping it of the plush pillow-top mattress and pillows, the blankets that I had made into a nest. It bothers me, that all of that is gone—even knowing it would be a disgusting, rodent infested mess, it bothers me.
I sink onto the bed frame, and I can hear them—Daddy and Mother, their voices soft and warm as they talk over wine while I dozed after a long day of sailing. That had been the safest I had ever felt. Basking in the love of my parents, drifting on the waves and the knowledge that they loved me.
Why did it have to change?
I bite my lip as my mind circles to that morning, the sound of screams and my father’s fury. The roar of gunfire and the dull, meaty sound of a machete.
“Stop,” I whisper, rocking forward. Memories crowd me, and I shiver.
Hello, little girl. Are you lost?
I scream and bolt. This was a bad idea, such a bad idea. The boat pitches slightly, and I stumble into the wall. There’s an echoing crack, and every rational thought vanishes. I scream again, scrambling for the deck. Even knowing the danger is there, even knowing it’s a death sentence, I can’t help but race for it.
“Gwen!”
I shriek at the voice and pitch forward as the boat shakes.
My knees hit bloodstains, splinters digging into my palms. Bad. Bad, this is so bad. I need something, need to get away, and they’re here, I can’t get away, I need to run. Won’t let them hurt me like they did Mama. I jerk toward the side of the boat, and I hear a grunt, and two arms wrap around my waist, yanking me back.
“What the hell, Gwen?” he yells. I jerk and look at him, and the world drops away.
Daddy. Whole and perfect and wonderful and so impossible I can’t stop the sob, broken and agonized. He reaches for me, worry and confusion in his eyes, and says, softly, “Gwen?”
“You’re dead,” I whisper, tears standing in my eyes. “Why won’t you leave me alone? Why can’t I move on?”
He makes a pained noise and steps away. “Gwen. It’s me. Micah.”
I stare at him, the fear receding, slowly. I still see Daddy—and something twists in my stomach as I realize I probably always will—but its Micah staring at me with so much worry in his eyes.
“Micah?” I whisper.
He nods, and I collapse, sobbing, as he scoops me up and carries me away from the boat.
“Micah?” I whisper through my silent tears.
“What, sweetie?”
“I remember something.”
Chapter 32
It seems that if you have a mental breakdown in the middle of your family yacht, your well-meaning family gets a little nervous about letting you do anything.
Which makes returning to school problematic, to say the least.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” Aunt J says again.
I close my eyes as the limo eases away from our private jet. I don’t want to think about all the objections they’d raised, about the hurried trip to Pembrooke.
“I know you aren’t. And after finals, we can discus
s what happens next. But right now, I need to finish the semester.”
I need to talk to Belle.
“Remember what we talked about,” she says sternly.
“Enough, Jane. The girl knows—she doesn’t want to come home. She’ll do what we’ve said.”
I glance at Grayson, angry. He knows I hate when he talks around me like that. He shrugs, unapologetic. After the incident in the boatyard, he’s taking no chances with my sanity.
The car glides to a stop, and I shift to open the door. I’m out almost before the wheels stop moving, my heart pounding. I’m desperate to run, to find Belle and demand some answers.
“Wait, darling.”
I stop, grinding my teeth as I swing back to stare at Grayson.
“I’m worried about you, Gwen. That breakdown—you need to be monitored right now. In a safe place.”
“A place like Pembrooke?”
“I didn’t say or suggest that,” he says calmly. “Jane did. And it’s not a bad suggestion, but not the one I would jump to, no. I don’t think Peter is good for you—not if you’re this fragile.”
I scoff. “Peter has nothing to do with it. I went to the scene of a childhood trauma, where I listened to my parents get murdered. What kind of reaction do you think is appropriate?”
“Why did you go there?”
I haven’t shown him the note. And Micah hasn’t spoken of it. I don’t know why he respected that particular request, but he did, and I’ve managed to keep it under wraps from both Grayson and Aunt J.
“It was time,” I say simply. “Now if you don’t mind? It’s cold and I’d like to get inside before dark.”
Hurt flutters in Grayson’s eyes, and I feel a pinprick of guilt. But the need for answers is driving me too hard, the fear and emotion from the yacht too present. I shake the guilt and lean in to hug him quickly.
“I’ll call for check in tonight. Try to get Aunt J to remember I am an adult? If I want to go off the deep end, it’s my choice.”
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