Page 71 of Every Shattered Note
And I swear, my body still hums with it.
His hands.His mouth.The sound of my name on his tongue like it was the only one he wanted to say.
Like I meant something.
I keep thinking I’ll rinse it away if I stand under the shower long enough.But it’s in me now.Etched into every nerve.That low thrum of him—tucked into my skin like a secret I didn’t know I was keeping.
And I don’t want to give it back.
My fingers tremble when I touch the sundress I slipped into after that second shower.Pale yellow.Barely-there straps.The cotton is soft and thin enough to move with the air, but it clings in the wrong places—or maybe the right ones.Too much, not enough, all at once.
My hair’s still damp.I let my curls do what they want because I don’t have the energy to force anything into shape.Not when everything inside me feels unspooled and too close to the surface.
I tell myself that maybe I should stay in my room for the rest of the evening.Pull the covers over my head, pretend this villa doesn’t exist, that my body isn’t still aching from the way he touched it.That his voice doesn’t echo inside me like a hymn I was never meant to learn.
I’m not ready to see him again.
And it’s not a lie.
I’m not ready because if I face him, I’m going to beg him for more.
To take me.
To wreck me with those hands.To use that mouth like he promised he’d do next time.To whisper filth like it was prayer.
To bury himself so deep I forget who I was before him.
My legs press together, instinctively, like I’m trying to hold something in—like the memory of him might drip out of me if I don’t.
The dress feels thinner now.Too sheer.The fabric kisses the tops of my thighs as I move, no bra beneath, no panties either, because I couldn’t stand the thought of anything pressing against the places still pulsing for him.
The places he ruined.Blessed.
And God, I want him to do it again.
I picture the way his fingers curled when he slid them inside me—how he watched my face, how he listened for every twitch and gasp.Like he was learning me in real time and loving every second of it.
Like I was his favorite song and he was composing me with each thrust of his hand.
I lean against the wall beside the door, breath catching, pulse thudding like it knows what I’m about to do.There’s still time to turn back.To hide.To pretend I’m not already undone.
But then I smell it—grilled fish, roasted peppers, the faint sweetness of grilled pineapple.
Music.
Not loud.Just barely there, coming from the speakers in the living room.
I don’t even remember walking to the terrace.I’m just there, heart hammering like I’ve done something unforgivable and glorious all at once.
He’s barefoot by the grill, tongs in one hand.The ocean stretches behind him—brushed gold and velvet blue, the sun melting into the horizon in long, aching streaks.
He looks like sin and forgiveness rolled into one.Shirt unbuttoned low, collar loose like it barely survived what we did earlier.The edge of a tattoo teases just beneath the fabric, and I hate how much I want to trace it with my mouth.His hair’s a fucking mess—wild in that way that says he’s run his hands through it too many times and never cared to fix it.
He glances over where I stand and smiles—quietly, like it’s just for me.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and rough.“You hungry?”
I nod.But it’s not food I want.
