Amélie didn’t smile, but she felt it—the subtle coil low in her stomach, the betraying quickening of her pulse. She lifted her glass slowly, letting the rim brush her lips, forcing his eyes to follow the movement. Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici, cowboy? If you had any idea what I was, you’d run now.
Even as she thought it, though, Amélie felt the stirring of something she hadn’t ever allowed. And it confused her. She didn’t want to vanish; she wanted to stay.
Putain de X. She grimaced inside. She wasn’t looking for this. Not in Saratoga. Not anywhere. She’d come for silence, and for whiskey that didn’t ask questions. One drink, then gone. That was the rule. It had always been the rule. Stay in the shadows. Don’t let anyone close to her.
But this man standing at her table wasn’t another shadow. She could feel his restless energy and was warmed by his rough charm. He grinned like he was born with a secret. And without permission, she felt him begin pulling her toward himself.
She’d had plenty of lovers, both men and women, and they’d been simple affairs. Just hungry hands and mouths in the dark. Bodies without names. Nothing ever lingered in her bed by the time dawn came. They were all forgettable and disposable. And deliberately so.
But, this one? She could feel it even before she spoke. Something deep inside her, that had lain dormant for years, was telling her he was going to turn out to be something else.
Her voice didn’t betray any of the turmoil disturbing her, though. And she murmured dangerously, “Careful,” her accent thickening at the edges, lips curving faintly. “Strangers don’t usually survive crossing rooms for me.”
The line landed cool and deadly, and Owen’s eyes widened a fraction. At her words, or her incredible accent? He wasn’t sure. Probably both.
She was exotic, and wild, and his grin widened as he tipped his head, eyes sparking. “Maybe surviving the night isn’t the best thing a guy could ask for.”
Oh. Amélie liked that. She swallowed the whisky in her mouth, and it burned down her throat.
“And maybe,” he leaned a little closer, “I’m not the usual kind of stranger.”
Amélie grinned to herself. She shouldn’t encourage him. She should cut him loose. But instead, she found herself holding his gaze, then looking down at his mouth and measuring the grin that dared her to call his bluff.
“You speak boldly,” she said, lashes lowering, her accent wrapping the words in smoke. “That can be dangerous.”
Owen’s smirk sharpened. “Dangerous, I can handle. Boring?” He gave a mock shudder. “That’ll kill me quicker.”
Her mouth curved then; something told her Owen wasn’t the type to just talk a big game. Something told her he was a man well acquainted with danger and knew how to handle it. And, to her disbelief, a giggle bubbled up and escaped her before she could stop it. Were they really talking like this?
His grin widened further at her laughter, and her eyes warmed like embers coaxed to flame. This was ridiculous. Was this? Was she having fun?
She leaned back in the booth, a sovereign reclining, and she looked him over slowly. Letting him sweat as she considered him. She really did like what she saw. And that grin, charming and chaotic, made her bite her lip.
“Then sit,” she said softly. “I’d hate to be accused of murder on such a charming first impression.”
Owen slid into the booth opposite without hesitation and set his empty glass down, smile flashing. “My name’s—”
“Non.” Amélie interrupted him immediately, “No names.”
Owen blinked, caught off guard. “No?”
She let the silence stretch, green eyes steady, unreadable. Then, with her mouth curving faintly in amusement, or warning, she said softly but firmly, “Not yours. Not mine.”
She didn’t choose to mention she had already caught his last name and had tucked it away. A secret she felt like holding close for the moment.
Owen leaned back, considering her, a wolfish smile on his face. “Alright then, no names, just drinks.”
He tapped the table once, playfully, like marking a beat only they could hear. His blue eyes gleamed, the gesture threaded with something beneath the charm. A willingness to play her game, on her terms.
“But, fair warning,” he drawled, mouth tugging sideways, “I’ve got a bad habit of turning first drinks into very late nights.”
Across the table, Amélie crossed her long legs, and her lips curved, faint but certain, as if she’d heard the want humming under the humor.
His concession, his readiness to step into her rules without losing his own fire, was more intoxicating than the whiskey. Power hummed low in her blood, steady and familiar. But threaded now with something unexpected: Desire. He was yummy.
••••••
The drinks came and were set before them, but neither reached for it. The bar hummed around their booth: music, chairs scraping, laughter spilling out, but it was all dulled, like sound underwater.
