Chapter 15: Stormbound
The storm announced itself not with a gentle warning, but with a sudden, violent silencing of the world. The constant whisper of the waves, the chatter of birds—it all vanished, swallowed by a thick, hot stillness that pressed against the bungalow windows. The light turned a sickly yellow-green.
Roz, sitting on the floor with her sketchbook open to a half-finished watercolour of the lagoon, looked up. “That’s… ominous.”
Ally, sprawled on the rattan sofa reading a battered thriller, glanced toward the horizon. “Going to be a big one.”
The first fat raindrop hit the deck like a bullet. Then the sky split open. Rain didn’t fall; it was hurled sideways in solid, roaring sheets. The palm trees thrashed, bending double. The world beyond the glass became a blurred, furious grey-green smear. The bungalow, once a haven of openness, felt like a fragile wooden crate tossed on a raging sea.
The noise was immense. A primal drumming on the roof, a howl through the eaves.
“Christ,” Ally said, putting his book down. There was no fear in his voice, just a focused assessment. He walked to the full-wall sliding door, watching the chaos. “Glad we’re not in that boat now.”
Roz joined him, the sketchbook forgotten. The violence was terrifying and beautiful. The lagoon, once serene turquoise, was a churning cauldron of whitecaps. She felt a strange, artistic detachment even as her heart hammered. Note the colour of the rain, she thought. Not grey. A metallic, bruised silver.
They spent the first hour watching, pointlessly securing loose items on the deck as wind-driven spray seeped under the door frame. The initial adrenaline faded, replaced by a cozy, trapped intimacy. The storm sealed them in a noisy, wet capsule.
Ally returned to the sofa, abandoning his book. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, watching the ceiling fan spin. The damp air clung to his skin. He was naked, had been most of the day, the heat making clothes superfluous.
Roz retrieved her sketchbook, but the watercolour felt wrong for the mood. She swapped it for a stick of charcoal. The storm’s energy was in her, a dark, rhythmic pulse. She needed something direct, something with edge.
She sat on a cushion on the floor, her back against an armchair, and looked at him. The lines of his body in the storm-light were different. Softer in the dimness, but also more pronounced. The definition of his abdomen, the deep cut of his hip flexors, the heavy muscle of his thighs relaxed against the pale rattan. A still-life of potent inertia.
She started to draw. Quick, confident strokes. She captured not just his form, but the attitude of it—the total, unselfconscious ownership of the space. The way his free hand rested on his stomach, the faint trail of dark hair leading down. She smudged the charcoal with her thumb for shadow, emphasising the dip of his navel, the curve of his shoulder.
She was lost in it, the world narrowing to the connection between her eye, her hand, and the page. The storm faded to a white-noise backdrop.
She didn’t notice he was watching her until she paused to evaluate the drawing. His head was turned on the cushion, his blue eyes fixed on her, dark and unreadable. He’d been observing her observe him.
“Let me see,” he said, his voice a low rumble under the rain’s roar.
“It’s not finished.”
“Don’t care.”
A flicker of the old shyness threatened, but she squashed it. This was their pact. She got up, pad in hand, and sat on the edge of the sofa near his hip. She held it out.
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. He studied the drawing in silence for a long moment. His expression was serious, analytical. He saw the athlete, yes, but he also saw the man she saw—the relaxed power, the quiet vulnerability of sleep, the intimate detail she’d chosen to highlight.
“It’s good,” he said finally. “Really good.” He looked from the page to his own body, then back to her. “But it’s… polite.”
Roz blinked. “Polite?”
“Aye. It’s beautiful. It’s technically… whatever, brilliant. But it’s you looking at me from over there.” He tapped the page. “It’s safe.”
A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through her. This was new territory. “What’s not safe?”
In one fluid motion, he sat up. The sketchbook fell to the floor with a soft thump. He closed the distance between them, his body crowding her space, heat radiating from him. The storm seemed to roar louder.
“This isn’t,” he said, his voice barely audible. He didn’t kiss her. He took her hand, the one still smudged with charcoal, and guided it to his chest, flattening her palm over his heart. She felt the strong, steady beat. “Draw that. Draw what it does when you touch me.”
His other hand came up, fingers sliding into her hair, not gentle, a firm possession. He tilted her head back, forcing her to hold his gaze. His eyes were blazing. “Or draw this. Draw what I want to do to you right now, which is not lie still and look pretty.”
