I watch as Nick storms toward me like an untamed force, the blazing Puerto Rican sun turning his sweat-soaked skin into a canvas of brilliant, glistening droplets that spark like shards of shattered diamonds. His muscles surge beneath the heat with each powerful stride—a raw, almost violent ballet of strength and grace that leaves my heart hammering in my chest. Even though we’ve only been in San Juan for three days, his skin has morphed into a deep, provocative bronze that whispers of wild, sun-drenched adventures, while mine remains a map of burned freckles, marred by the relentless blaze above. My thoughts flash back to last night—a dinner thick with spice and laughter so heady it bordered on feverish, followed by a moonlit stroll along a beach where crashing waves confessed their darkest secrets.

Now, as he nears, my breathing shudders uncontrollably, overtaken by the intoxicating blend of sandalwood and brine as he leans in so close it feels like an embrace from the sun itself.

“Ready for our tour?” Nick’s voice vibrates low and intimate, as if we’re still tangled in a tempest of passion rather than standing in the midst of a crowded, pulsing beach.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, fumbling with my sunhat as a vain shield against the punishing rays. “Though I doubt my skin can handle much more of this incendiary sun.”

He laughs—a deep, resonant sound that bursts like an explosion of warmth—and his fingertip caresses my shoulder where fresh freckles have erupted like fierce constellations. “I love them. They’re like tiny navigational stars.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile that tugs at my lips betrays the truth: this is Nick’s magic. In a few well-chosen words, he turns my insecurities into incendiary declarations of beauty. It’s dangerously addictive, like a relentless, forbidden rhythm that haunts my every thought.

“The guide is waiting for us at the fort in twenty minutes,” he declares, his words melding with the roar of the sea and the urgent whispers of the wind.

“Twenty minutes, huh?” I purr, pressing my heated body against his with abandon. “That leaves ten minutes for something far more enticing.” My hands roam fiercely up his sculpted chest, fingers tangling in his hair as I drag his lips to mine. As our mouths clash in a hungry, desperate exploration, our arms bind us together in a fervor that defies restraint.

In a hidden alcove behind a cluster of towering palm trees, our desire explodes into matter and movement—clothes discarded with reckless abandon. His fingers slide with practiced ease, unhooking my bikini top so it falls to the ground like a sacrificial token. Leaning down, he seizes one of my hardened nipples with his lips, sucking it with an intensity that makes time stutter, all while his other hand ventures boldly downward, slipping under the fabric of my bikini bottoms with a predatory intent.

I gasp as his touch finds my most sensitive center—his fingers swirling in tantalizing circles that ignite a fierce, burning ache before slipping in two insistent digits. My hips buck uncontrollably, urging him on as he quickens his pace with savage determination.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he growls, the honeyed timbre of his Texas drawl igniting a storm inside me, overwhelming my senses. Lowering himself onto me, he positions at my trembling entrance, his slow, deliberate thrust sending torrents of raw, electric pleasure through my body. Each inch of him inside me is a blast of consuming heat, a relentless surge of passion. He begins with a teasing, almost tender rhythm that builds with every thrust, until his movements become frenzied and powerful, shattering any remnants of restraint.

His strong hands grip my hips as he drives into me with a force that leaves me breathless; my legs wrap tightly around his waist, urging him to push deeper with every stroke. My nails unsheathe and ride down his back, each contact a searing bolt of desire. The clash of our sweat-drenched bodies under a cruel, unyielding sun elevates everything into a maelstrom of passion and intensity.

The crescendo builds like a tidal surge inside me, that exquisite, coiling heat deep in my belly signaling my imminent collapse. Sensing my approaching edge, Nick’s rhythm turns erratic, desperate—his hot breath cascading along my neck as he murmurs dark, enticing confessions that sear my soul.

