By the fourth day, the island had stopped feeling like paradise and started feeling like a pressure cooker with the lid screwed on too tight.
Ella woke up early again, the sheets damp with sweat from the humid night. She had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alex's face—dark eyes, wet hair, that low, dangerous voice, telling her exactly what he wanted to do to her. She could still feel the ghost of his thumb on her n****e through the dress, the way he had stepped away right when she was about to shatter.
She hated him for it. Hated herself more for wanting it.
She threw on a loose white linen shirt over her bikini and headed to the kitchen.
Alex was already there, leaning against the counter in nothing but gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. No shirt. Again.
