Or kiss them and make out with them.

This is serious. The people after me don’t kid. They want something I can’t give them. They want retribution, death or worse.

I need a new plan. A new place to crash and hide. I wish I had internet to search for an exit route, but I don’t, and I wish I had money to pay for my ride, and I don’t. Hitchhiking gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I guess I’ll have to give it another go.

Typical of my life.

I walk around the house, in and out of the bathrooms, the kitchen, the empty TV room, and out onto the terrace overlooking the sea. I gaze in the direction of the house where Storm is, and my chest hurts. What is this strange ache?

It shouldn’t feel like I’m leaving home.

But it does.

***

I should say goodbye.

The thought spins inside my head like a mini cyclone all day, throwing me off balance. I should say goodbye to Storm and apologize for ditching him last night.

Let him know I’m leaving.

I’m dithering, putting off the inevitable. It’s not as if I have to pack or anything. When afternoon comes around, I finish the last of the crackers and another can of party sausages and sit on the steps of the terrace. Chin in my hand, I watch the ocean roll. Waves and dunes and seagulls—but I can’t appreciate the beauty of the place anymore.

My eyes keep searching for a lone runner arriving with the nightfall.

Where is he? Why hasn’t he come?

And why am I suddenly so worried about him? He was fine when I left.

It’s me who isn’t fine. That’s it. I’m going to go find him, bid him farewell, all that melodramatic crap. It’ll take a weight off me, I think. Free me to hit the road once again.

Sandals in one hand, the other shading my eyes from the setting sun, I set out to find him. This time I find the mansion easily. I expect to find him fixing some thing or other in the garden, but the gate is locked, and I can’t see him inside.

“Storm!” I rattle the gate and as an afterthought, search for a doorbell. I find it on the fence at my right and ring it. “Storm?”

Nothing happens.

As if he has to stay in every night, on the off-chance I pass by. He’s probably taken off to town and is at some bar, hitting on chicks and having a drink.

I puff out a breath and lean on the gate. The garden looks so peaceful with its lit pool and the empty chaise lounges. Azaleas grow around a raised round platform where I can imagine a small orchestra playing. Or a couple sitting to eat.

I close my eyes and can’t figure why there’s a sting at the back of my eyes. I’m not going to cry for Storm. I barely know him.

“Goodbye,” I whisper. “And thank you for last night.”

“How about a repeat?” he says from behind me, and I scream, turning and slamming my back into the iron gate. “Ray…”

He’s breathing hard, and his chest gleams with sweat. He was out running, and I somehow missed him coming after me. The light catches on his sharp cheekbones and bright eyes, turning them to gold.

“Hey,” I say, my mouth dry as dust.

“You were saying goodbye.” His brows come together, and he leans against the gate, so close I can feel the warmth from his body. “Why? Are you leaving?”

“That’s when people usually say goodbye.”

“Why are you running, Ray?”

“Goodbye, Storm.”

“Don’t.” He pushes off the gate and takes my face in his hands. “Stay.”

“I can’t.” The stinging in my eyes is back. I should go before I start bawling in front of him.

“Stay tonight.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“Why?” he asks.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”

“And that won’t change if you run away again. Do you really have to go?”

I shake my head, torn.

“I’ve wanted you,” he rasps, “from the moment I saw you watching me when I was fixing that fence.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fuck, no, I’m not.” He shifts against me, muscles bulging in his thighs. “You’re so beautiful.”

I lose the battle and a tear breaks free, slipping down my cheek. I lift my hands to his face and cup his jaw, his stubble prickling my palms. Jesus Christ, he’s so gorgeous.

He takes my hands and loops them around his neck. “Why are you crying?”

“I wish…” I swallow hard. “For so much I can’t have.”

“But you can have me. If you like.”

So I do the only thing I can: I kiss him and let the world fade away.

***

He kisses me back, pushing me against the gate. His hands slide down my neck and over my breasts, coming to rest on my waist, and I arch up against him, against his powerful muscles and the cock thickening against my stomach.

He tastes even better today. No wine sparkle to cover his spice, and his lips are salty with clean sweat. Salty and sweet and hot. My tongue tangles with his, and I press myself to him, needing to feel every beautiful inch of him.

Can’t remember right now why I’d better run away. My brain’s taken a hike. I kiss him back, desperate to get more of him. His hand fumbles behind me and the gate swings open. He walks me backward and kicks the gate closed without stopping.

His mouth is nipping at mine, his hands hot through my blouse. He’s moving fast, actually marching me backward, and I stumble.

In one swift motion, he bends, slides his arms under my back and knees and swings me up to his chest.

I squeal and grab at his neck, terrified I’ll fall. He laughs, a delicious, deep sound that vibrates through his chest and into me. He crosses the patio with long strides, bypassing the chaise lounges, and reaches the door.

“In my left pocket,” he says, eyes sparkling down at me. “The key.”

I stare at him, my brain still on lockdown. Finally I release my death grip on the back of his neck with my right hand and reach down. His running shorts are satiny, and I fumble around, trying to find the slit of his pocket. My hand brushes over something long and hard, and he gasps.

He grins down at me, but his eyes are kinda glazed.

“Is there really a key in there?” I move my hand to the side, and a shudder goes through his body. I feel an echo of it between my legs.

“Yeah, there is.”

I finally find the pocket and push my hand inside. I hunt for the key and brush over his hard-on again. He swallows another gasp, his eyes going dark and deep.

“Who cares about the key?” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Or going indoors. Let’s do it right here, on the doorstep.”

“You really are crazy,” I whisper, my fingers closing around the small key and pulling it out of his pocket. “Anyone passing by can see us.”

“Crazy people don’t care,” he whispers back, and I grin in spite of myself. “Just open the damn door.”

He maneuvers me until I can reach the keyhole. I shove the key inside and turn. He puts his hip to it, pushes, and it opens.

“Now,” he says, carrying me into the cool high-ceilinged mansion and striding around the sunken living room. “Where were we?”

“We weren’t…” I don’t know what to say. Don’t know anything anymore, except I want him to kiss me more, to touch me, and screw everything else.

He starts up a staircase, hefting me easily in his arms. This boy sure is strong. His steps falter a little toward the top, though, and I gasp in alarm.

“Don’t worry.” He smiles. “I’ve got you.”

Yet he limps slightly as he carries me down a long mezzanine, and I remember it’s not the first time. Before I can follow this train of thought, though, or ask about it, he pushes another door open and enters a bedroom.

Has to be a bedroom. It has a bed at its center, but apart from that it’s unlike any room I have ever entered. Back into fairytale territory.

A huge, extra-large, king-sized bed, done in pale gray with white and black cushions is set at its center. A deep red couch and two armchairs with a low, dark coffee table stand by the tall French doors that open onto a balcony facing the sea. Fine white curtains flutter. The long wooden beams of ceiling are painted white. An actual fucking chandelier hangs over us, tiny crystals glittering in the last rays of the sun.