I grip his shoulders, anchoring myself as I sink down onto him, slow—achingly slow—feeling every inch of him stretch and fill me. My head tips back, and a sharp gasp tears from my throat as my body adjusts, the thick heat of him overwhelming in the best way.
His fingers dig into my hips as he struggles between holding me still and pulling me down harder. “Jesus, Amel…”
I shiver at the rough edge in his voice and the raw need threaded through it.
“Let me,” I whisper, echoing his earlier words.
His jaw flexes, but he gives in, his head falling back against the edge of the tub as I move—rocking my hips in a slow,deliberate rhythm, feeling the pull, the stretch, the deep ache blooming low in my stomach.
The water ripples around us, and steam curls up as I lose myself in the slow grind of my body against his, the perfect friction where we meet. His hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts before he cups them—rough palms against sensitive skin.
“Amelia—” His voice cracks, his control unraveling with every roll of my hips.
I lean in, brushing my lips over his jaw. “You said to leave it all in the water,” I breathe out, nipping at his skin. “So I’m doing that.”
His growl is low and reverberates through his chest, and when he bucks his hips up into me, I nearly shatter right there.
But I hold on, riding the rising wave, until there is nothing but the heat of his hands, the ragged pull of our breaths, and the slick slide of our bodies moving together.
Every thought of Preston, the past, the pain—it all dissolves beneath the water, washed away by the only thing that matters now—him.
And the way he looks at me—like I am everything—is enough to make me fall apart, piece by piece, right there in his arms.
The hum of the jet engines is a low, constant thrum beneath my boots, but it’s not what has me restless. Amelia sits across from me, her head tilted against the window and her eyes trained on the clouds outside. From the outside, she looks calm—collected, even—but I’m not buying it. I know her too well.
She’s been quieter since Miami. Since him.
Not in an obvious way—she still cracks jokes, still gives Knox hell when he deserves it—but there is a subtle distance now. A beat longer before she laughs. A moment where she drifts before snapping back.
It is the type of thing most people wouldn’t notice. But I do.
I shift in my seat, my fingers drumming against my knee as I watch her. She hasn’t pulled away from me completely—she still lets me be close when it is just us—but around the team? There is this… wall. Like she is trying to lock it all down and stuff it deep so no one can see the cracks.
Problem is, I see them.
When the wheels touch down at the next stop on the tour, everyone stands, stretching and grabbing their gear, but I don’t budge. I wait and watch as Amelia slings her pack over her shoulder and heads toward the exit.
I catch up to her right as she rounds a corner, away from the rest of the team. My hand finds her wrist before she can get too far.
“Ash,” she warns, her voice soft but tight, glancing back over her shoulder. “They’re right behind?—”
“Don’t care.”
Her brow arches, but I don’t give her a chance to deflect. I tug her into a quiet alcove, out of sight, my fingers still wrapped around her wrist.
For a beat, she just stares at me—guarded, that same quiet distance in her eyes.
“You’re doing it again,” I murmur.
“Doing what?” Her jaw flexes.
“Pulling back.” I soften my grip, and my thumb brushes the inside of her wrist. “You think I can’t tell?”
She lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” I step closer and let my other hand find her waist, the softest anchor. “And I get it. Miami sucked. Seeing him? Her? I wanted to put my fist through a wall for you.”
Her mouth twitches at that, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