Owen leaned back, trying to play it cool while his pulse hammered against his ribs. He told himself to breathe, to stop staring like some kid sneaking into his first bar, but he couldn’t look away. This woman was something else, something he’d never been in the presence of before.
Amélie finally reached for her drink and her fingers rested lightly on the glass, gaze moving slow and deliberate as she took him apart piece by piece: the breadth of his shoulders, the tousle of his hair, the grin that wouldn’t quite settle. She’d spent a lifetime reading postures. But she wasn’t doing analysis, this time. This time, it was hunger.
Owen felt it, every sweep of her green eyes like fire across his skin. Normally, he’d break the tension with a joke, some cocky one-liner, but the words kept sticking. Owen’s pulse hammered, threatening to give him away. His mouth betrayed him first.
“Well,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this is either the sexiest staring contest of my life, or the part where you confess you’re a serial killer. Either way? I’m strangely okay with it.”
Amélie blinked once before smiling, small and sharp.
Owen’s chest clenched at her smile. God, he liked that. It lit through him like heat. And Amélie, against instinct, leaned forward, her medal glinting in the light. For the first time in years, she felt reckless and alive. She raised her glass, savoring the whiskey as it burned her tongue.
Owen mirrored her without meaning to, fingers curling around his own glass, and then letting the bourbon hit hot—steadying his nerves enough to keep his hands from shaking.
Amélie’s voice came next, cool but threaded with that brightness in her eyes. “Are you always this bold with strangers?”
Owen tipped his glass, eyes glinting. “Only with the dangerous-looking ones.”
Her brows lifted. “And what makes you think I’m dangerous?”
His grin tilted sideways. “I think every man and woman in this bar knows you’re dangerous. And then there’s the fact that you’re still letting me sit here. It kinda feels like a dare.”
The corner of her mouth tugged, again. She lifted her whiskey, taking another sip and Owen leaned in, “You’re not exactly blending in, tonight. I bet this whole bar has already shifted around you once or twice. And you either don’t notice, or you do, but you don’t give a fuck.”
She let out a soft laugh that surprised her as much as him. And, god, Owen wanted more of that sound. Was everything she did going to undo him like this? He leaned back and drawled lazily, “Well, would you look at that. She laughs. That’s it, darlin’, now I’m doomed. I’m gonna be chasing that sound all damn night.”
Amélie shook her head and was about to say something when they were interrupted.
“Hale!”
Connor’s voice cracked through the bar like a starting gun. Owen cringed, Amélie’s mouth tightened, and the spell shattered.
Connor shouldered through the crowd; his usual regard and self-control had left him. “Damn, Hale, we thought you’d fallen down a well or skipped town with the circus. And honestly?” His gaze slid to Amélie, quick, and wicked. “This tracks. Definitely circus material.”
Owen sighed, his disappointment obvious.
Margot was right behind Connor, eyes sweeping the booth in one sharp take: Owen, the mystery woman, the silence stretching between them. Her smirk was immediate. “Mmm. Don’t mind us.”
“We’re minding you plenty,” Owen muttered, though the corner of his mouth.
Amélie’s gaze flicked sideways, and Owen caught a spark of wicked amusement alive in her green eyes.
Connor dropped into the booth beside Owen like he owned it, stretching long legs without care. “Good. Because I brought shots. Nothing says quality decision-making like whiskey stacked on top of whiskey.”
Amélie shifted to make space for Margot, then sat very still, glass poised, watching Connor like a cat deciding if the bird had just landed too close.
••••••
Time bled strangely after that.
Amélie had braced for irritation, noise, and the clumsy warmth of people she didn’t know. She expected the intrusion that would push her back into the shadows. But instead, she remained.
Somehow they all seemed to understand that names and small talk weren’t the currency of the night. Owen’s booming irreverence, Margot’s razor wit, and then there were Connor’s steady volleys.
It shouldn’t have worked, and yet it did. Against every instinct, she found herself leaning in, letting the rhythm carry her. It was easy to see they had known each other for a long time. And Amélie could sense a subtle outline of their true dynamic and found it curious.
They drank more. Owen slapped down a round of shots, only to choke on his own like a schoolboy sneaking liquor. Margot carved him alive with insults that betrayed her fondness of him, and Owen laughed, shoulders shaking. Amelie considered Margot more closely: she’s a formidable woman, and even more beautiful up close.
