Chapter one
Michael
Ididn'tknowhisnameyet, but I knew the sound he made when he came.
Muffled. Unsteady. A little broken. It had a roughness, unpolished and real.
He bit the inside of his wrist to stay quiet, and I let him. Let him hide it. Let him hold back everything except that tremble in his spine when I leaned in close and told him he was beautiful.
Not cute. Not hot.
Beautiful—like the way grief can be beautiful. Quiet and wrecked and still trying to breathe.
His skin was sun-drenched and salty, soft as seafoam, where I pressed my mouth along his hipbone. I'd meant to be careful. Gentle.
The first time with another man was supposed to be slow touches and steady hands, but he kissed me like that didn't matter. Like he needed to feel something—anything—before the tide pulled it out of reach again.
And I was in no shape to deny him.
We met in silence on an empty stretch of Tahitian sand at golden hour. The air hung heavy with plumeria and salt, thick enough to taste. Distant islands floated on the horizon—dark silhouettes against a sky bleeding orange.
I'd walked there alone, past tourists lounging at the resort's pool and a vendor selling fresh coconut, looking for a piece of the world that didn't ask for anything from me. I was seeking only a beach, a breeze, and the ache of being alive.
He was already there, standing ankle-deep in water so clear I could count the black volcanic pebbles beneath his feet. His gaze fixed on the horizon.
He didn't turn when I passed him. He didn't acknowledge my presence until he looked when I paused for one beat. It was long enough for him to glance back and for the electricity to spark.
He had that lean, swimmer's build I always noticed without meaning to—shoulders broad, waist narrow, legs that looked fast. But it was his lips that made me look twice, already parted and waiting
I wasn't exactly a wreck myself—still fit enough to pass a department fitness eval, but the circles under my eyes and two-day stubble practically shouted I was running on fumes.
There was no pickup line or clever banter. I offered him the extra water bottle from my pack. He took it. Our fingers brushed, and that was it. We'd fanned the spark into a flickering flame.
We walked together without saying much, far enough that the curve of the cove topped by a small dune hid us from view. He stopped beneath a tangle of palms.
There, he kissed me like the world was coming to an end.
He pulled back long enough to whisper, "I've never… I've never with a—" I knew what he meant, but I didn't want words, so I pressed my lips against his, feeling his teeth, his tongue, and his rising heat.
He tasted like sweat, salt, and the last breath before a storm. A storm I didn't see coming.
My hands started at his shoulders, fingers touching the curve of his neck, and that place behind his ear where I could pull him even closer.
I let him strip me bare. His eyes, wide and hungry, took in every inch of my bare skin, staring with pure, carnal desire.
Then, it was my turn. His body, lean and hard, pressed into mine as I tore at his clothes. And when we were both naked, he dragged me down to the sand.
There was nothing hesitant about the way his hands roamed over my flesh, eager and intense.
He was hard against my thigh, and after our tongues met, I wanted to taste all of him. I worked down his chest and abs, tracing my tongue over gym-fit muscle until I reached his waist.
He gasped, and then he moaned. He needed this, needed me, more than anything.
His cock was thick and pulsing, the head swollen and flushed, veins stark against his shaft, and he was shaking—just a little—as I took him into my mouth.
God, the sound of his moans. Low, guttural growls soon escalated into higher-pitched gasps and desperate whimpers, a raw tribute to the intensity of his pleasure. Listening made me harder than I thought possible.
My hand joined my mouth, working him in long strokes until he was arching up from the sand, pushing himself deeper into my throat with a strength that made me shudder.
