207 Glass Doors


Rory walks ahead of me, her black tank sticking to her like a second skin as we make our way back to the cabinas. Her dark hair clings to her shoulders in thick sections that have clumped together from the rain, and I rake a hand through my own, diverting my eyes from the temptation of her body—trying to forget how she feels in my arms. Because she feels like home.

I'm also trying to swallow past the lump in my throat that formed when I had to tell her that it wasn't an order to not call the tour guide. This stubborn woman is going to do whatever the hell she wants, and letting her is essential. Dex is right. If I push too hard or act like a possessive, overprotective dick, then I risk pushing her away before I even have her. But that doesn't mean I like it. In fact, it makes me physically sick imagining all the ways she could get herself into trouble. 


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