The air in the villa’s private cabana was thick with the scent of salt and jasmine, a perfume that clung to Amelia’s skin like a second layer. She tugged at the strap of her sundress, a wisp of pale blue cotton that did little to shield her from the oppressive afternoon heat of the Costa del Sol. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red curls that she’d always considered her most unruly trait, stuck to her temples and the nape of her neck. She’d been dreaming of this trip for months, a solo escape to finally finish her manuscript, but the reality was proving far more distracting.
The source of that distraction was currently emerging from the villa’s infinity pool, water sluicing off his broad shoulders and down the deep groove of his spine. His name was Leo, her brother’s best friend, and the object of a secret, decade-long obsession that had begun when she was just twenty-one. He was all bronzed skin and lean muscle, a casual god carved from sun and sea, and he was utterly, breathtakingly oblivious to the effect he had on her. He shook his head, sending a spray of diamond-bright droplets into the air, and caught her staring.
A slow, familiar grin spread across his face. “You’re going to bake, Mel. Get in. The water’s perfect.”
His voice was a low rumble, a sound she’d replayed in her head during countless lonely nights. She managed a shaky laugh, a desperate bid for composure. “I’m working. This chapter is… resistant.”
He climbed out of the pool, his movements fluid and unhurried, and grabbed a towel, slinging it over his shoulder. He didn’t bother to dry himself, and the sight of the water clinging to the dark hair on his chest, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, made her mouth go dry. He padded over to her cabana, the wooden deck warm under his bare feet.
“Resistant, huh?” He sat down on the lounger opposite hers, his presence a physical weight. “Sounds like you need a distraction.”
This was the game they played. The harmless flirtation of old friends. He’d tease, she’d blush, and they’d move on. But the tension in the air tonight was different. It had been building all week, a silent hum beneath every shared meal, every accidental touch as they passed the sangria, every long, lingering look skirting the edge of something more.
“I don’t want a distraction,” she said, her voice a little too sharp, a little too truthful. She wanted him to see her. Not as Tommy’s kid sister, not as the quiet, bookish one, but as a woman. A woman who had been aching for his hands on her for the better part of her adult life.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes, the color of treacle, pinning her in place. “What do you want, then?”
The question hung in the salt-kissed air, charged and dangerous. The sounds of the evening—the distant strum of a guitar from a beachfront bar, the soft crash of the waves on the shore—all faded. There was only the sound of her own ragged breathing and the steady, patient beat of his.
She didn’t trust her voice. Instead, she let her eyes do the talking. She let them travel, slowly, deliberately, over his face, down the strong column of his throat, over the wet, gleaming flesh of his chest, and lower, to where the towel was slung low on his hips. She let the look linger, a violation of the unspoken rule between them, a confession of everything she’d never dared to say.
Leo’s grin faltered. His jaw tightened, and a new heat, a dangerous one, flared in his gaze. “Amelia…”
It was the first time he’d used her full name, and it sounded like a warning. Or an invitation.
She rose, her legs unsteady. The sundress felt flimsy, a translucent lie. She walked over to him until she was standing between his knees. He had to tilt his head back to look at her, and the vulnerability in that gesture emboldened her.
“I’ve wanted this for ten years, Leo,” she whispered, the words tasting of salt and courage. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t know.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of her dress, a featherlight touch that sent a tremor through her whole body. “I know,” he breathed, the words thick with a guilt he was shedding. “I’ve always known. But you were Tommy’s little sister. You were off-limits.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore.” She reached down and took his hand, pulling it up to rest on her bare hip. His thumb stroked the curve of her pelvic bone, a slow, deliberate circle that made her gasp.
“No,” he murmured, his voice husky. “You’re not.”
He didn’t ask for permission again. He pulled her down onto his lap, the damp towel rough against her thighs. The kiss was not gentle. It was the collision of a decade of pent-up want, a claiming. His mouth was hot and demanding, tasting of the salt from his skin and the sweetness of the afternoon’s wine. His tongue swept into her mouth, exploring, taking, and she met him with a ferocity that surprised them both.