Amélie sat back at first, letting the sound scrape her edges raw. This was warmth without agenda. Trust without a threat or bargain. She had lived a lifetime without it. She had no map to navigate it. And yet, she let it happen. Let herself sit in the heat of it.
Connor attempted French—badly. And they teased his accent.
Owen, laughing hard, leaned his head back, the lines of his throat catching the gold light. The sound rolled out of him, irreverent and alive.
Amélie’s lovers before had laughed too, but they were brittle, broken things. His laugh was different. Full of blood and breath and mischief.
Every time she lifted her gaze, his blue eyes were there. Watching her. Curious and open.
She was shocked when last call was announced. Shocked that she’d let herself enjoy the night. Shocked most of all by the man whose presence had slipped clean under her armor.
The bar lights glowed gold as the crowd thinned. Connor stood up and slung an arm around Margot, declaring loudly that he’d starve without food. Margot rolled her eyes but fitted herself against him anyway.
“You two are gross,” Owen drawled, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him.
Margot smirked like she’d just gutted him. “And you two… are staying.”
With that, Connor tugged her out into the night, and their bickering about pizza faded down the street.
Silence followed. Heavy. Different.
Owen felt it first. The laughter still clung to him, but now it was just Amélie across the table, her green eyes steady, like she could strip him bare without laying a finger on him.
Owen smiled, his attempt to avoid awkward, making it awkward. “Guess it’s just us, then.”
Amélie’s mouth curved. “So it seems.”
They walked out not long after, without actually having decided to.
The night air wrapped cool against Owen’s forearms, and the smell of lake water rose from the dark. Streetlamps were haloed in mist, and the air was thick with late-summer.
He opened his mouth, about to joke, to break the tension—But Amélie was there.
Close. Too close.
The kiss struck like flame to dry timber. There was no hesitation. No courtesy. Just hunger, pure and unsparing. Owen moaned into it, the sound swallowed whole by her mouth.
His back hit his old truck, and Amélie pressed into him. His hands searched blind: the sharp cut of her jaw, the tumble of her dark hair, the curve of her hip. He hauled her closer, needing every inch, as if distance itself had become unbearable.
They broke only when air demanded it. Forehead to forehead, breaths ragged. Owen laughed, half-shaken, half-pleading.
“Get in the car. Please.”
Amélie’s eyes flickered sharp and calculating, then softened into something heavier, and she nodded once.
The doors groaned open, and old leather swallowed them. Owen’s hands shook on the keys, not with nerves, but from the current running fierce and unrelenting through him.
The engine roared, headlights split the mist, and the stereo blared to life at full volume:
“Am I… your fire? Your one… desi—?”
Owen slapped it off so fast the speakers popped. Mortified, ears hot. “That’s not… look, I swear that’s not my playlist. I don’t -”
Amélie turned slowly, green eyes glinting, lips curved sharply. “Your… fire?” she repeated, her voice making the word smoke.
“Kill me now,” Owen groaned, forehead dropping to the wheel.
But she didn’t kill him. She only let the smile linger, wicked and deliberate, like she enjoyed the crack in his armor.
After a moment of torture, her hand moved slowly, sliding from her seat to his thigh. Her touch was light at first, just enough to claim him, before grazing higher.
Owen sucked in a breath, eyes snapping to hers. She had him—every nerve, every ounce of attention.
Her voice came low, “Ton lit… maintenant. Don’t make me ask again.”
Owen didn’t understand it all, but he got the message. He grinned, wide and reckless, throwing the Cruiser into gear. “Buckle up, sweetheart.”
_____
They drove down the gravel driveway, headlights sweeping across the weatherboard house. Its paint looked washed-out under the moon, scaffolding and tools leaning tired against the porch. Renovations paused mid-stride, like the place was waiting for someone who never came home. Beyond it, the lake stretched black and bottomless, swallowing the stars whole.
Owen killed the engine. The silence that followed pressed so heavily, he could hear the thrum of his own pulse.
They barely made it inside. The click of the lock was still echoing when Amélie shoved him back against the wall. Her mouth crashed into his, hungry. Owen’s answering groan came ragged, half-laugh, half-disbelief before it was swallowed whole. She tasted like whiskey, dragging her body flush to his.
