Page 17 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

I tear off her shirt in one quick motion, revealing her curves to my gaze. She arches up to meet my touch with no resistance, her fingers getting lost in my belt loops as if urging me to let go of restraint completely. Challenge accepted. I pick her up effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, our mouths locked in an enduring duel.

I carry her back to my stateroom, every step feeling like it costs me a piece of whatever control I have left. We crash onto the soft bed in a furious tangle of limbs and ragged gasps, our bodies colliding like two forces meeting at full strength. It’s not tender, not careful—it’s raw survival, the need to burn out every fear and frustration in a frenzy of skin and heat. We demolish every wall standing between us, tearing each other apart and piecing ourselves back together all at once. And somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough.

She cries out beneath me; her nails leaving trails on my back as she throws back her head in pure ecstasy, chanting my name like a powerful spell—a blend of prayer and curse. I push upward, uniting us into a single entity, hissing as I do so. It takes every ounce of control to resist the overwhelming urge to move with intensity. Instead, I kiss her while gently withdrawing, then kiss her again as I press forward.

We settle into a rhythm so natural it feels like muscle memory, like something written in the marrow of our bones long before tonight. Every touch, every movement fits—not perfect, but real, raw, alive. Like maybe some part of us has always been reaching for this, waiting for the moment when we’d finally collide holding nothing back. Who knows? Maybe we have. Maybe we've been finding each other in a hundred different ways long before now—and tonight, we just remembered how.

When Crystal tightens around me and cries out my name, I can’t hold back any longer. I wish I could make it last, make this moment of discovery last forever, but I am only human. Each primal thrust is answered with deeper hunger and even fiercer desire—a roaring flame threatening to consume us whole. I give myself completely—raw and unrestrained—pounding into her. It's a beautiful chaos. It's intoxicating insanity. It's her.

When we finally tumble over the edge, it isn't a coordinated climax—it's as if we’re tearing down the walls holding back the flood, wild and unstoppable. It’s teeth and nails, greedy hands exploring every inch, bodies slick with sweat and pure, unfiltered lust, gasping out each other's names as if they're the only lifeline left. It’s survival at its primal best—but it’s also utter surrender.

Surrender to the roaring blaze of passion, to the terror of wanting so much—things I never even imagined I wanted—to the relentless desire that’s been twisted and tightened for far too long. We don’t just break—we crash into each other, completely lost in our world of desire.

I collapse on top of her, enveloped by her warmth. Afterward, she sprawls across the bunk, skin flushed, hair a wreck, mouth still kiss-swollen. She’s so beautiful, it’s obscene. She stretches lazily, stealing my pillow without a hint of shame.

Afterward, as we lay tangled in the sheets, a flicker of reality cuts through the haze.

"We probably should’ve talked first," I say, my voice low.

Crystal shifts to face me. "Yeah," she admitted. "I guess we both got caught up in the moment. For the record, I’m on the pill. And I’m clean. I had my physical a couple of weeks before I left Savannah."

"Same," I say. "Got my results back last month and haven’t been with anyone since. All clear."

“What? No sex, drugs, and reality TV?”

“Trust me, that got really old after the first year. It sounds great, but after a while I came to really understand how a lot of women feel… like they're just the proverbial temporary harbor and that it meant nothing. This wasn’t nothing.”

A small, sheepish smile passes over her face. “Duly noted.”

Later, when we’re back on deck, I'm wearing just my jeans and Crystal’s got on one of my old t-shirts, the hem brushing her thighs like a dare.

We’re sitting side by side, trying—and failing—to look casual, like we didn’t just tear the universe apart below deck. The crew boat hums up beside us, its engine rattling against the easy hush of the afternoon. Denny hops over the railing with a grin so wide it practically trips over itself, taking one look at us and shaking his head like he’s seen this story play out a hundred times before.

"You two are looking... extra glowy," Denny drawls, waggling his eyebrows like he's auditioning for the role of village idiot. "What'd you do, discover a new kind of treasure? Gold, jewels... or just each other?" He snickers loudly enough that a few heads turn on the crew boat, and Crystal nearly chokes on her water, trying not to laugh.

