Page 22 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

And something inside me… flips.

Just like that.

My knees nearly give. My breath catches. Every nerve ending snaps to attention like a good little soldier waiting for orders.

It's the power in his eyes. The deliberate way he waits for my answer like he already knows I don't have one. The way he looms without ever lifting a hand—commanding with nothing but presence.

And it wrecks me.

Because this is what I crave. This feeling. The primal, feral need to drop to my knees and give him everything. No hesitation. No safe words. No pretending.

Just him. Taking. Owning. Mastering.

"What are you afraid of?" He braces one arm against the wall beside my head, dragging his gaze over me like a promise I'm not ready for. "Is it me?"

He leans in, his mouth a breath from mine, voice molten.

"Or is it the fact that the only time you really feel anything… is when you're being fucked like it doesn't mean a thing?"

And god help me—I moan.

Inside, everything keens.

Because he's not wrong, and we both know it.

I inhale sharply. My spine straightens. "That's not?—"

"No?" He leans in, mouth brushing my cheek as he speaks. "Because that's what you said this morning. That it meant nothing. And you meant it, didn't you?"

I don't answer. I can't.

His fingers graze my jaw, slow. Purposeful.

"Maybe that's the only way you can take it. Hard. Aggressive. Detached." His lips ghost across my ear. "You want it impersonal? You want it to feel like you're just a body?"

I should move. I should stop this.

But my knees are already going weak.

"You like it when it's rough because then you don't have to feel. You don't have to want. You just take."

My silence is answer enough.

Something shifts.

His hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just holding. Claiming.

"You want impersonal?" His voice is low, brutal.

I swallow hard. Nod once.

His hand tightens—just slightly—reminding me who's in control.

"Then I'm going to give it to you." He growls, voice molten steel. "Exactly how you say you want it. No sweet nothings. No gentle touches. Just you taking what I give."

He launches himself at me, closing the distance in a breath, hand gripping my throat—not tight, just firm, enough to make my pulse stutter under his grip.

His mouth crashes down on mine—hot, dominant, claiming. One hand still on my throat, the other yanking the sweater up and over my head in a single rough motion. The cold air hits my skin like a slap, but then he's everywhere—mouth on my neck, teeth scraping my collarbone, hands sliding down to cup my ass.

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