Page 85 of Dual
I push myself up on my elbows, forcing my brain to catch up with her enthusiasm. My voice is still rough with sleep when I respond. “Quinn’s hardly my COO, love.” Despitemy words, I can’t help the fondness that creeps into my tone. Anna’s energy is infectious, even at—I glance at the clock—seven in the morning.
“I don’t care.” She practically vibrates as she shoves the printouts into my hands. “Look! Let’s go away! A pre-honeymoon. Amangiri! It’s gorgeous. It’s remote. I booked us tickets!”
The papers crinkle in my grip as I blink my eyes awake and try to focus on the images—stunning desert landscapes, sprawling suites carved into russet-colored rock, and infinity pools that seem to melt into the horizon. Before I can fully absorb it all, she’s thrusting plane tickets at me.
I frown, scanning the unfamiliar names printed on them. “Whose names are these?”
She waves it away, dismissive, already moving on to her next thought. “After the photo scandal, I don’t want anyone knowing it’s us. I found this amazing place, and all sorts of celebrities go there. No one uses their real names.” Her hands flutter over the tickets and brochures. “Plus, there’s WiFi if you’re desperately needed at work. Escape to the desert with me! Just the two of us.”
I study her face—her flushed cheeks, the slight catch in her breath, the way her eyes dart between mine and the tickets in my hand. Something’s driving this sudden urge to flee, but beneath my curiosity, there’s a deeper pull. The thought of having her all to myself, away from the noise and demands of Dallas, is too tempting to resist.
“I will never say no to my soon-to-be wife trying to whiskme away,” I tell her, my voice dropping to that lower register that always makes her breath hitch.
Her answering smile is brilliant, a flash of pure joy that cuts through any lingering suspicion. Whatever her reasons, she wants this—wants me—and that’s enough.
The resort materializesfrom the landscape like a mirage, all sleek lines and natural tones that blend seamlessly with the surrounding rock formations. Amangiri. A sanctuary in the desert. The stark beauty of it steals my breath—a modern fortress rising from ancient stone.
As we step from the car, the air is dry and clean, scented with sage and sun-baked earth. The heat wraps around us immediately, but it’s different from Dallas—pure and clarifying rather than oppressive.
Anna’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight as a staff member steps forward to greet us. They use the false names from our tickets without hesitation, treating us with a practiced deference that suggests we’re not the first “private” guests to arrive under assumed identities.
“We’ve prepared the Mesa Suite for you, as requested,” the host says, leading us through the main pavilion—a sprawling, open space where concrete and glass frame the surrounding mesas like living art. Water features create gentle ambient sounds that contrast with the stillness of thedesert beyond. “Complete privacy, with unobstructed views of the desert and your own private pool.”
I feel Anna relax beside me, the tension she’s been carrying since we left home finally beginning to ease. My arm slides around her waist, pulling her closer as we follow our guide across polished stone floors. The other guests we pass—a mix of tanned celebrities and the quietly wealthy—offer polite nods but nothing more. Here, anonymity is a luxury as coveted as the five-star amenities.
We pass through corridors where light plays across textured walls, designed to mimic the striated patterns of the surrounding rock formations. Each turn reveals another breathtaking vista, as if the resort itself is merely a frame for the grandeur outside its walls.
Our suite is better than the pictures—a sprawling space where floor-to-ceiling windows frame the vast desert. Natural materials dominate—stone, wood, leather—in muted tones that echo the landscape. A king-sized bed faces the panoramic view, and a sunken living area creates an intimate space despite the room’s grand proportions.
But it’s the private pool that draws Anna immediately—a geometric slice of blue extending to the edge of the terrace outside, creating the illusion that it flows directly into the desert beyond. Her hands trail over the smooth concrete edge as she gazes out at the endless stretch of mesas and sky, painted in impossibly vivid shades of rust and gold and blue.
“It’s perfect,” she breathes.
I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around herwaist and pulling her back against my chest. “You’re perfect,” I murmur against her ear, feeling her shiver despite the desert heat.
She turns in my arms, her eyes dark with something that looks like hunger.
“I want you,” she whispers, the words hanging between us like a confession.
My brow furrows slightly. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since our scene at the club. But the woman in my arms now is looking at me with unmistakable desire.
Before I can question it, she’s rising on her toes and pressing her lips to mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens.
“In the pool,” she says against my mouth. “Just us.”
I should ask her about Dr. Ezra and about what happened yesterday. I should question this sudden urgency to get away, to be alone with me.
But her hands are already working the buttons of my shirt, and the determined look in her eyes silences the questions on my tongue.
“Your wish,” I tell her, my voice rough as I help her shed her clothes, “is my command.”
The water is warm, heated to perfection against the cool March air, and Anna slides into it with a sigh that sounds like relief. The late afternoon sun casts the pool in golden light, reflecting ripples across her skin as she submerges herself to her shoulders.
When I join her, she comes to me immediately, her bodywet and slick against mine. There’s a sweetness to her movements, a tenderness that speaks directly to Anna, not Mads. But she wants me. It’s still new to me, her being integrated.
“I want to feel you,” she says, pressing close, her arms winding around my neck. “Just you. Justus.”
Her eyes hold mine, unguarded and vulnerable in a way I rarely see. Water beads on her eyelashes, catching the sunlight like tiny diamonds. I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, searching her eyes. Whatever she’s running from—whatever drove us here—doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that she’s here, with me, asking for connection.
