Page 9 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Chapter 3

Three Choices, One Ruin

# Chapter 3:Three Choices, One Ruin

His eyes flare. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… released. The last thread of control snapping clean.

"And here I've been trying to be a gentleman," he says.

The words hit me like a punch—low, sharp, hot.

"What now?" I whisper.

"Now, I'm wondering why I'm even pretending."

He closes the distance, and the air between us ignites. His fingers brush along my jaw, calloused and warm, tipping my face up like I already belong to him. His other hand slides to my waist, gripping firmly, dragging me against the full heat of his body.

He's hard. Solid. There.

The contact shoots through me like lightning.

His lips hover a breath above mine, his voice nothing but gravel and fire.

"This doesn't have to mean anything beyond tonight…"

A pause.

"But I promise you, if you let me take charge—it'll be everything you've imagined."

Then his hand fists in my hair, and his mouth crashes into mine—devouring, dominant, utterly unapologetic.

I don't answer. I can't.

Because he's already taken control—of my mouth, my breath, my body, my sanity.

It's instant combustion.

The kiss is brutal in its honesty—no hesitation, no sweet pretense. Just heat and hunger and all the filthy, forbidden things I've been aching for since the moment I laid eyes on him.

His hands slide to my waist, and in one swift movement, my back hits the wall with a thud that echoes through me. His body presses in, hips grinding, thigh wedged between mine, dragging a moan from somewhere deep.

I grind against him instinctively, shameless, chasing friction. His growl rumbles against my lips—low, primal, devastating.

He grips my thighs, lifts me effortlessly. I wrap around him without thinking, my skirt riding high, breath ragged. His mouth claims mine again—hot, wet, punishing—his tongue sliding against mine making my core clench.

Then his lips are at my jaw, trailing down my neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot that sends a pulse straight to my spine. "You smell like sin," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "And I've had enough of pretending I don't want you."

My fingers find the hem of his sweater, yanking it up, desperate to get to skin. I drag my nails along the ridges of muscle beneath and feel him shudder. He curses—raw and filthy—as he sets me down just long enough to strip the sweater off and toss it aside.

And then he's on me again.

His mouth. His hands. The fire he's lighting under my skin.

He grabs my thighs again, and this time when he lifts me, there's no pause. No hesitation. Just claiming. One hand dragsmy dress up, baring me completely. His palm slides up the inside of my thigh, and I gasp—already soaked, already ready.

His other hand moves between us. I hear the low rasp of his zipper. His mouth is still on mine, devouring every breath.

Then his voice—low, dangerous—right against my lips.

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