The charge between them was sudden, a live wire dropped into water. The polite serenity of the afternoon was incinerated.
He moved fast. Before she could process it, he snatched the fallen sketchbook and charcoal, tossed them onto the armchair. Then his hands were on her hips, flipping her over with effortless strength. She gasped, her stomach now against the cool rattan, her face pressed into a cushion. He followed her down, his weight settling over her, not crushing but inescapable.
One hand fisted in her hair again, pulling just enough to arch her neck. His mouth went to her ear. “Draw us like this. You want to capture me? Capture this.”
He shifted his weight, freeing a hand that slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, rough and demanding. This wasn’t the slow, languid lovemaking of the previous night. This was a claiming, a response to the raw energy of the storm and the unspoken tensions of months. It was a language beyond words, all sensation and force.
She couldn’t speak. She turned her head, finding his shoulder with her mouth. She didn’t kiss it. She bit down, a sharp, punishing press of teeth against the hard muscle.
A sharp grunt escaped him, part pain, part pure approval. “Aye,” he hissed, his breath hot on her skin. “Just like that. That’s the picture.”
His hand in her hair tightened. His other arm hooked under her waist, lifting her into him. The world dissolved into a symphony of feeling: the brutal ache of his grip, the punishing grate of the rattan on her skin, the relentless hammer of the rain on the roof, and the fierce, glorious friction of him moving against her, in her. It was chaos. It was perfection.
She cried out, the sound lost in the storm’s cacophony. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the sofa, clutching at nothing. He was everywhere, his scent, his strength, the raw, unfiltered sound of his breathing in her ear. This was him, not the media-trained spokesman, not the thoughtful boyfriend carefully observing colours for her. This was the player from the pitch, the intense, competitive force, channelled into a single, devastating point of connection.
When it ended, it was a collapse, a slow crumbling of tension. He released her hair, his body slumping heavily onto hers, both of them slick with sweat and breathless. The storm still raged, but inside their capsule, the air was still, thick with the scent of sex and salt.
He rolled off, pulling her with him, fitting her back against his chest. They lay tangled on the narrow sofa, listening to the rain begin to soften, its fury spent.
After a long time, Ally’s finger traced a meaningless pattern on her damp shoulder. “That,” he said, his voice hoarse, “is a fucking masterpiece.”
A weak laugh bubbled out of her. She turned her head. His shoulder bore the clear, red half-moon of her teeth. She touched it gently. “I’ll need to draw that, too. For accuracy.”
He caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her charcoal-stained fingers. “You can draw anything you want. Just don’t….” He paused, searching for the words. “Don’t polish me. Don’t make me safe. The good, the bad, the frustrated, the fucking animal… it’s all me. That’s the deal.”
She understood. The portrait he’d asked for on the deck in Scotland—a future, warts and all. This was the same demand, in a different language. Total honesty, even when it was ugly, or fierce, or rude.
Outside, the rain slowed to a steady, soothing patter. The lagoon began to calm, its surface settling from a boil to a simmer. The violent green light had passed, replaced by a clean, grey twilight.
Roz closed her eyes, memorising the weight of his arm, the steady thump of his heart against her spine, the faint, throbbing echo in her own body. She thought of the blank pages waiting in her sketchbook back in London. They didn’t feel intimidating anymore. They felt hungry.
She would fill them. Not with polite, beautiful lies. With true things. With metallic rain and the taste of skin and the precise, brutal shape of a man who refused to be just a subject. A collaborator. A co-conspirator.
The storm had passed. In its wake, everything felt washed clean, raw, and vividly, unforgettably real.
In its wake, everything felt washed clean, raw, and vividly, unforgettably real. The air, scrubbed by the downpour, carried the electric scent of ozone and wet frangipani through the now-open sliding door. They lay in a tangle of limbs on the sofa, skin cooling, listening to the steady drip-drip from the eaves onto the deck.
Ally’s stomach growled, a long, comical rumble that vibrated against Roz’s back. She snorted a laugh, the sound muffled against his arm.
“Aye, very romantic,” he muttered, his voice thick with post-storm lethargy. “My digestive system always knows how to set the mood.”