“Come for me,” he commands, and as if my body had been parched for this very moment, I shatter in his arms—a torrent of pleasure crashing over me, my tongue biting down on his shoulder in a frantic bid to muffle my cries. Moments later, he shudders against me, his own climax echoing the intensity of our shared storm.

For several heartbeats, we remain entwined, our gasps and whispers blending with the perpetual clash of waves—a discordant symphony of passion and primal need.

“So much for being on time for the tour,” I laugh softly against his skin, reluctant to break free from the tangled ecstasy we’ve woven.

Nick chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. “Every second was worth it,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing languid, soothing paths along my spine. “Besides, I’m sure our guide has seen plenty of tourists move at island time.”

Dressing slowly, every motion heavy with intimacy and lingering heat, we share the quiet acknowledgment of our rapture—the way his careful fingers hook my bikini top back in place and the soft caress guiding me into my sundress, each touch a renewed testament to our incandescence.

“You’ve got sand everywhere,” he teases, brushing tiny grains from my shoulders with a playful ease.

“And whose fault is that?” I retort, plucking a stray leaf from his hair with mischievous delight.

We emerge into the glaring day, our attempts at modesty futile against the heady aura of our carnal interlude.

Our walk to the fort is unhurried, fingers intertwined, every step still humming with the relentless echo of earlier passion. El Morro looms before us—a timeless sentinel from the sixteenth century, its weathered stone walls etched with violent tales of conquest and endurance.

“Ten minutes late,” Nick proclaims triumphantly as we catch sight of our guide—a fiery, energetic woman with silver-threaded hair and skin glowing like burnished copper. “Not bad, considering.”

I nudge him with a playful elbow, heat rising to my cheeks. “Behave,” I whisper, though a secret smile betrays the lingering sparks of our earlier frenzy.

“Bienvenidos!” Our guide, María, greets us with an embrace of warmth that seems to carry the very soul of the island. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, dart between us with an amused sparkle. “Honeymooners, yes?”

“Oh—” I start, but Nick interjects with an assertive, “Yes.” I cast him a curious glance, but before questions can form, María’s face lights up with conspiratorial delight.

“Ah! Then you simply must experience the Lovers’ Walk—an offbeat, clandestine route where Spanish soldiers once courted their secret passion.” With a wink, she adds, “It’s unbelievably romantic and fiercely private.”

Nick’s arm pulls me close, his grip igniting further the embers of our desire. “Sounds perfect,” he murmurs, his irresistible drawl heavy with unspoken promises.

As María guides us through the ancient labyrinth of the fortress—spinning tales of blood-soaked pirates and relentless sieges—I find my attention torn between history and the intoxicating reality of his hand on my hip, the fleeting, heated brush of his lips against my ear as he leans in to share a private joke. Each touch reignites the fierce fire of our earlier abandon, rendering every historical detail secondary to the raw, pulsing need that surges between us.

When María finally leads us to the Lovers’ Walk—a narrow path squeezed between high, imposing walls with a view that casts the ocean in eternal glory—she excuses herself, promising to return in fifteen electrifying minutes.

“Take your time,” Nick calls after her, his tone layered with suggestiveness that sets my heart racing.

Alone now, I turn to face him, an amused eyebrow arched in quiet challenge. “Honeymooners?”

He shrugs, looking uncharacteristically disarmed for a man who had pinned me against a swaying palm barely an hour ago. “It got us a private tour, didn’t it?”

“Is that all?” I press, sensing the tempest swirling behind those deep hazel eyes.

Nick's fingers rake through his hair with a fierce urgency before he slams me against the wall, pinning my hands above my head with a grip that brooks no escape. His other hand roams my body with a searing intensity, igniting flames that consume every nerve.

"What if it wasn't a lie?" he breathes harshly against my neck, the words a gritty confession that sends shivers down my spine. "What if I've been obsessing over it since the moment we landed on this island?"

The question crackles in the air between us, dangerous and electric, like the moment before lightning strikes. My breath hitches as his fingers scorch a path along my collarbone, each touch a deliberate claim, demanding surrender.

