Page 55 of The Malibu Destiny

He whips his head toward me, eyes blazing. "Nothing. That I don't trust you is my shit, not yours."

I jerk away, staring at the blur of trees outside. He still doesn't trust me. Every cell in my body screams to escape, but I remain frozen, my breath shallow. His gravity is crushing, inescapable. I'm drowning in him, helpless as a ship being devoured by Charybdis. My brain shrieks warnings, but my heart pounds a different rhythm entirely. I've survived by following nature's law: when heart and head wage war, the heart must triumph. And God help me, my heart is chained to this man, unbreakable.

I lower my voice, eyes on the floor. "You still don't trust me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Present tense." I look up. "Not 'didn't trust me.' You said 'don't trust me.'" My chin lifts slightly. "You might backpedal now, but those exact words just came out of your mouth. And I've always believed what slips out unplanned is what someone truly means, no matter how much they deny it afterward."

He exhales sharply, his jaw clenched. "I won't lie to you. I don't trust you." His voice drops to a ragged whisper. "But it's my demon to slay, not yours." He seizes my hand, pressing it against his thundering heart before bringing it to his lips. His eyes burn into mine. "I swear to you, I'll tear this darkness out by its roots. Whatever it takes." His grip tightens. "I can't lose you. I won't."

We arrive at the resort as the sun dips low over the Pacific, casting a golden glow across the infinity pool. Roman's calloused fingers intertwine with mine as he guides me through the property, his voice softening with pride as he points out the solar panels disguised within the Spanish tile roofing, the living walls of succulents that reduce cooling costs, and the elegant rain catchment system that feeds the lush native gardens. His thumb absently strokes my knuckles while he explains how each change preserves the luxury experience while reducing the resort's carbon footprint.

“The pools are now all solar-heated,” he says, pointing to the various infinity pools and salt-water lap pools around the property. “And these enormous terra-cotta vases are rain barrels that capture rainwater that we can use to water our gardens and even our lawns. And I’ve put some plans in the works for some more bungalows that will have mattresses filled with cashmere, a natural fiber. I’ve already implemented this idea in some of the more upscale suites and they’ve been really popular.”

I nod, the ocean breeze tousling my hair as I inhale deeply. "These are beautiful changes," I say, tasting salt on my lips as the late afternoon sun bathes the cliffside in amber light. "You could add those massive driftwood sculptures I saw in Malibu—bleached bone-white and twisted like ancient spirits—in the marble lobby. Or install those heavenly rainfall showers where guests feel embraced by warm, purified ocean water cascading over river stones. Maybe glass-floor sections where they can watch purple starfish and emerald anemones swaying in the tide pools below, or sleek solar panels that catch the light like sequined waves along the winding cliffside path. Your guests would fall in love with this coastline while feeling virtuous about preserving its wild magic."

“Let’s go into my office,” he says. “I’d like to write down your ideas so I can implement them.”

My heart pounds like a tribal drum as his warm fingers close around mine, sending electric currents up my arm. He leads me through the sleek corridor to his corner office—a vast space with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the glittering Pacific. Roman settles into his ergonomic leather chair, the material sighing beneath his weight as he pulls up to his gleaming glass desk. His fingers hover over the keyboard of his state-of-the-art computer. "Okay," he says, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room. "Now what were your ideas again?"

I take a deep breath, trying to ignore how his cologne—notes of sandalwood and something distinctly masculine—makes my thoughts scatter. "Rainfall showers crafted from purified ocean water," I begin, watching his intense eyes focus on me. "Glass floor sections suspended over natural tide pools where guests can watch the mesmerizing dance of sea anemones and starfish. Driftwood sculptures carved by local artists that tell the story of the Pacific." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "And, I don't know, maybe one of those underwater restaurants like in the Maldives? Or even a luxury underwater suite? I remember reading about them in a travel magazine—how the walls are transparent and schools of tropical fish swim by while you're eating or sleeping."

Roman's eyes widen, dark lashes framing his surprised expression. He snaps his fingers, the sharp sound cutting through the air. "Oh my god, Lilith," he exclaims, leaning forward so suddenly I can see the flecks of amber in his brown irises. "I can't believe you said that. I never even considered underwater luxury suites or restaurants until this moment."