Her hands roamed over his shoulders, digging into the firm muscles, feeling the residual heat of the sun. She wanted to taste him everywhere. She broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and pushed the towel from his shoulders. He was fully naked beneath it, his cock already hard and pressing against her inner thigh through the thin fabric of her dress.
“Your room or mine?” she asked, her voice a husky growl.
“Here,” he said, his hands sliding up her sides, pushing the straps of her dress down. “I’m not waiting.”
The dress pooled around her waist, baring her breasts to the cooling evening air. Her nipples were tight, aching pebbles, and he took one in his mouth immediately, his tongue a wet, hot brand. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers tangling in his still-damp curls. He sucked, a gentle, rhythmic pull that sent bolts of pleasure straight to her core. His free hand cupped her other breast, his thumb flicking over the nipple, a perfect counterpoint to the worship at her mouth.
He switched sides, giving her equal attention, his stubble a delicious friction against her sensitive skin. She was trembling, a live wire of sensation. She wanted more. She needed to feel him inside her.
She reached down, fumbling with her own dress, pushing it down over her hips until she was naked in his lap, the wet patch of his towel the only thing between them. He pulled back, his eyes dark, drinking her in. His gaze lingered on the triangle of red curls between her legs, and he groaned.
“Jesus, Mel. You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this.”
“Show me,” she whispered, her voice a plea.
He lifted her, his hands gripping her bottom, and laid her back on the plush cushions of the lounger. The fabric was cool against her heated skin. He lowered himself over her, his body a welcome weight. He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, while his hand traveled down her stomach, his fingers tracing the trail of soft hair before dipping lower.
When his fingers found her, she was slick, ready. He groaned against her mouth, circling her clit with a practiced, knowing pressure that had her arching into his touch. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmured against her ear, the dirty words sending a thrill through her.
“I’ve always been,” she confessed, the words a breathless rush.
He slid one finger inside her, then two, stretching her, preparing her. She bucked against his hand, chasing the friction, the pleasure building low and hot in her belly. He watched her face, his expression one of fierce concentration, learning her body, memorizing her responses.
“Please, Leo,” she moaned, the sentence broken.
He pulled his hand away and she whimpered in protest, but the sound died in her throat as she felt the head of his cock pressing against her opening. He teased her, sliding the slick tip through her folds, coating himself in her desire. He held her gaze, his eyes asking the final question.
“Yes,” she said, the word a command. “Now.”
He thrust into her in one long, smooth motion. The fullness was exquisite, a perfect pressure that chased away the last ten years of longing. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He held still, letting her adjust to the feel of him, his forehead pressed to hers.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained. “I want to see you.”
She opened her eyes and found his, dark and deep. And then he began to move. He set a slow, deep rhythm, each stroke a deliberate, decadent caress that reached all the way inside her, touching a part of her that had only ever been his. He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, a torturously slow pace that built the tension to a fever pitch.
“Faster,” she begged, her hips rising to meet his.
He obliged, his pace quickening, the sound of their bodies slapping together filling the cabana, mixing with the distant crash of the waves. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sea salt. She wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and he groaned, a sound of pure, raw pleasure.
He lowered his head, taking her nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard as he pistoned into her. The dual sensations were too much. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her belly, a live wire ready to snap. She felt herself clench around him, her orgasm building from a distant tremor to a full-blown earthquake.
“I’m close,” she gasped.
“Let go,” he grunted against her breast. “I’ve got you.”
It was the permission she needed. She shattered, her body convulsing around him, a wave of pure, blinding pleasure that stole her breath and her vision. She cried out his name, a keening sound that echoed in the twilight. He followed her over the edge, a guttural groan torn from his throat as he pumped into her, his body shuddering with his own release.
They lay tangled together, slick with sweat, their breathing ragged. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. She clung to him, a smile spreading across her face, the first truly happy one she’d felt in a decade.
Later, after they had slipped into the warm, dark water of the pool, the stars a canopy above them, he held her in his arms. Her head rested on his chest, her red hair fanning out around her like a halo in the water.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
She tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes sparkling. “We’re on vacation. We have time.”
He smiled, a real smile, and kissed her. What they had was no longer a secret. It wasn’t a crush anymore. It was a story that was finally, wonderfully, being written.