She was tall and lithe, and she loved that Owen was taller and broader, as though she could fold herself into him and vanish inside his frame. Her thigh brushed the thick strain of his arousal through denim, and his breath caught, hips jerking instinctively. Fire rushed low, dangerous and consuming. In his chest, one truth flared hot and reckless: she was going to ruin him.
And just then—scrabble, thump, huff.
A russet-shaped barreled in from the living room, nails clicking across the floorboards. Before Owen could react, Ed Sheeran skidded to a stop, crashing into Amélie’s legs, tail flagging wildly, a mangled glove dangling proudly from his mouth.
“Ed Sheeran, be good!” Owen’s voice cracked somewhere between horror and disbelief. He half-turned, fumbling for damage control. To Amélie, he muttered apologetically, “He’s a good boy. He just… doesn’t know how to behave with gorgeous strangers.”
But Amélie had already stilled, green eyes narrowing, her body poised in that unnerving stillness she carried like a blade. The dog padded forward again, nails clicking softly, nose twitching as he circled once. He sniffed the air around her calves, then up toward her hand, posture steady, measuring.
Owen held his breath. Ed Sheeran had given Margot months of grief before warming up to her, and he’d never tolerated Rachael at all.
And yet, this time was different. The dog gave a short, decisive huff, as though a verdict had been reached. He laid the mangled glove carefully at Amélie’s feet like an offering, then sat back on his haunches and waited. His gaze lifted to hers in an intent, already adoring way.
Amélie’s lips curved faintly. In her world, dogs were obstacles to be avoided, nuisances that barked at the wrong time. But here, with this one? She crouched with the same precision she might use when sighting down a weapon. Only now, instead of steel, her fingers slid into soft, russet fur. Ed Sheeran leaned into her touch immediately, tail thumping once, then twice, steady as a heartbeat.
Owen blinked, floored. “Well, I’ll be—” he muttered under his breath, watching his dog look at her like she’d just hung the moon.
“Ed… Sheeran?” The name slipped from her accent like velvet, amusement curling its edges.
Owen winced. “Yeah. Nothing to the story, I’m afraid.”
For the second time that night, Amélie laughed, low and incredulous, softening the bite in her hunger. She stroked the dog again, and he licked her cheek boldly. Her green eyes lifted to Owen, sharp and wicked. “Boys,” she murmured, lips brushing into a dangerous smile. “Always so eager to please.”
Owen stared at the mutt still parked at her feet, staring at her like she was the only soul in the room. A crooked smile broke across his lips, wry and stunned both. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “We are, aren’t we?”
The embarrassment had burned into something else. The moment wasn’t ruined. Rather, it had simply shifted. Softer at the edges, but hotter at the core. And when Amélie rose, stepping back into him, her hand closing around the hard line of his arousal, her mouth grazing his jaw, her whisper came low and deliberate: “Where’s your bed? Show me how eager you are to please me.”
The dog gave one decisive huff, as if granting permission, before padding back toward the couch and curling into the shadows.
And then Amélie seized Owen’s mouth again, kissing him hard, the interruption burned away in an instant. Nothing stopped them this time.
They crashed through the house like wildfire, stumbling toward the stairs, colliding with walls, stripping each other in frantic, reckless pieces—her jacket, his shirt, their boots kicked and tumbling down the banister. By the time they reached his bedroom door, her top lay in a heap, and his belt clattered sharply against the floorboards.
When they hit the mattress, it was skin against skin, heat slicking every point of contact, urgency swallowing hesitation whole.
Amélie straddled him, dark hair spilling in a glossy curtain around their faces. She lingered there, green eyes fixed on his as if committing every line to memory, before bending to claim his mouth again, slower this time, but deeper. Her tongue teased his until he groaned into her mouth. Her breasts pressed to his chest, and he felt the cool brush of her necklace against his skin.
Her hips rolled in heavy, deliberate way, dragging her slick folds along his length. His groan cracked, raw and helpless, as his hands clutched her breasts, kneading greedily, then slid lower to seize her ass and pull her harder against him. She ground down again, devastating, and his breath came in a hiss.
She looked at him like a predator about to devour a delicious meal. But then, in the low light, she saw it. Ink, faded and worn, cut into the muscle of his ribs, half-hidden under the shadow of her hair. All battles are first fought within.
