The Beach House Stranger
She was only supposed to be there for the weekend—just her, a bottle of wine, and the crashing waves to soothe her mind. No distractions. No exes. No lies. But fate had other plans. He showed up past midnight—wet from the ocean, a stranger with no shirt, just low-slung jeans and a story that made no sense. Said he got separated from his friends, lost his phone, needed help. She should’ve said no. But his voice was low and calm. His eyes... hungry. She let him in. He stood near the open balcony door, droplets of seawater trailing down his chest. She offered him a towel, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he stepped toward her, close enough for her to smell the sea on his skin and something darker—desire. “Thank you,” he murmured. “But I think you want something else.” Her breath caught. Before she could speak, he cupped her face and kissed her. Deep. Possessive. His tongue slid past her lips, coaxing hers into a dance of heat and need. She gasped when he pressed her against the wall, the t...