Chapter 27 The Night
llMALLORCA – their wedding night, 2:13 a.m.
The storm had rolled in fast, thunder cracking over the sea like the sky itself was jealous.
Justin had left the bed ten minutes ago (barefoot, linen trousers slung low, champagne bottle swinging from two fingers) promising to be right back.
Sofia lay sprawled across the sheets, naked and glowing, the simple gold band on her finger catching every flicker of candlelight.
She was still trembling from the last orgasm he’d wrung from her, thighs slick, lips swollen, the taste of him on her tongue.
The door opened again.
She smiled without looking, stretching languidly.
“Took you long enough, husband—”
The word died in her throat.
Alex stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone, white shirt plastered to every hard line of his chest, black hair dripping into eyes that burned like green fire.
The air changed (charged, dangerous, electric).
“Get out,” she said, voice shaking with fury and something darker.
He didn’t.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a soft, final click.
Rain hammered the roof.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the raw hunger carved into his face.
“I know what tonight is,” he rasped. “I know I have no right.”
Another step.
Another crack of thunder.
“But I saw the light on and I couldn’t stay away. Not one more second.”
Sofia’s pulse thundered in her ears.
She should scream.
She should tear the room apart.
Instead her body remembered (traitorous, hungry) the way he used to wreck her with a single look.
He crossed the room in three strides, water trailing behind him like a dark halo.
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of her hips, not touching (yet), but close enough that she felt the heat rolling off him.
“Sofia,” he breathed, voice shredded. “Tell me to leave and I’ll go. I swear on my life.”
She stared at him, chest heaving, nipples tight from cold and memory.
Lightning flashed again.
His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, the muscle in his jaw ticking with restraint.
She should say the words.
Get out.
Never come back.
Instead her hand moved without permission (fingers threading into his wet hair, yanking his head back so he had to look up at her).
“You lost the right to touch me,” she hissed.
“I know,” he groaned, the sound ragged, desperate. “I know.”
But his hands were already sliding up her thighs (rough, reverent, shaking), spreading her open like he was praying.
She was still slick from Justin, swollen and sensitive, and when Alex’s mouth found her (hot, starving, no hesitation), she cried out so sharply it tore her throat.
He devoured her like a man who’d been starving for years (tongue ruthless, lips sucking, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise anew).
Every stroke was apology and worship and possession all at once.
Sofia’s back bowed off the bed, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer even as tears burned her eyes.
“Alex—”
It was a sob, a curse, a plea.
He growled against her clit, the vibration sending her over the edge so hard her vision whited out.
She came with a broken scream, thighs clamping around his head, flooding his tongue.
He didn’t stop.
Kept licking her through it, slower now, drawing it out until she was shaking, oversensitive, begging.
Only then did he rise up over her, shirt clinging, eyes wild.
He kissed her (deep, filthy, letting her taste herself and him and every year of regret).
She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.
He groaned into her mouth, hips grinding against hers, cock straining through wet fabric.
“Tell me to stop,” he panted against her lips. “Tell me and I will.”
She should.
Instead her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, dragging him down.
He tore his shirt open (buttons scattering), shoved his trousers down just enough, and drove into her in one brutal thrust.
They both cried out.
He fucked her like the world was ending (hard, deep, relentless), every stroke a confession.
I’m sorry.
I was wrong.
I never stopped loving you.
She met him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back, teeth sinking into his shoulder, taking everything he gave and demanding more.
When she came again it was violent (walls clamping around him, milking him, dragging him over the edge with her).
He buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her with a guttural, broken sound (hips jerking, forehead pressed to hers, tears mixing with rain on his cheeks).
They stayed locked together, shaking, wrecked, the storm raging outside.
Eventually he pulled out, collapsed beside her, chest heaving.
Neither spoke.
After a long moment he reached for her hand (the one wearing Justin’s ring), pressed a trembling kiss to her knuckles.
“I’ll go,” he whispered. “Before he comes back. This never happened.”
He stood, fixed his clothes with shaking hands, and walked to the door.
At the threshold he paused, looked back once.
“You were always the love of my life,” he said quietly. “Even when I was too much of a coward to deserve you.”
Then he stepped into the rain and disappeared.
Sofia lay in the wreckage of the bed, body still humming, heart shattered and strangely, terrifyingly whole.
When Justin returned minutes later (champagne forgotten, worry in his eyes), she pulled him down without a word and kissed him until neither of them could breathe.
She never told him.
Some ghosts only visit once.
And some fires (no matter how bright) are meant to burn out in a single, devastating night.