The people of our sleepy island town felt deep sympathy for him—brought him home-cooked meals, left flowers on Samantha’s headstone, and hugged him with tears in their eyes at diners and drugstores. He was practically a local celebrity because of his family’s business here, but also because of the tragedy in his life this past year. I was sure I’d be painted as an opportunistic harlot who tempted a grieving widower, taking advantage of his situation for my own personal benefit, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Every time he left, it almost killed me inside.
I grabbed my purse and slipped on my favorite pink flip-flops.
“What are you doing?” Jason asked behind me.
“This is a job that needs to be done in person.” Fishing charters booked out months in advance. If I was going to get our guests on a boat today, it was going to take some magic.
Jason nodded with a smirk. “Fair enough.”
I tossed my purse onto the floorboard of the golf cart my brother and I used to get around the property, and slid onto the seat. It was a magical place, and I was glad we’d kept it in the family for three generations now. The wide front porch overlooking the ocean was the perfect spot to sit with a cup of coffee and listen to the soft sound of the waves. The huge old manchineel trees provided much-needed shade from the brightness of the sun. They were beautiful, though the little green fruits they produced were deadly. My father had only reminded me of that sixteen thousand times.
The first floor of the old plantation-style estate was where I was raised, and now held Jason’s living quarters along with our offices. The second level held eight guest suites we kept rented year-round, along with an apartment for me with a separate entrance. And in the grassy courtyard at the center of our circular drive was a fountain where I’d dropped pennies as a little girl, making childish wishes. I looked at it longingly, silently hoping for some good luck today.
The marina Shaw’s family owned wasn’t far, just a couple of miles away. Close enough that when I was younger, I used to walk there, but far enough that I’d never do that now.
As I drove down the one-lane gravel road that ran between our two properties, the salty air blew my hair back from my face, giving me a sense of peace, but the honey-colored locks no doubt becoming a tousled mess. I bumped along, my mind wandering to Shaw as it often did without my permission.
The man with the brooding hazel eyes that seemed to change color based on his mood, an old soul, and a perfect butt.
God, Chloe.
If anyone knew I was fucking Shaw, I didn’t think I could live with myself.
The first time it happened, I thought it was a fluke—a drunken, guilt-riddled mistake. I was certain it was a one-time thing, and something I hoped we could just forget about and move on. When he showed up at my front door a few days later in the middle of the night, I assumed it was to apologize. I figured he’d beg me to forgive him, explain that he’d been out of his mind with grief and it was all some huge mistake.
When I let him inside, rather than apologizing, he pinned me to the wall and then his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding. Fingers slid into my pajama bottoms, pulling them down my legs. I almost pushed him away, almost told him to stop. I’d just spent three nights crying myself to sleep over our grief-induced fuck session at Samantha’s parents’ house. But then his mouth moved to my neck and he’d whispered the one word he knew would ensure I gave him what he wanted.
Please.
It was a broken plea, a prayer on his lips. It stunned me—like I alone had the power to heal him. He was giving me all the control in this exchange. I could have said no, and part of me wanted to. I could have pushed him away and ended this whole thing.
Shaw . . .
Instead, I murmured his name, trying to find meaning in this sudden change in him. In twenty-five years he’d never laid a finger on me, never acted like I affected him at all. We’d practiced kissing when I was twelve, but that was so innocent compared to this.
His finger stroked my clit, applying just the right amount of pressure and speed, and I shivered in his arms, halfway between pushing him away and begging him never to stop. But it was his next words that sealed the deal.
I need you, Chloe.
So have me, I whispered to him.
And he did. He owned my body in ways no man had before. We fucked against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hips slamming against me in powerful thrusts, his mouth nipping at my throat, his fingertips leaving bruises on my thighs . . .
He left me sore and feeling used, hot semen running down my legs as he tucked himself away and zipped up his jeans. I didn’t know if I felt disgusted or elated or just indifferent. I was numb and reeling but I knew I wanted more, if only to find meaning in what the hell we were doing.
Every Wednesday since that night, it was like clockwork. Shaw always found his way to my door and I always said yes, letting him fuck me however he desired. It was usually hard and fast and brutal. I always came several times before he found his release. But instead of helping him heal, like I tried to pretend I was doing at first, he was getting worse.
Like now.
“Shaw?” I asked, pushing open the door to the marina’s small office. It was dark inside despite the bright sunshine outside. My eyes struggled to adjust. He hadn’t been out on the dock like I’d expected, and one of his guys had pointed toward the office.
When my eyes adjusted, I glanced at a disorganized desktop piled with invoices, receipts, and paper coffee cups.
“Need something, Sunshine?”