Something about those words made her freeze. Her breath caught. The line was a fragment of Saint Joan, here, carved into him, not for display, but as though branded into his survival. Her fingers drifted to it before she could stop herself, tracing the letters slowly, almost like testing an old wound. Owen shifted under her touch, jaw tightening, blue eyes shadowed by something that went deeper than desire.
For the first time since she’d climbed onto him, she didn’t bend it in hunger but in recognition. Her mouth touched the ink in a long, slow kiss. Not as a lover, but as a soldier acknowledging another’s war.
The shift was brief, but it burned. When she rose again, her green eyes gleamed, and she rolled her pelvis in a smooth, grounded rhythm. once more, but harder, hungrier, and he groaned ragged beneath her.
Owen’s hands were restless and greedy, palming her breasts and revelling in their weight and shape, before skimming down the taut line of her back to cup her firm, shapely globes and drag her down against his hardness. Her wet folds slid along the length of his cock and his voice cracked, rough with need, “God, you feel like heaven and sin rolled into one.” He broke off with a breathless laugh, hips jerking under her. “Figures I’d be doomed either way.”
Her only answer was a devastating smirk, and another heavy, wet slide. She didn’t fumble or hesitate. She moved like a woman born to undo him. Every shift of her hips was ruthless, every kiss laced with a command. And, when she reached between them and wrapped her hand around him, stroking slow and sure, Owen’s head slammed back against the pillow with a guttural groan.
“Regarde-moi,” she murmured, low and edged in velvet authority. Then again, slower in English so he couldn’t mistake it: “Look at me.”
His blue eyes flew open, locking to hers, and she nearly broke him. A desperate growl tore from his chest as he rolled, pinning her beneath the weight of him. His mouth crashed back onto hers, devouring, then dragged lower, along the line of her jaw, down the curve of her throat, until he closed over the perfect swell of her breast. His tongue was hot, insistent, teasing her nipple until she arched beneath him.
His hand slid lower, grazing the taut line of her stomach before slipping into the soft, fine curls at her mound. He didn’t stop there – fingers parted her slick heat, and the tremor that ran through her body told him exactly what he was doing to her.
Amélie gasped, and her hips bucked hard into his palm. French spilled from her lips in ragged bursts, curses and broken pleas tumbling raw and unrestrained. Owen pushed two fingers inside her with hungry precision, curling just so, adjusting to every twitch and shudder, relentless in learning her. His thumb found her clit and circled, merciless, until her thighs quivered and shook beneath him, her body giving itself over to his hand.
“Putain…!” she cried, nails raking his shoulders, scratching him as her body arched. The orgasm ripped through her sharp and violent, a cry cutting the night wide open.
But she wasn’t done. Breathless, she seized his mouth in a fierce kiss, then rolled them over again, settling him beneath her and straddling him with a feral grace. Her hand closed around his cock, still hard and oozing pre-cum from her earlier attentions. She dragged him slowly between her freshly sopping lips.
Her green eyes burned with promise, steady and unflinching. “I want you inside me.”
Owen’s breath hitched, his answer ripped out rough and certain. “Fuck, yes.”
Slowly, inexorably, she lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by aching inch, her body yielding around his girth and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips as she settled onto his length until he was buried deep inside her. They moaned together, guttural, primal, and she ground down onto his buried cock.
Owen bit his lip as pleasure surged, every nerve on fire. She felt impossibly made for him, tight, hot, and relentless. And he clung to control like a man at the edge of a cliff. God, he was already too close, already falling, but if he let go too soon, she’d never let him live it down. And still, with every roll of her hips, he knew the fight was slipping from his grasp.
There was nothing polite in the way they moved. This was hunger, raw and consuming. His hands roamed freely and desperately—up to her breasts, kneading them hard, then down to seize her hips, forcing her harder onto him as he thrust up to meet her rhythm.
Amélie felt the shift in him, the taut edge of restraint. Her own body pulsed around him, trembling as she fought her own undoing. “Oui.” She muttered low and thick as she raked his chest with her fingernails, leaving angry lines beneath his thin chest hair. “Comme ça.” Yes… Like that.
He was too deep, too perfect. His girth stretched her deliciously, forcing her tight channel to flutter and grip him with every thrust. She was being dragged closer and closer to the brink she swore she wouldn’t fall from so quickly. And yet, even as she told herself to hold back, she knew she was already his. Her control was burning away in the fire of his touch.
