Chapter 10: A Salt-Sweet Awakening
The light was different. It wasn't the muted, slate-colored gloom of the previous afternoon, but a sharp, liquid gold that cut through the cypress branches and painted stripes across the rumpled bedding. Dee swam up from a depth of sleep she couldn’t remember ever reaching. Her body announced itself first—a symphony of pleasant aches in muscles she’d forgotten she had, a tender awareness between her thighs, the ghost of his hands on her skin.
Then the weight of his arm, a solid band across her waist, anchoring her to the bed and to him. His breathing was a warm, steady rhythm against the back of her neck. She didn’t move, wanting to preserve the perfect, stolen geometry of their bodies.
He stirred behind her. A low, unconscious sound vibrated against her spine. His arm tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt him, hard and insistent, pressed against the curve of her bottom. A flush of pure, shameless heat spread through her.
His hand slid down from her waist, fingers splaying over her lower belly, possessive even in half-sleep. Then those fingers drifted lower, through the soft hair, finding her folds. She was already slick, wet from the memory of him. A soft gasp escaped her.
“Good morning,” his voice was a sleep-roughened rasp against her ear. His finger circled her clit, once, twice, with a lazy, knowing precision that made her hips jerk back against him.
He didn’t turn her. He just shifted, his knees nudging hers apart from behind. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock nudging through her wetness. He pushed in slowly, an inch at a time, filling her from behind in that deep, shocking way. A moan, long and low, dragged itself from her throat as he seated himself fully, her body stretching to accommodate him. He felt bigger like this, more invasive. More perfect.
He held there, buried to the hilt, his mouth on her shoulder. “Christ, you feel…” He didn’t finish, just began to move. A slow, grinding roll of his hips that rubbed him against a place inside her that made her see stars.
The pace was lazy, decadent. The sun warmed her flank. Each drag of him inside her was a slow, sweet friction. His hand stayed on her clit, his thumb working in small, tight circles in time with his thrusts. It was overwhelming, the dual sensation. She was panting, her fingers clutching at the sheets, her head pushing back against his chest.
“Fuck, Matt… I’m already…”
“I know,” he growled, his rhythm faltering for a second. “Come for me. Right now.”
His command, the filthy promise in his voice, was the trigger. The orgasm unspooled through her not as a violent crash but as a deep, pulsing wave, milking him, pulling a ragged curse from his lips. He followed her over, his hips stuttering, his body going rigid as he emptied himself inside her with a series of harsh, choked gasps against her skin.
For long minutes, they stayed locked together, breathing in the dusty, sun-warmed air. He finally softened and slipped from her, but his arm pulled her back against him, spooning her fiercely. The feeling of him leaking warmly from her was profoundly intimate, a claim that went beyond words.
“I should feel regret,” he murmured into her hair, his voice thoughtful. “I don’t feel a goddamn thing except… quiet.”
“Quiet is good,” she said, tracing the veins on his forearm.
“Quiet is revolutionary.”
They dozed, a tangle of limbs, until the sun grew too hot on the covers. The practical world, held at bay by sex and sleep, began its inevitable encroachment. Her stomach growled. He laughed.
“Omelet part two?” he asked.
“I think I need actual fuel. And coffee. Gallons of it.”
He kissed her shoulder and rolled out of bed, gloriously naked, moving with an unselfconscious grace that made her throat tighten. She watched him pad out toward the kitchen, listening to the distant clatter of mugs, the gurgle of the coffee maker. The domesticity of it was a sharper intimacy than the sex.
She finally pushed herself up. Her clothes from yesterday were a sad pile on the floor. She found his discarded T-shirt from the kitchen and pulled it on, the soft cotton smelling of him and sleep. In the stark daylight, the bedroom revealed itself—a few books on the nightstand, a script with curled edges, a pair of reading glasses. The home of a man, not an icon.
She found him in the kitchen, scrambling eggs. He’d pulled on a pair of low-slung sweatpants. The sight of his bare back, the muscles moving under his skin as he worked the pan, was a fresh jolt of desire.
He glanced over his shoulder, a soft smile touching his eyes. “There you are.”
He plated the eggs, poured coffee, and they ate standing at the counter, hip to hip, not talking much. The silence was easy, but beneath it, Dee felt a current of something else. The questions were stacking up, a precarious tower.
He felt it too. He set his fork down. “What happens now?”
She looked out at the ocean, a relentless blue line. “I have to go home. Shower. Put on my own fighting clothes.”
“And Simon?”
The name landed between them like a stone. She turned to face him, leaning back against the cool concrete. “What about him? I’m thirty. You’re… you. He doesn’t get a vote.”
“He’s your father. And he’s my agent. My career…”
“Is yours,” she finished, her tone firm. “You built it. He facilitated. There’s a difference.” She took a breath. “And after last night, after Pryce… is that even the career you want anymore?”
He stared into his coffee. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”
“Then maybe we’re not just blowing up my father’s rule. Maybe we’re clearing the ground for something else.”
He looked at her then, really looked, as if seeing the blueprint of a future in her face. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re fierce, you know that?”
Before she could answer, the shrill buzz of the intercom from the gate sliced through the quiet. They both froze.
Matt’s brow furrowed. He walked to the panel by the front door, pressing the button. “Yeah?”
A distorted, cheerful voice crackled through. “Package for you, Mr. Bomer! Requires a signature.”
Matt shot her a wary look. “I’m not expecting anything.”
“Might be from the studio?” she offered, but a cold trickle of unease dripped down her spine.
He pressed the button to open the gate. “Bring it to the front door.” He released the button, his jaw tight. “Stay here.”
He went to the front door, opening it just as a van—not a standard delivery truck, but a shiny black van with tinted windows—pulled up. A man in a nondescript uniform hopped out, holding a large, flat envelope.
From the kitchen doorway, Dee watched Matt sign the electronic pad. The driver handed him the envelope, nodded, and walked briskly back to the van. It reversed and disappeared down the drive faster than seemed necessary.
Matt closed the door, his face pale. He turned the envelope over. It was blank, no postage, no return address. He ripped it open.
He pulled out a single, glossy 8x10 photograph.
His hand began to shake.
Dee crossed the room. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He just held the photo out to her.
It was a picture of them. Taken last night, from outside, through the glass wall of the living room. The angle was from the patio, looking in. It showed them on the sofa, Dee in his T-shirt, her legs curled under her, Matt leaning toward her, his hand on her knee. An intimate, quiet moment. The coffee mug was on the table. The frame caught the exact second she was smiling at something he’d said.
But superimposed across the image, in lurid red digital ink that looked like blood, was a single word: CONTRACT?
The world tilted. The quiet of the morning shattered into a million screaming pieces.
Matt slumped against the wall, the photo crumpling in his fist. “Pryce.”
“He was here,” Dee whispered, her blood running cold. “Last night. He was outside. He saw… everything.”
Matt’s phone, charging on the kitchen counter, began to vibrate with an incoming call. The screen flashed: SIMON WALDORF.
The sound was like a dentist’s drill in the silent room. They stared at it, the two of them standing in the epicenter of the explosion they’d both willingly ignited, watching the first piece of shrapnel fly directly toward them.