Page 89 of The Unfluencer

“This shit is for the birds.” I step out from behind the rack. For good measure, I give it a kick, then march to the front of the building, stomping mad. “Where’s the goddamned drive, Mya?”

And that’s how I play it. I can’t even tell Warner. Not yet.

Between my movies and true crime podcasts, I’d have to be a fool to say anything in front of Mya. She could be wired or on the edge of breaking free. If she takes me down and gets the drive, then we’re back at square one.

So I keep it cool, even as the plastic swishes softly in my pocket.

After we return to the main residence and confirm that Nacheline and Gibson are okay—and not accomplices—we call the coast guard, who inform us the storm should pass soon. So, with the sun sinking lower in the sky and the house growing darker, now that we know the blackout was property-wide, we can finally breathe.

And then we laugh.

Too loud, and nonstop, until Warner’s holding me upright, ribs hurting, eyes burning from crying we’re alive tears, like my body just realized it’s allowed to breathe again. It’s so unexpected. Sex with him was A-plus, but I love this ease between us, this genuine bond that’s formed as we stuff our faces and touch like we’ve been doing it for a hundred years and will for a hundred more.

Then it hits us.

These giggles are probably hangry, love-sated delirium. We haven’t eaten and we’re starving. We drift into the kitchen, where the charred pancakes have thankfully been replaced by fluffy eggs, crisp bacon, and a platter of fruit and croissants.

“Where did Nacheline go?” Warner asks around a pineapple-strawberry cheek-ful.

“Nap time.”

“Ah.” He flips his wrist then glances outside at the leaning palms swaying against the violet sky. “Damn, the day is almost gone.”

I toss back the last of my orange juice and notice there’s only one strawberry left. “You want it?”

“Oh, I’ve had”—he winces—“all the rest. Sorry, no, you have it.”

He steps away, kneading the back of his neck.

But he’s smiling. And it’s not just a sweet take the last strawberry smile. He’s looking at me how he always looks at me now, intensely and loaded with subtext. After today’s action-packed events, I’m only just now realizing what that subtext means: he wants me, now, sans clothes, in any position, and he doesn’t care who’s within earshot, conscious or unconscious.

Hand to heart, every single nerve ending in my body crackles to life.

Warner straightens to his full height and again, no further conversation needed, because babyyy… that nonverbal eye contact hits.

He’s already lifting me up onto the counter, big hands busy in my hair, on my stomach, ripping at our sweats and my panties until there’s nothing between us but tattered breaths and heaving chests. As he shoves himself inside me, we both let out audible gasps.

“Is it wrong that it feels this good?” He groans. “Like, I don’t know if I’m allowed to feel like this.”

“Not only are you allowed⁠—”

He steals my breath, because where on earth did we earn the right for this to be so fucking sexy? So damn smooth. To fit so seamlessly together like the missing pieces of a puzzle that’s just been sitting there waiting to be finished.

“Oh my God.” I throw my head back, arching into him. “It should always, always feel exactly this good.”

“Okay, it’s just—that’s not what I remember.” He chuckles nervously. “I mean, I’m sort of out of practice, and it’s incredible, you’re incredible, and I want it to feel the same for you. I want you to be satisfied too.”

Am I satisfied?

You’re goddamned right.

At the same time, I want him to keep moving. Keep thrusting his hips. Keep flexing his fingers into my ass to hold me close. Never stop coiling my insides so tight I feel like I might snap. But also, make it last, because ending this, this incredibly perfect union of our bodies, even a second too soon would end me.

“Too much?” he grunts.

But I don’t have the strength. I’m too afraid of messing this up to string together even the two letters to tell him no. It’s that serious.

Sweet Jesus, he has no idea how bad I’ve needed this—him.