Page 65 of The Beach Trap

And then the boxer briefs come off and the condom goes on and he’s lifting his long, lean body over mine, holding my gaze.

“Ready?” he says, and when I nod he slides inside me. I tilt my hips, inviting him deeper, and he groans. “This feels amazing, Blake.Youfeel amazing.”

“As good as you hoped?” I love that he’s been thinking about this.Every night, he’d said.

“Better.”

We move together slowly, learning each other’s rhythms, the unique way our bodies shift and slide against each other. I run my hands across his back, then down to his butt.

“Don’t mind me,” I say, giving him a squeeze. “Just some casual groping.”

He laughs softly and kisses me. “Feel free.”

I take that as a challenge and see how much of him I can touch, which isn’t easy given that he’s a foot taller than me. He murmurs in my ear that he enjoys having my hands on him; I reply that I enjoy having him inside of me. A lot.

Then he locks eyes with me, and I can’t breathe for a moment. He’s completely focused on my face, gauging my reaction to each roll of his hips, making adjustments to ratchet up the intensity. Time seems to slow down. He grabs under my thighs, tilting my pelvis a few crucial degrees, and on the next thrust I practically see stars.

“I’m dying,” I gasp. “Noah, I might actually die.”

“Good.” His voice is rough. The veins on his neck stand out; he’s trying to hold off. “Blake,” he says, his jaw tight. “Blake, I can’t...”

“Go for it,” I say. “Don’t hold back.”

At that, he exhales and closes his eyes, like he’s finally allowing himself to focus on his own pleasure. Now it’s my turn to watchhisface, the way his brow furrows and his mouth tightens. The tension builds, his breath coming faster until he gasps and shudders and we both ride out his waves together.

When he withdraws and goes into the bathroom, my body feels weightless and grounded at the same time. I desperately hope that he’s planning on coming back to bed, because afterthat, I’m not about to sleep in the casita alone. But soon he’s sliding into bed and wrapping his arms around me.

“All good?” he murmurs.

In response, I nestle against his warm body. “Just let me know when you’re ready to do it again.”

•••

The next morningI wake to the sound of the dog whimpering. Blinking through groggy eyes, I remind myself where I am: in one of the gigantic bedrooms at the Rooneys’ house. After having sex, Noah and I fell asleep for a couple of hours, then woke up and did it again. It was even better the second time.

After that, Noah got the dog from the casita, took him out to pee, then brought him into the house, where he slept on the bed with us. And I didn’t even care. In fact, it felt perfect, Noah next to me, the dog at our feet.

Noah is currently asleep on his stomach, the sheets an inch or two below the tan line above his butt. I could stay here forever and stare, but the dog whimpers again—he needs to go out.

Carefully, I climb out of bed and take the dog outside so he can relieve himself. On the way back, I duck into the attached bathroom and use the toilet. As I’m washing my hands, I stare at my reflection in the massive mirror. My hair is a tangled mess and I’m wearing nothing but Noah’s T-shirt, but my skin is glowing. My eyes are shining. I look like a woman who went swimming in the ocean and then had excellent sex. Twice.

Noah’s words from last night float through my mind:I’ve been dying to taste you.And then later, during round two:That feels so fucking good. Yes, that. Don’t stop.

I’m getting hot all over again, just thinking about it. Hopefully he’ll be up for round three soon.

I head into the bedroom, but my eyes catch on something in the walk-in closet. I haven’t spent much time in there because it didn’t need any cleaning. This entire suite, in fact, hasn’t been used either time the Rooneys have been here, which strikes me as odd.

A bunch of framed pictures are leaning against the backwall, and I wonder if they are pictures of the Rooneys. I haven’t gotten over my curiosity about them, so I walk over and lift the pictures away from the wall.

The first one is a giant framed photograph of the Rooneys in front of this very house. I recognize CoCo, Kat’s friend, and behind her are a middle-aged, expensive-looking couple. Her parents, of course. But there’s someone else in the picture, someone standing next to CoCo.

Noah.

He’s a few years younger, clean-shaven, with perfectly coiffed wavy brown hair, wearing clothes so preppy he looks like he just came from a yacht club. But it’s definitely him.

Holding my breath, I look through the rest of the pictures: they all include Noah, mostly of the Rooneys together as a family in Destin, out on their boat or at the beach, one with teenage Noah on a paddleboard, another of him and CoCo as children next to a lopsided sandcastle.

It’s as if someone went through the house and took down every reminder of him and stacked them in this closet. My chest swells with a deep sadness. Who would do such an awful thing to their only son?

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