The sun hung low and golden over the Pacific, a molten coin dripping fire across the waves, turning every crest into liquid amber. The beach thrummed—salt wind whipping, gulls screaming overhead, the rhythmic crash of breakers pounding sand like a lover's heartbeat.
The beach stretched endless under a sky bleached white-hot, sun a relentless lover pouring gold across every curve of sand and skin. I'd promised Ava a date—her exact words after the mansion: "Take me somewhere the only thing bleeding is my bikini tan lines."
So here we were, private cove south of the city, no paparazzi, no corpses, just salt wind, turquoise water, and the kind of heat that made clothes feel like crimes.
I stepped from the Jeep shirtless, board shorts riding low on hips that could carve marble.
Ava unfolded from the passenger side like liquid sin. Her bikini was a dare—black micro-triangles tied with strings that begged pulling.