For half a second, I tense, thinking Denny's going to kill the mood, embarrass her, make this whole thing awkward. But Crystal just snorts into her water bottle, flips him off without even looking, and flashes a grin that’s all teeth and mischief. I can’t help it—I laugh, low and helpless. I just shrug at Denny, not bothering to correct him. Let him think what he wants. Hell, half the crew probably knows by now. Let them. She’s not hiding—and neither am I.

Because something shifted today—not just between Crystal and me, but inside me. I’ve spent my life chasing treasure, chasing danger, chasing anything that felt like it would fill the hollow places inside me. Glory. Gold. Reputation. But none of it ever settled the ache, not really. And standing here now, after watching her steal my damn pillow like she owns it, I realize—she’s the only thing that ever has.

Now? I'm starting to realize the real prize might be standing right in front of me—stubborn, brilliant, reckless as hell—and so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes my chest ache. Not the kind of prize you lock away or hide. The kind you fight for. The kind you lose sleep over. And for the first time, I'm terrified—not of losing the gold, but of losing her.

7

CRYSTAL

Iwake to the heady scent of salt, sweat, and sin, tangled in sheets that don’t belong to me and a body heat that definitely isn’t mine. For a disoriented, breathless second, I’m convinced I’ve stepped into some alternate reality—one where Cruz Devlin isn’t just a walking thirst trap but the very real, very naked man stretched out beside me, radiating satisfaction and post-orgasmic serenity like a human heat lamp. My brain short-circuits, caught between academic panic and the undeniable memory of everything he did with me last night.

Cruz is asleep next to me, sprawled on his back like he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting titled 'Victory in the Sheets.' One arm is flung over his head in careless abandon, the other stretched dangerously close, as if even in sleep he knows exactly how to push boundaries. His face is a maddening picture of peace—and just enough smug satisfaction to make me want to hit him over the head with a pillow, smother him with one or wake him up and ask if we can do it again. He's the kind of man who conquers, collapses, and doesn’t lose a wink of sleep over it. And damn him, it’s still sexy.

My thighs ache in that deeply satisfying, borderline obscene way that confirms last night wasn’t just a fever dream or a product of my overworked academic imagination. Nope—every delicious, toe-curling, brain-melting second of it was real. Loud enough to startle seabirds. Intense enough to leave claw marks on Cruz’s back. Possibly illegal in certain counties—and definitely worth risking a fine for.

I shift carefully, trying not to disturb the sleeping alpha male beside me. Every cell in my body screams to stay wrapped in the warmth of him, to give in to the comfort of a night that still echoes in my bones. But I need to get up. Think. Find my damn pants, my dignity, and the last remaining scraps of my professional objectivity. Because this? This can’t become a pattern. No matter how good it felt to be touched like a secret, kissed like a promise, and wanted like I was the only damn thing that mattered. Claimed like that, body and breath and beyond. And that’s the part that terrifies me most.

Don’t sigh. Do not sigh, Crystal. Because sighing implies feelings, and feelings imply meaning, and meaning implies consequences. And you, Dr. Crystal Evans, are supposed to be rational. Focused. Immune to charming, frustrating, ocean-eyed treasure hunters who turn your body into a battleground and your brain into mush.

I sigh.

Slipping out of bed without waking him is a stealth op that should earn me honorary SEAL status and possibly a small, tasteful medal. Cruz shifts once, muttering something unintelligible—probably 'more,' knowing him—but doesn’t stir. I exhale slowly, like defusing a bomb, and reach for the nearest piece of clothing. His hoodie, the same worn, soft one that smells like cedar, salt, and something distinctly him, is draped over a chair. I tug it and a pair of leggings on, letting the hoodie swallow me whole, sleeves hanging past my hands as I scoop up my sandals and my notes before tiptoeing out like a professorial ninja. Clutching my papers to my chest like they might keep me morally grounded, I make my escape back to the lighthouse.

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