His fingers fly across the keyboard, bringing up dazzling images on his triple monitors—underwater dining rooms where jellyfish float past like living chandeliers, and submerged glass bedrooms where the ocean becomes both ceiling and walls. "The luxury suite has an infinity pool that seems to melt into the sea," he points out, his voice quickening with excitement, "butler's quarters with private access, and enough space for six guests to live like aquatic royalty."

He swivels toward me, his smile transforming his usually stern face. "This is a fantastic idea," he says, his gaze holding mine. "I'll need specialized architects and marine engineers, but these would be perfect for our ultra-high-net-worth clients who've seen everything else."

A smile tugs at my lips. Leave it to Roman to casually drop millions on something as extravagant as underwater dining rooms and bedroom suites. The renderings are breathtaking though—I can almost feel myself drifting off to sleep beneath schools of tropical fish dancing overhead.

Roman pushes away from his chair and perches on the edge of his desk, those mile-long legs dangling. It's a habit I've noticed he reserves for our meetings—this casual posture that seems at odds with the buttoned-up billionaire everyone else sees. I doubt anyone else gets to witness this version of him.

"Lilith," he says, his voice softer than usual. "Your perspective on this is invaluable. What made you think of it? How did you know about these underwater structures in the Maldives?"

"I stumbled across it in Big Sur," I explain. "During a meditation retreat—nothing fancy, just simple bungalows and lots of silence. I was thumbing through a travel magazine in the lobby, waiting for my instructor, when I saw the article. The concept just stuck with me."

His throat bobs with a swallow as he shuffles papers on his desk, not meeting my eyes. "These weeks without you... I've been miserable," he admits. "I know I fucked up."

"You did," I say, my lips curving despite myself. "And I've been counting the days too. But if you can't bring yourself to trust me⁠—"

Roman slides off the edge of his desk in one fluid motion and draws me to my feet. His fingers thread through my hair, his voice dropping to a murmur against my temple. "Trust takes time with me. I'm trying."

And then he's kissing me, his mouth crashing against mine with such force I stumble backward, my spine meeting the cool plaster wall as his calloused hands find my flushed face, my tangled hair, the sensitive hollow of my neck—anywhere to hold me closer. I taste cherries and ocean salt and raw need on his tongue as it slides against mine, three torturous weeks of absence dissolving in the molten heat between us. His strong fingers dig into the curve of my hips, lifting me effortlessly until my feet dangle above the hardwood floor, and I wrap my trembling legs around his solid waist, not caring about that stupid fight anymore, only that now we're breathing each other's ragged air, desperate and starving like survivors of some emotional shipwreck.

His calloused hands claim my feverish skin with desperate hunger, strong fingers pressing into my soft flesh as if trying to reach the very marrow of my soul. I cry out—a high, broken sound—when Roman's perfect white teeth graze the sensitive hollow of my neck, the sharp sting melting into liquid pleasure as he growls my name—"Lilith"—like a sacred prayer and a forbidden curse tangled together in the humid darkness between us.

Then he carries me to his couch and the solid weight of his muscled body crushes me into the vicuña wool, anchoring me to earth while my dizzy mind threatens to shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.

We’re soon naked and when he slips on a condom and drives into me with one powerful thrust, I claw at his broad, sweat-slicked back, feeling the electric connection between us ignite like summer wildfire. His midnight eyes burn into mine, pupils blown so wide with desire that only a thin ring of amber remains, a possession that mirrors my own consuming, ravenous need.

I lock my trembling legs around his narrow waist viciously, demanding more, branding this incandescent moment into memory—the corded muscles of his shoulders straining beneath my crimson nails, the primal sound torn from deep within his throat when I command him harder, deeper. When release finally detonates through every nerve ending, it ravages me like his beloved Pacific ocean during a violent storm—powerful, merciless, and absolutely devastating in its intensity.

Afterward, lying on his black leather couch, the Pacific churning and frothing right outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch moonlight glint off the whitecaps while he holds me against his warm chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, his lips occasionally brushing my temple.

My body feels languid, satisfied, yet my mind races with uncertainty. His espresso-dark eyes still hold that guarded look when they meet mine, and he admitted he still doesn’t trust me - for no good reason. But I have to follow my heart, which has tangled itself in Roman's presence like sea kelp wrapped around an anchor.

Chapter Thirty-Two