Page 44 of The Darkest Hour

I reached out. “Do you want to survive or die here on this raft?”

“I want to survive.”

“Then, come here.”

Slowly, she came over to me, being very careful in the rocking boat.

Once she got close to me, I opened my arms, and she slipped into my embrace, her body fitting perfectly against mine.

Mmmm.

The contact was immediate.

Warmth spread between us.

Her soft dreadlocks brushed against my chin, while her orange spiced scent filled my senses.

Fuck.

I held her tighter, needing not just her warmth, but the feeling of her soft body against mine.

This is perfect.

The raft rocked beneath us, the storm’s fury growing, but for a moment, I found peace in our hold.

Sighing, she rested her head against me and her breath warmed against my neck. “Thank you.”

“No.” I closed my eyes and sank into her softness. “Thank you.”

The warmth of her body pressed against mine, the tender cadence of her breath—it served as a soothing elixir to my weary spirit.

While the wind's mournful wail circled and whipped around us like a cold, cursed phantom, within the sanctuary of this hold the weight of my despair lightened and this profound realization washed over me.

This was different than the typical back and forth I had with women.

This wasn't the mindless, detached sex I was used to.

This was intimacy—a closeness that perhaps transcended physical contact.

It was a connection I had never allowed myself to experience. In my line of work, intimacy was a weakness, a price of vulnerability that I could never afford no matter how much existed in my bank account.

Throughout my life, all relationships with women had been transactional.

This meant that encounters were fleeting, and emotions were buried deep beneath the surface.

Sex was just another tool.

A means to an end.

Devoid of any deeper meaning.

It was only the journey of pleasure and orgasms.

Nothing more.

But this.

This was something else entirely.