Stranded with the Rockstar (Rockstar #1)

25. Sunny

"This storm is going to be a bad one," I tell Harry, picking up our newly filled fish basket. We heard the thunder a few minutes ago, and I can tell by the dark clouds quickly approaching that this one is different.

His shoulder raises in a shrug. "It can't be much worse than what we've already had."

I don't tell him that he's wrong. We've been relatively lucky when it comes to storms so far. Our raft/tent situation has been able to keep water off of most of our stuff, but if we have a true tropical storm tonight, our housing itself could easily disappear.

He gets the sense that something more is in the air, though, when we hear the thunder again just as we reach our campsite. We wordlessly begin gathering our things—which basically consists of various baskets filled with fruit, mint leaves and soap root. Our minimal clothing and first aid supplies are kept in the cooler from the boat. Those should be safe, at least.

By the time we curl up together under the raft, I know he's scared. He doesn't even try to have sex before we attempt to sleep. And he always wants to have sex before going to sleep.

The wind is fierce. After we both start shivering uncontrollably, we put on all the clothing we have. Harry's socks are gloves. We kept the scraps from when we made our pants into shorts, and those are now socks. We fought over who wore the boots, but Harry won, and they are now residing on my feet.

The walls blow away within an hour. They weren't keeping the wind out, but they were somewhat keeping us dry. Now we are both dripping raindrops from our hair, ears, elbows, everywhere.

The lightning seems to be coming from directly above us. Every flash lights up our tent like it's daytime. But we don't talk about it. We don't speak at all.

Harry has me pulled closely to his chest, and occasionally I feel him bring his lips to the top of my head. I don't want to look at him. The small amount of composure I still have will be gone in a second if I see his fear. It's hard enough listening to his heart pounding in his chest and feeling his hands that he's desperately trying to keep from shaking.

We could die tonight. I know it, and he knows it.

It's been seven days since we made love on the beach—since I opened up and let go of whatever had been holding me back. I can now truly say that Harry knows me better than anyone else. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

A rush of relief crashes over me, hours later, when I realize the rain seems lighter. The top of the raft doesn't seem quite as heavy. And I haven't heard any rumbling thunder in several minutes. The worst, at least, seems to be over.

I pull away from Harry. My muscles are stiff and sore from holding onto to him so tightly. His must be as well. He is slow to let me go.

But we survived.

We survived the worst night of our lives. Him and I, together. I look at him for the first time in hours and through the shadows, I see the connection that I feel in my blood. It's all consuming. It's bigger than my body.

There are no words to say, so we don't speak before smashing our mouths together—clumsily at first due to the pure blackness surrounding us. We don't speak as we lower our pants down our legs. I leave the boots on, not wanting to waste time removing them. We don't speak as Harry relocates above me, thrusting himself inside roughly. The only sound I hear as Harry moves in and out is the small amount of rain left hitting the raft, and his heavy breath in my ear, and my heart beating through my chest.