So, she sharpened her movements, rolling her hips faster, and bending over him so that her breasts dragged back and forth from his chest and into his face. She smiled wickedly at the breathless cries she was pulling from him as he drew closer to the edge.
Owen could feel her tighten around him. He could feel her hips clench and her stomach begin to spasm. And fuck, the wet sounds as she rode him were driving him mad. Then, finally, on one particularly devastating roll of her hips, he broke. Amélie shivered at the sound of his roar as he clutched her ass, locking their bodies together and spilling his seed deep inside her.
Amélie shattered with him, her climax tearing loose, high and fierce. Her body clamped down around him, dragging every last drop of pleasure from him even as she coated his cock in her nectar. Their bodies shuttered together. Owen’s legs had gone stiff, and his abs still spasmed and clenched as he lay beneath her.
And Amélie collapsed on top of him, sweaty and breath ragged. The room was heavy with the smell of sex and heat. Amélie lay there, her breasts pressed into his chest, her cheek against his jaw, as if she could disappear into the breadth of him. She kept him inside her, refusing distance, holding him as though he might vanish if she let go.
Owen’s arms folded around her instinctively, holding her close. He could have cracked a joke, could have defused the weight, but he didn’t. He stayed silent and present as they caught their breath.
It was Amélie who moved first, her hands brushing across his ribs and pausing over scars. She traced each one reverently. She knew the signs, piecing them together with his swagger and attitude. He was a soldier. Or had been. And he’d survived, somehow. He was laughter and strength, danger and tenderness bound together. This should have been nothing. Just another man on another night. But she felt like Owen was about to unmake her.
He lifted his head, brushing his nose against hers. Their eyes locked and Amélie’s breath caught. He wasn’t just looking at her, he was trying to see her. He was attempting to strip her bare. Chase away the shadows and see her scars. He wanted to see her.
A crooked, dangerous, boyish grin broke across his lips before he kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. As if the kiss itself were a vow.
She shifted against him and gasped when she felt him stir, swelling again inside her. Raw, intimate, shocking. “Mon Dieu,” she thought. “Ne t’arrête pas.” My God, don’t stop.
Their bodies slick and satisfied, began to move together once more. Owen wrapped one powerful arm around her, cradling her back, while with the other, he reached up and cupped her face. Holding her as though he could anchor her, even as she unraveled again. Her hips moved accepting his request for more, and he flowed into her rhythm, thrusting slow and deliberate, as though every stroke were an offering to her.
This time it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was slow, aching, and thick with mutual recognition—of what he offered, and what she needed, and how fully they could be the answer to each other’s longing.
Their rhythm deepened until Owen rolled them, pressing her into the mattress, and bracing himself on his forearms. For a heartbeat, she felt caged, her dark hair spread across the sheets, and her breasts heaving. But then her eyes found his, steady and undone for her, and she understood: he might loom over her, but every part of him was moving in devotion to her.
“Ouvre les yeux,” she whispered, velvet and unyielding. Open your eyes.
He hadn’t realized they’d closed. When he lifted his gaze, she was there, holding him captive. Her hips rose to meet him, and her strong thighs locked around his waist, and he groaned, shuddering as she drew him deeper into herself. Her whisper wrapped around him like smoke. “Encore.” Again.
His control wavered. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in, salt and sweat, and something all her, all woman. But her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back up, forcing him to meet her eyes.
They moved in answer to each other, immersed in one another. Neither could remember if they’d ever had sex like this. So connected and already so seemingly familiar with each other.
Her slick walls gripped him hard and pulsed around him as her climax surged again, unstoppable. A low, feline cry tore from her throat just as he pushed himself as deep as possible, spilling inside her. His ragged moan tangled with hers, rough and reverent, and they trembled in unison, every nerve undone. The old bedframe groaned under the weight of their shared wreckage.
At last, Owen sagged against her, still refusing to pull himself out, their sweat-slick bodies clinging. Amélie framed his face, pulling him into a kiss that was nothing like the others. This time, it was soft and lingering. Owen shivered and hummed into her mouth, the dangerous tenderness of it.
And in the silence, with the nighttime noises of the lake whispering outside, both of them knew: this wasn’t just another night. It was the beginning of something that could unmake them both.
