Chapter 21: Sparks and Laughter

The desert evening settled soft and golden, the dunes outside Rylan's window glowing with the last of the day's light, the air humming with a quiet that felt earned. Zara leaned against the desk in his quarters, her boots kicked off, her hair loose, watching him as he sorted through a stack of mail—bills, mostly, but his grin said he didn't care. Ethan's article had faded into noise, the resort holding steady, bookings ticking up despite the jab. They'd fought through it, together, and the weight of it had lifted, leaving something brighter, something theirs.

He glanced up, catching her stare, and his grin widened, crooked and warm. "What?" he asked, tossing a letter aside, leaning back in his chair.

"Just looking," she said, smirking, and crossed to him, her bare feet silent on the floor. "You're cute when you're relaxed."

"Cute?" He raised a brow, standing, and pulled her into his lap, her legs straddling his, his hands settling on her hips. "That's a new one."

"Get used to it," she teased, kissing him—light, playful, a brush of lips that sparked a laugh from him, low and easy. His hands slid up her back, warm through her tank top, and she felt the shift—the air thickening, the playfulness edging into heat.

"Been a hell of a week," he murmured, his lips trailing to her jaw, his stubble scraping just right, and she tilted her head, giving him more.

"Yeah," she agreed, her hands in his hair, tugging gently. "Think we deserve a break."

"Break, huh?" He grinned against her skin, his hands slipping under her shirt, fingers brushing her sides, teasing the edge of her bra. "Got something in mind?"

"Maybe," she said, and kissed him again—deeper this time, a slow, deliberate press that drew a groan from his throat, his grip tightening. She rocked her hips, just enough to feel him harden beneath her, and he laughed, breathless, pulling back to meet her eyes.

"You're trouble," he said, voice rough, and she smirked, sliding off his lap, tugging him up with her.

"Best kind," she shot back, and yanked his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. He didn't miss a beat, lifting her tank top off, his hands quick but playful, and she laughed as it snagged on her hair, his fingers untangling it with a grin.

"Graceful," he teased, and she shoved him toward the bed, the mattress creaking as he fell back, pulling her down on top of him. She straddled him again, her hands roaming—his chest, his stomach, the faint scars she knew by heart—and he caught her wrists, flipping them so she was beneath him, his weight a welcome press.

"Cheater," she gasped, laughing, and he kissed her—messy, fierce, his tongue sweeping in, stealing her breath. His hands slid to her jeans, popping the button, and she lifted her hips, letting him peel them off, the denim tangling at her ankles until she kicked it free, giggling as he cursed the stubborn fabric.

"These things hate me," he muttered, tossing them aside, and she pulled him down, kissing him through her laughter, her fingers working his jeans open, shoving them down with less grace and more urgency. He kicked them off, boxers following, and she tugged at her own underwear, impatient, until they were both bare, skin to skin, the room warm with their heat.

"Better," she said, wrapping her legs around his hips, and he grinned, kissing her neck, her collarbone, his hands teasing—brushing her thighs, her sides, everywhere but where she wanted, until she squirmed, half-laughing, half-desperate.

"Tease," she accused, and he chuckled, low and wicked, finally sliding a hand between them, finding her—wet, ready—and stroking slow, deliberate, watching her face as she gasped, her hips bucking.

"Love that sound," he murmured, and kissed her again, swallowing her moan as he kept going, building her up, playful but precise, until she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer.

"Enough games," she breathed, and he laughed, shifting, guiding himself to her entrance, entering her with a slow, steady thrust that made them both groan—loud, unfiltered, the sound bouncing off the walls. She clung to him, nails digging into his back, and he moved—easy at first, a rhythm that matched their laughter, then faster, deeper, the playfulness giving way to raw need.

"Zara," he rasped, his lips on her ear, his breath hot, and she rocked with him, meeting every thrust, the bed creaking, the world narrowing to this—them, tangled, alive. He slid a hand under her, lifting her hips, changing the angle, and she broke, a sharp cry tearing from her throat, pleasure crashing through her, bright and wild. He followed, thrusting hard, his groan rough and deep as he spilled into her, his arms trembling as he held her tight.

They collapsed, breathless, laughing, his weight pinning her to the mattress, her legs still wrapped around him. "Damn," he panted, kissing her—sloppy, sated—and she grinned, running her hands through his hair, damp with sweat.

"Yeah," she agreed, catching her breath, and he rolled to his side, pulling her with him, their bodies sticky, sand-free for once, just them. His hand traced her spine, lazy and warm, and she nestled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

"Worth the week?" he asked, his grin audible, and she laughed, kissing his jaw.

"Worth everything," she said, and meant it—the storm, the scars, the fight to get here. He pulled a blanket over them, the night settling soft, and she felt it—joy, light, a spark they'd kindled into something lasting.

"Love you," he murmured, half-asleep, the words slipping out, and she froze, her heart thudding, then smiled, pressing her lips to his chest.

"Love you too," she whispered, and he tightened his arm around her, the confession a quiet seal on their fire. The desert stretched beyond, but here, they were enough.