Page 30 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
The private room Ryan set aside for us is quiet, pulling the tension of the past night into a smaller space where even Saltmoor feels fragile. The faint hum of alarms has finally died, the guests have gone to their rooms or left the estate, but the air still tastes of adrenaline and salt. I sit on the edge of a tufted chaise, telling myself breathing counts as a defensive move. Nolan looks like some dangerous animal that's been muzzled at my insistence.
"You're meant to rest," I say curtly, because I don't want to think about the way my stomach dropped when I thought I might lose him. "Not pose like you're on display for my worry."
He gives me a lazy, dangerous half smile, the kind that says he knows exactly how my mind runs and enjoys it. "I'm fine." The words are flat and steady. He's lying, and I hear it in the clench of his jaw.
My hands find the edge of the chaise until my knuckles ache. “You keep saying that, but I can’t forget the way you stepped into that fight. When you took that hit, for a second I thought you were going down. You could have been killed.”
"I’ll heal."
His shrug is casual and his grin unsettling, pushing my frustration and fear to the surface. He keeps saying it will be fine, as if that makes the bruises fade faster, as if it erases the way my insides clenched when I thought I might lose him.
"You scared the hell out of me," I say, because the truth tastes too sharp to hold back. It lands between us like a small explosion.
His eyes change. For a blink he is no longer the teasing, confident man who flirts with danger and with me. He's steady, honest. He leans forward and drops his voice so the walls cannot overhear. "Say it again."
I press my head into my hands because admitting anything feels like giving it more power than I want to. "I'm not built for losing the people I rely on."
He closes the distance palms covering mine—brushing without taking, anchoring without suffocating. "You wear armor like a religion," he says. "It's kept you alive, but it’s also kept the people who are trying to be close to you outside the gate."
My laugh is bitter. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me. Not now."
"Then let me be blunt." He squeezes my hand. "I'm not leaving."
I jerk at the force of it. "Well I am. My home, my job and my life are in London, Nolan."
He shakes his head. "Funny thing... so is mine. I can't guarantee forever. I can't promise we won't get hurt, and I can't promise I'll never make the wrong decision. What I can promise is that I won't walk away because it's easier. I want more than a one-night thing, Allison. I want you—the whole you, not the parts you think you can spare."
Heat runs under my skin and I surprise myself by answering truthfully. "You make me want things I thought I buried."
He smiles, but there's no arrogance in it. It's relief and something dangerously hopeful. "Good. I'm not here for a fling."
We drift into silence that hums like the sea. When he tilts his head toward me, it is a question and an invitation at once. I let him close the space. His mouth finds mine slow and firm, as if he's checking I'm still there, making sure I'm not a dream. The kiss peels back a layer I have kept locked for years. I answer, because the part of me that can be reckless wants to answer.
His hands cradle my face at first, reverent, thumbs brushing along my jaw. Then one slips lower, mapping the line of my throat, the curve of my collarbone. Every touch feels like he’s memorizing me, as though he’s waited far too long to risk going too fast. I part my lips to him, tasting warmth, tasting want, and when his tongue slides against mine it unravels something deep inside me.
I fist the front of his shirt, tugging him closer until his chest is solid against mine. The world narrows to the glide of his mouth, the heat of his body pressing into me. His hand skims the length of my spine, steadying, guiding, until I’m backed against the velvet-draped wall. He doesn’t cage me—he shelters me, as though this is both battle and benediction.
When his mouth leaves mine, I chase him. He takes his time, lips tracing my cheek, my jaw, the sensitive hollow below my ear. I shiver at the scrape of his teeth when he nips lightly, at the low growl he gives when I arch into him. My blouse comes free of its tuck, and his fingers slip beneath, calloused palms stroking bare skin. The sensation jolts through me, hot and exquisite.
“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice gravel rough.
“Yes,” I whisper, breathless. “More.”
He complies, sliding my blouse higher, mouth following his hands as he bares me inch by inch. The cool air hits my skin just before his lips do, closing around a nipple, tongue circling until my knees nearly give. My head tips back against the wall, a gasp breaking free as his hand trails lower, past my waist, to the clasp of my trousers.
I should stop him. I don’t. I help him, shoving fabric down until his fingers find the lace that is already damp. His palm presses firmly, possessively, and I moan, clutching his shoulders like I’ll drown without him.
He lifts his head, eyes dark and searching. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” I breathe. “Now.”
He kisses me again, fierce this time while placing his skilled fingers on the edge of my lace panties. He gently pushes them aside and slides between my thighs. The first stroke is a brand, heat sparking through me. He takes his time, circling, stroking, until I’m trembling, hips bucking against his hand. I grind into his fingers shamelessly, chasing the pleasure he builds with precision.
But when I reach for his belt, he catches my wrist, pressing it over my head. “Patience,” he whispers, though the roughness in his voice betrays how close he is to breaking. He frees himself, the hot length of him nudging against me, and my whole body clenches in anticipation.
The first thrust is slow and measured as he enters me deliberately but without hesitation. My skin stretches to accommodate him fully inside me; it's an intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure that makes me gasp at the sensation. He groans into my neck and shudders as he sinks all the way inside.
We stay still for a moment—pressed tight together—breathing as one. Then he moves, steady and deliberate, every stroke deeper, every shift of his hips designed to bring us both closer to the edge. With each thrust, he carves his name into my very bones.