“I think it’s perfect,” she said, shifting to face him. She traced the new mark on his shoulder with her thumb. “A real, warts-and-all portrait. Complete with sound effects.”
He caught her hand, kissed her fingertips one by one. The charcoal stains were almost gone, absorbed into both their skins. “You’re stuck with the warts, then. And the ungodly appetite. I need food before I expire.”
They ordered room service, a ridiculous feast of grilled lobster, salty chips, and a fruit platter they ate with their fingers. They ate cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in the white cotton bathrobes provided by the resort, the storm’s drama replaced by a simple, hungry contentment. The world outside their bungalow was a dripping jewel, every colour intensified.
“I meant what I said,” Ally stated suddenly, picking a piece of mango from her plate. He wasn’t looking at her, focusing on the fruit. “About not polishing me. In the portraits, I mean. But also… just generally.”
Roz licked a spot of butter from her thumb. “I know you did.”
“It’s easy here,” he continued, his gaze lifting to meet hers. The blue was calm now, thoughtful. “No schedules, no reporters, no lads shouting nonsense in the locker room. It’s just this. But back in Glasgow… it won’t be just this.”
She felt the future, their future, settle between them on the floor like a third presence. It wasn’t a threat, just a fact. “I don’t want a polished version of my life either, Ally. The doubt, the pressure, the messy studio… it’s all mine. You get that, too.”
A slow smile spread across his face, erasing the last traces of intensity from the storm. “A right pair we are. A portrait of mutual, beautiful disaster.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said, throwing a grape at him. He caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.
Later, the plates were pushed aside, the remains of their feast a testament to their shared hunger. The last of the twilight bled into a deep, velvety indigo, punctured by the first brave stars. The only light in the room came from a single, low lamp, casting long, dancing shadows.
Roz felt the shift inside her, a quiet, sure tide rising. The storm had unleashed something in him, a truth he’d shown her without filter. Now, she wanted to show him one of hers. Not the shy artist, not the overwhelmed commission recipient, but the woman who saw him and wanted, purely and simply.
She moved first. Crawling across the small space between them, she placed her hands on his knees where he sat leaning against the sofa. The cotton of his robe was soft under her palms.
“Ally,” she said, her voice low but clear in the quiet room.
He looked down at her, a question in his eyes. She answered it by pushing his robe open, her hands sliding up the warm, solid planes of his thighs. She leaned in, her lips brushing the faint, silvery scar on his ribs—a souvenir from a long-ago match. She felt him inhale sharply.
“Lie back,” she whispered, the words a soft command against his skin.
A slow smile touched his mouth. He obeyed, easing himself down until he was flat on the thick rug, his head propped on a cushion. He watched her, his expression open, curious, the blue of his eyes almost black in the dim light.
Roz straddled him, the belt of her own robe coming loose. The cotton fell open. The warm, damp air kissed her skin. She settled her weight onto him, feeling the solid reality of his chest beneath her thighs, the steady beat of his heart under her palm.
Her hands began a slow exploration, mapping the territory she knew visually from a hundred sketches and now knew by touch. The broad, strong shield of his pectorals, the fascinating, hard landscape of his abdomen. She learned him by feel, her fingertips reading the story of his body—the raised line of the scar, the smooth dip of a collarbone, the surprising softness of the skin over his hip.
He let her lead, his hands resting lightly on her thighs, his gaze never leaving her face. His breath had deepened.
Then his hands moved. They came up, not with the storm’s demanding force, but with a reverent slowness. They cupped the full weight of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, drawing a gasp from her that was part surprise, part sheer pleasure. He leaned up, just enough, and took one into his mouth.
The heat was exquisite, a sharp, pulling sensation that arced straight to her core. Her head fell back, a soft sigh escaping her. This was her offering, her truth—her desire, unhurried and unequivocal. He worshipped her with his mouth, his tongue, his gentle teeth, until she was trembling above him, her own hands now fisted in his dark hair.
“Roz,” he breathed against her skin, the word a vibration that echoed through her entire body.
“Roz,” he breathed against her skin, the word a vibration that echoed through her entire body.
She answered by shifting, her hand sliding down the dense muscle of his abdomen. Her fingers found him, hard and hot, and closed around him. He hissed, his head pressing back into the cushion, eyes closing for a second. When they opened again, the look in them was pure, undiluted hunger.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
His gaze locked onto hers, a blue flame in the lamplight. She began to stroke him, a slow, deliberate rhythm learned from his own body, from the way he moved against her. Her other hand stayed on his chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart under her palm. The contrast was everything: the controlled motion of her hand, the utter loss of control on his face.
