The transition from the cool, sun-drenched pool to the shaded serenity of the daybed felt less like a change of location and more like entering an incubator of mounting tension.
We had retreated from the water, the intense Balinese sun beginning its swift, spectacular descent, painting the clouds in violent, beautiful hues of saffron, rose, and deep amethyst. It was a backdrop worthy of a cataclysmic emotional event.
I had Ava lying beside me, her head propped up on my shoulder. She was wearing a loose, whisper-thin slip dress that clung in places only the sea breeze and moisture could dictate.
The scent of her, a mix of expensive French soap, sun-warmed skin, and the clean, salty air, was a subtle, continuous torture. I found myself unable to focus on the view; all my attention was pulled downward, to the delicate pulse beating visibly beneath the skin of her throat.
