Velika Island — Fisherwoman’s Cottage, Later That Night.
The storm refused to let up. Hours passed, and the little cottage creaked under the wind’s fury. Isla sat at the kitchen table, her tea long forgotten. Across from her, Nathan leaned against the wall, his damp uniform jacket hung near the hearth to dry.
She could feel his gaze even when she didn’t meet it.
Nathan
(low) You don’t talk much.
Isla
(shrugs) Nothing to say.
She risked a glance at him — and found his eyes already on her, dark and hungry.
Nathan
You keep looking at me like that… and I won’t be able to stop myself.
Isla
(quietly, after a pause) Then why are you still standing over there?
The sound of the storm was drowned by the pounding of her pulse as he pushed off the wall and crossed the room in two long strides.
He stopped in front of her chair, towering over her. His knuckles brushed her jawline, tilting her face up.
Nathan
(hoarse) You’re dangerous. Do you know that?
Isla
(breathless) And you’re naive.
That was all it took — his mouth crashed down on hers, hard and unyielding. The chair scraped back as he pulled her up, his hands gripping her hips, sliding lower, pressing her against the wall.
Her fingers dug into his shirt as the kiss deepened, his tongue tasting, claiming, teasing until she gasped his name against his lips.
Isla
(soft, almost a whimper) Nathan…
Nathan
(growls) Say it again.
He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the narrow bed in the corner, his lips never leaving her skin.
The storm outside raged on — but nothing could match the storm he unleashed inside her.
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