Page 24 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

And I kiss him back like I’m afraid it’s the last time. Like if I stop, the fragile magic we’ve built might vanish into the dark. I kiss him like I’m choosing this, him, us, even if the world outside this cabin is cracking apart. Even if I’m not ready for what that means. Because in this moment, wrapped in the quiet aftershock of truth and touch, I know one thing for certain:

I want him. And I’m done pretending otherwise.

It’s not just sex this time. It’s something else. Something that makes my skin feel too tight and my heartbeat too fast. We take our time. Strip away the sarcasm, the sharp comebacks, the armor. What’s left is raw. Real. Messy in all the best ways.

He kisses me again, deeper this time, his hands anchoring at my hips like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers. There’s nothing rushed about it—only a slow, hungry pull that says he needs this, needs me, and maybe always has. My body answers without hesitation, rising into him with a low, involuntary gasp that seems to undo him.

He pulls me onto his lap, one hand threading into my hair, the other splaying across my lower back like he’s grounding us both. Our mouths move together in a rhythm that’s almost too tender for how much heat thrums between us. I’m straddling him now, knees bracketing his hips, and I can feel how much he wants me—hard and insistent beneath my thighs—but he doesn’t push. He waits.

I reach down and take the hem of his t-shirt in my hands, slowly rolling it up his torso. His heartbeat quickens beneath my fingers. He lets me take my time; he doesn’t rush me. When I reach his shoulders, I peel the thing over his head and lean in to kiss the curve of his neck, the line of his collarbone. He shudders under me and his grip tightens.

Then it’s my turn. His hands lift the hem of my shirt—his shirt—over my head, baring me to the soft glow of the cabin. His breath catches. “Jesus, Crystal…” he murmurs, reverent, not in awe of my body but of this moment, this choice.

His mouth finds my skin, slow and patient, trailing kisses from my throat to the curve of my breast, lingering like he’s memorizing every inch. My fingers dig into his shoulders, needing something to hold on to as he undoes me one kiss at a time. When he lays me back and follows, pressing against me, I arch into him without shame, without hesitation. I want him everywhere.

Our clothes come off in pieces, scattered like falling leaves across the floor. And then he’s there, skin to skin, his body heavy over mine, every inch of contact electric. He moves down my body with deliberate intent, his touch a tantalizing blend of anticipation and excitement. Firmly, he parts my legs, creating a pathway for his intimate exploration. His mouth hovers just above, radiating a tantalizing heat that sends ripples of expectation through me before he presses a fervent kiss on my labia. This is followed by a swift, electrifying lick to my clit, drawing a sharp gasp from my lips and sending shivers coursing through my body. Every nerve ending feels alive, my skin tingling, trembling with anticipation like a tightly coiled spring ready to release.

He inhales deeply, savoring the scent of my desire, a primal aroma that seems to ignite a fervor within him. With a seemingly insatiable hunger, he begins to devour me, his tongue exploring deeply, each movement filled with passion and intensity.

He revels in every ecstatic second, immersed in the moment, as if time itself has paused to bask in the blissful connection. I cry out as I climax, my body trembling and tensing before I exhale and relax, feeling him settle at my core.

"Wrap your legs around me."

I smile softly at him, complying as I wrap myself around him, saying with a grin, "Aye, aye, sir."

Our eyes meet, and he thrusts into me, uniting us. He kisses me as he pulls back, then thrusts again, finding a rhythm that feels both familiar and filled with wonder. He moves like he’s savoring every second, hips rolling with a precision that makes me see stars, like he knows my body better than I do. My nails scrape down his back. He kisses the sound from my mouth, swallows my cries like they’re sacred. We rock together, tangled in sweat and whispered names and promises neither of us dares say aloud.

The tension builds slow and steady, a wave gathering force. And when it crashes, it’s not a scream—it’s a soft, broken thing, a release that steals the breath from my lungs and leaves tears burning behind my eyes. He follows with a hoarse groan, collapsing against me, both of us shaking, spent, held together by more than just sweat and heat.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe. And the silence? It’s not heavy anymore. It’s full. Thick with meaning. With everything we just said without words.

He whispers my name like it’s a vow. I tangle my fingers in his hair like I’m afraid he’ll disappear. When it’s over, we don’t move. We just breathe. Tangled limbs. Tangled lives.

Later, I pull out my journal—the leather-bound one with frayed corners and water-warped pages, the one I don’t let anyone read. Not because it’s full of secrets, but because it’s mine in a way most things aren’t. It holds pieces of me I haven’t yet figured out how to say aloud. But tonight, under the hum of the cabin lights and the echo of something intimate still clinging to our skin, I open it. And without really knowing why, I start to read.

Just one entry. Just one. A poem copied from a colonial survivor’s letter, dated 1715. Age and salt smeared the ink on the original. I had to guess at some of the words. But the heart of it remains, etched in ink across the page:

“‘The jewel of the sea was never gold. It was never meant to be held. Only honored. Only hidden. Where the tide and the stone make no sound.’”

Cruz’s head lifts sharply, eyes narrowing as if a fuse has just been lit behind them. His expression shifts—subtle but unmistakable—a flicker of recognition laced with unease. It's not just the spark of discovery. It's something darker. Something remembered. The kind of look a man gets when the past suddenly stops being memory and starts being prophecy. Like whatever he just realized isn't just important—it's dangerous.

“What if the ring,” he says slowly, “isn’t treasure?”

I blink. “Then what is it?”

“A symbol. A token. Maybe even a seal. Something tied to a deal, an alliance. Something sacred enough to be buried, not stolen.”

A beat passes, and then it clicks—sharp and sudden, like the snap of a trap closing. My pulse stumbles. The ring isn't just a relic. It’s a keystone. A mark of power, of allegiance—maybe even of betrayal. Something buried not to be forgotten, but to be protected. Or hidden. From someone. Or something. My breath catches, heart thudding a little too hard against my ribs, as dread coils low and tight in my stomach. Whatever this ring means… it was never just about treasure. And now that we’re this close? Whoever else is after it knows it, too.

“The journal,” I whisper. “The one from one of the survivors. I dismissed it because it was mostly theological rambling, but…”

Cruz nods. “We need to see it again.”

We make a plan. At dawn, we hit the archives—early, quiet, before the town stirs. Look for references that match the phrasing. Dig into the church records, the obscure family bibles, the faded minutes of forgotten councils. Follow the folklore, no matter how strange. This time, it’s not just about piecing together the past. It’s about staying a step ahead of something—or someone—that doesn’t want us to. And that makes it our best, and maybe last, lead yet.

But as I stand by the porthole brushing hair from my face, I catch a flicker on the dock. A shadow. Still. Watching. Gone.

My blood goes cold.

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