"Nick..." I gasp his name, a blend of warning and desperate plea. We've known each other for just six months—a tempestuous romance ignited by a single night that started in a Texas bar and spiraled into this reckless escapade to San Juan. Too swift, too intense, too consuming.

"I know it's madness," he persists, his forehead pressed firmly against mine, his breath mingling with the salty tang of the ocean breeze. "But nothing has ever felt more right—more real."

The ancient stones beneath my palms thrum with a primal, forbidden energy, echoing centuries of unspoken desires. I gasp as he picks me up by my thighs, wrapping my legs around his waist as he leads into a small alcove hidden from view.

His lips claim mine with a ferocity that steals my breath away, his hands ripping at the thin fabric of my sundress with primal urgency. My fingers fumble with the button of his shorts, desperate to feel him—all of him—against me once more.

"Say yes," he demands against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Tell me you want this—want us—forever."

The word "forever" hangs between us, heavy with possibility and terror. The rational part of me screams caution—we're still virtual strangers in so many ways, our lives back home separate entities waiting to collide. But here, pinned between ancient stone and his burning body, rationality seems like a distant, meaningless concept.

"Yes," I whisper, the word escaping before I can analyze its implications. "God, yes."

His eyes blaze with a fierce triumph and an almost sacred reverence, igniting a fire that burns into my very soul. Our mouths crash together with a violent urgency, bodies colliding like two forces destined to destroy and create all at once—two souls who have glimpsed eternity and found it within the confines of each other's embrace.

"Mine," he growls, the word reverberating through my core like a seismic wave as he hoists me higher, aligning himself at my entrance with an unyielding intent.

"Yours," I echo, my voice transformed into a raw, primal cry that tears through the air.

He enters me with a single, powerful thrust that rips the breath from my lungs, every inch of him stretching and filling me to the brink of madness. The ancient fortress walls bear silent witness to my cries, absorbing the echoes of our passion as he drives into me with unrelenting force, each stroke plunging deeper, more devastating than the last. My nails dig fiercely into his shoulders, carving crescents of possession as if marking him as fervently as he claims me.

"When we get back," he pants against my ear, his rhythm a relentless tide, "I want you to pick out a ring." His voice hitches with each thrust, his words punctuated by our shared gasps. "Something stunning. Something that tells the world you're mine."

The declaration sends a wild, electric current through me, tightening every muscle as pleasure coils deep in my core. My body responds with a savage urgency, meeting each of his thrusts with desperate abandon.

"And then," he continues, one hand gripping my hip with bruising intensity while the other tangles in my hair, "we find the nearest chapel on this island and make it official."

The image floods my mind—a fevered ceremony bathed in the crimson glow of a Caribbean sunset, our bodies still sand-dusted and salt-kissed, exchanging vows as impulsive and untamed as our passion. The fantasy alone pushes me dangerously close to the edge.

"Harder, Nick," I gasp, desperately, as his hand encircles my throat, exerting a firm grip that sends shivers down my spine—it's not painful, just exquisitely commanding, amplifying every sensation to an unbearable crescendo. His thrusts become brutal, relentless, answering my fervent plea with a primal force. The ancient stone wall scrapes harshly against my back, each jagged abrasion a thrilling counterpoint to the overwhelming ecstasy erupting within me.

His eyes pierce into mine—wild, dominating, ablaze with a ferocity that strips away all pretense, leaving me utterly exposed. "Come for me," he demands, his thumb finding my most sensitive spot with devastating precision. "Come for your future husband."

The words explode inside me like a wildfire, igniting an inferno that incinerates every nerve ending. My body convulses violently around him as I shatter into a million pieces, my scream swallowed by his lips crashing down on mine. He follows moments later, his release surging deep within me as he groans my name like a sacred invocation, sending aftershocks rippling through my trembling form.