Page 82 of Take Me Away

My heart cracks wide. ‘I missed you too. Every fucking day.’ This is the truth. A whole truth. I missed everything about him, about this place, and more than that, I’ve missed the girl I was here, so pure, so alive with hope and the joy of the future.

I feel her again right here, right now, with Kit, the man who set her free in the first place, my first kiss, my first stuttered and shocked orgasm. My first love.

And then he moves – deep, deliberate, claiming every inch of me like he’s been waiting a decade to do it right. Every thrust says mine. Every snap of his hips dares me to deny it. He’s so hard and driven, I open my thighs to let him in closer.

I meet him thrust for thrust, our rhythm messy and desperate and so fucking perfect it hurts. His hands catch mine, pinning them above my head, fingers locked like a promise we haven’t spoken yet.

‘Isla,’ he breathes, voice wrecked. ‘Christ, Isla … you undo me.’

The way he says my name – like it’s a confession, like it’s sacred – pushes me right to the edge.

‘Don’t stop,’ I whisper, legs tightening around his waist, dragging him deeper.

‘Let go for me,’ he says, his voice pure gravel. ‘Let go, baby. Now.’

And I do.

My orgasm crashes over me like a wave – hot, blinding, unstoppable. I come with his name on my lips, body trembling, vision going white. He snarls my name in return, pounding harder as if he can drag every last shudder out of me. He follows moments later, cursing low in my ear as he comes undone inside me, every muscle taut, every part of him wrapped around me.

For a long moment, we just breathe. Nothing else. Our bodies tangled, slick with sweat, hearts racing in sync. His forehead still rests against mine, and I swear he’s shaking just a little. Or maybe I am.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

Because this isn’t over.

It’s only just started.

We’re barely dressed, hair still damp from showering in Maggie’s old-fashioned bathroom with the even more old-fashioned plumbing that Kit glared at, when we hear it – a hammering at the back door, followed by a familiar voice:

‘Hello? Anyone home? Uncle Jude sent me to check on you!’

Kit freezes, shirt half buttoned. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

I groan. ‘Bloody hell – I don’t think I locked the back door.’

Footsteps thunder up the stairs while Kit side-eyes me. ‘Safety first, Quinn.’

‘It’s Sea Salt Bay. Gran never locked her doors.’

‘Exactly, Hollywood. You’ve forgotten that everyone just walks in and out.’

‘Isla? Uncle Jude said Dad came to talk to you and never came home and – oh!’

Maisie stands in the doorway, eyes going wide. I’m wearing Kit’s T-shirt, the hem grazing my thighs. He’s in jeans – no shirt – because I’m wearing it.

No amount of red-carpet press tours could have prepared me for this.

‘Dad!’ she blurts, surprise quickly morphing into delight. ‘Isla!’

Kit looks like he wants to crawl under the bed. ‘Maisie Harding, what have I told you about knocking?’

She ignores him entirely. ‘Uncle Jude told me to run here; he thought you’d need these.’ She waves a paper bag. ‘Breakfast! And fresh clothes!’

Kit mutters low, ‘I’m going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully.’

‘He’s waiting outside,’ Maisie says brightly. ‘Said to check if the coast was clear.’ She studies us both with far too much suspicion for an eight-year-old. ‘Were you two fighting again?’