He let her lead for a handful of breaths, his jaw tight. Then his hands came up again, cupping her breasts, his thumbs rubbing slow, deliberate circles over her nipples until they peaked into tight, aching points. She moaned, the sound low and throaty, her rhythm on him faltering for a second as sensation short-circuited her focus.
“Don’t stop,” he growled, his own hands never ceasing their maddening, gentle assault.
She obeyed, tightening her grip, speeding her stroke just a fraction. He arched beneath her, a tendon standing out in his neck. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing and the distant, residual drip of rain. This was a different kind of storm, contained and building between them, in the slick heat of her hand and the rough pad of his thumbs on her sensitive skin.
“I’m not going to last if you keep that up,” he managed, the words gritted out.
“I know,” she said, and there was a painter’s pride in it, in seeing the effect, in being the cause.
With a sudden, fluid surge, he moved. He rolled them over in one motion, pressing her into the deep rug, his body caged over hers. The cool cotton of his open robe brushed her skin. He looked down at her, his face serious. “My turn.”
He kissed her then, deep and consuming, as his hand slid down her stomach, through the damp curls, and found her. He touched her like he was learning a secret, his fingers clever and insistent, until she was bucking against his hand, a broken chant of his name on her lips. The coil inside her wound tight, terrifyingly close to snapping.
He entered her in one smooth, relentless push, and she cried out, her legs wrapping around his hips. He moved with a driving intensity that felt like truth, like an answer to every unspoken question they’d carried from Scotland. There were no more words, just the slap of skin, the creak of the floor, the shared gasps for air.
When she came, it was a silent, shattering explosion behind her eyes, her body seizing around him. He followed a moment later, his own release a sharp, choked-off groan against her throat, his whole frame shuddering.
He collapsed beside her, one arm flung over his face. The cool air from the deck washed over their heated skin. They lay there, spent, listening to the island’s night sounds cautiously return: a faint chirp of insects, the gentle, perpetual lap of the lagoon.
After a long while, he turned his head on the rug. “So. The portrait.”
She turned to look at him. A faint smile touched her lips. “Which one? The polite one, or the one where I’m biting you?”
“The real one.” He reached over, tracing the line of her eyebrow with a fingertip. “The one you start when we get home. Of the mess. Of this.” He gestured vaguely between them, at the discarded robes and the empty plates. “Of a star rugby player who can’t get enough of a shy painter from Leith. Warts, appetites, stormy weather and all.”
Home. The word hung between them, solid and weighty. It wasn’t just a place anymore. It was this negotiated space, this raw agreement they were building.
“They’ll talk,” she said quietly, stating the fact he’d hinted at earlier. The press, the fans, his teammates.
“Let them.” He said it simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll give them a quote. ‘Artist captures subject’s essence. Details are private.’” He grinned, the charming, media-trained smile, but it was just for her now, a shared joke.
She laughed, and it felt light, the last of the storm’s pressure gone. But a practical thought surfaced. “Our flight is at noon.”
He groaned, rolling onto his back. “Reality. Right.” He sat up, then stood, offering her a hand. “C’mon. One more swim. In the actual lagoon, not on the floor.”
They walked out onto the deck, naked under a sky now dusted with countless stars. The air was fresh and clean. He jumped first, the splash loud in the quiet night. She followed, the water a shock of perfect coolness on her heated skin.
They floated on their backs, looking up at the universe, hands loosely linked beneath the surface. The bungalow, with its evidence of their feast and their passion, glowed warmly behind them.
“I’m not ready,” she said to the stars, not meaning the water.
“Neither am I,” he answered, his voice calm. “We’ll do it anyway.”
He pulled her gently through the water toward him, until she was floating against his chest, his arms around her. They stayed like that, suspended in the dark, silent water, holding onto the island’s dream for a few moments longer. The first hint of dawn was a faint, grey suggestion in the east, a silent promise of the day to come, of airports and autumn chill and the waiting canvas in her Glasgow studio.
It wasn’t an ending. It was an intermission. And for now, in the warm salt water under a fading sky, it was enough.