Page 8 of Heatstroke
Their mouths met with a clash that was more collision than courtship. Thierry pressed forward, Daniel pulling him in harder still, their teeth clashing briefly in the hunger of it. It was all instinct now.
Daniel's hands found Thierry's dreadlocks, dragging him close by the roots, yanking until Thierry moaned against his mouth, that low, involuntary sound of surrender that shot straight through Daniel's spine like a live current.
There was no grace to it, no rhythm—just heat and fury and the unbearable inevitability of it. The kiss was not a yielding. It was a bursting dam, a reckoning.
Daniel bit Thierry’s lip and tasted blood, salt, rain. Their breaths tangled, heavy, ragged. Thierry grabbed at Daniel's waist, fingers curling into damp cotton. He was murmuring something now, into Daniel's throat, half-words lost in skin and breath.
Daniel didn't care. He pressed him against the bar's wood paneling, kissed him deeper, and let himself vanish into the pressure, the feral want of it, the throb in his temple.
And then, as quickly as it began, Daniel tore himself away.
He staggered back like he'd been struck, chest rising hard, mouth red and wet and open. Thierry looked dazed but not surprised. His lip was bruised. His hair hung loose in damp ropes where Daniel had pulled it. His eyes, darker than usual, stayed on Daniel as if tethering him in place.
"What the fuck was that," Daniel rasped. It was unclear whether he was speaking to Thierry or to the room, or to whatever reckless piece of himself had just detonated without permission.
“A kiss, Daniel.” Thierry's mouth curved—crooked, slow. Daniel realized this was the first time he’d heard the man say his name. "I'd say you liked it."
Daniel stared at him a moment longer, a dozen responses snarling behind his teeth, none of them coherent. He turned.
He walked.
Out of the bar. Into the rain. Down the steps. Past the stone path. Past the palms. He didn't run, not at first. Not while Thierry could still see him.
But as soon as the building fell from view—he ran.
Barefoot on the muddy path that curved inland from the shore, the drizzle thickening again into proper rain, leaves slick beneath his feet, the scent of petrichor dense in his nostrils. He ran as though something might catch him, as though what hadjust passed between them might still be on his skin, might linger in his mouth.
His breath came short. His throat burned. His lips—God, his lips—still tingled with it. With the taste of him.
What the fuck was that?
The question rang through Daniel’s skull with every pounding step. Not disbelief. Not denial. Something worse. Recognition.
He stumbled once, caught himself, and he realized he was close to getting lost. He circled back, kept going, finding his way back to the narrow trail that led to the guesthouse. The trees leaned in overhead, full of rain and insects and old gods that watched and said nothing.
By the time he reached the porch of The Breakline, his shirt was soaked through and his heart still galloped like it hadn't realized the danger was past.
But the danger wasn't past.
It had just begun.
FOUR
SHACK SHADOWS
The rain had steadied outside, drumming steadily on the metal awning, a low, insistent percussion that gave no quarter.
The guesthouse was dim, its single lamp casting a weak yellow glow over a room that felt both too small and too large. Daniel’s clothes clung to him, skin damp, hair slicked to his forehead, but he made no move toward the towel thrown carelessly across the back of a chair.
Instead, he paced.
Barefoot on tile, damp shirt sticking cold against his spine, Daniel walked the length of the room like an animal rattling the cage it built for itself.
Four steps to the window. Turn. Four steps back. Again. Again.
Each circuit edged tighter. His jaw ached from how hard he clenched it. Every breath he drew in was loud in his own ears, as if the air were pressing back.
He wasn't going. That was final.
