The late afternoon sun fell in golden slabs through the slats of the veranda, casting long stripes across the polished teak floor. Alina shifted on the cushioned chaise, the leather of her e-reader warm against her palm. She’d been trying to read the same page for ten minutes, but the words blurred into a meaningless smear.
Her focus was elsewhere.
It was on the man stepping out of the villa’s plunge pool a few meters away.
He didn’t know she could see him from this angle. Or perhaps he didn’t care. Either way, she watched. He shook his head like a dog, sending diamond droplets of chlorinated water arcing through the air, catching the light before they vanished. His body was a dictionary of middle-aged strength—thick shoulders, a chest dusted with silver hair that tapered into a firm stomach. Not the sculpted, gym-buffed physique of a twenty-something. This was real. Lived-in. Powerful in a way that came from years of use, not posing.
Marcus. Her father’s best friend. Forty-seven. Married. Off-limits.
She was twenty-two.
The island air was thick with frangipani and salt, a cliché of tropical romance that felt absurdly appropriate. They were all staying here for two weeks—her parents, Marcus and his wife, and Alina, the awkward third wheel of a family vacation she’d been guilted into joining. The villa was a sprawling compound of white stone and infinity edges, perched on a cliff overlooking the turquoise Indian Ocean. It was paradise. And it was a prison.
She watched Marcus pull a towel from the back of a rattan chair and drag it over his hair, then his chest, his arms. The fabric dragged slow across the ridges of his abs, and Alina’s mouth went dry. She bit her lip, hard enough to taste copper.
“Alina?”
She jumped, nearly dropping the e-reader. Marcus was standing at the edge of the veranda now, a few feet away. He’d wrapped the towel around his waist, but water still trickled in rivulets down his torso, tracing the hollow of his groin. His smile was easy, the kind of smile he’d given her since she was a child. But there was something else in his eyes now. A flicker. A question.
“Lost in thought?” he said.
“Just reading,” she said, her voice thin. She held up the e-reader like a shield.
He chuckled, low and warm. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. I counted.”
Her cheeks flared. He’d been watching her? The heat moved south, curling low in her belly. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. “It’s not very good.”
“Liar.” He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of him—chlorine and clean sweat and something darker, a musk that was purely male. “You’re a terrible liar, Alina. Always have been.”
“I’m not lying,” she said, but her voice cracked.
He stopped at the edge of her chaise, close enough that she could see the droplets clinging to the hairs on his thighs. His legs were solid, dusted with that same silver, and her eyes betrayed her, trailing up to where the towel was knotted at his hip.
She quickly looked away, but it was too late.
“I’m going to grab a beer,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “Want one?”
“I—yes. Sure.”
He disappeared into the villa, and she let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The air felt thinner without him. She pressed her thighs together, a sharp ache blooming between her legs. This was wrong. He was married. He was old enough to be her father. A good man. Her father trusted him.
But that didn’t stop her from replaying the way the water had rolled down his stomach.
He returned a minute later with two cold bottles, condensation beading on the amber glass. He handed her one, their fingers brushing. The touch was electric, a jolt that shot up her arm and tightened her nipples beneath the thin cotton of her sundress.
He pulled a wicker chair across from her, sat down, and stretched his long legs out. The towel rode up, revealing a slice of his inner thigh. She forced herself to look at his face.
“Where’s everyone?” she asked, taking a long pull of the beer. It was bitter, crisp.
“Your parents went into town for dinner. My wife’s at the spa.” He held her gaze. “We’re alone.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Alone.
“That’s… nice,” she said lamely.
He smiled, slow and knowing. “Relax, Alina. I’m not going to bite.”
But she wanted him to.
The silence stretched, filled with the sound of waves crashing against the cliff below and the distant call of a tropical bird. The sun was sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and coral. The air cooled, goosebumps rising on her bare arms. She watched him sip his beer, his throat working as he swallowed.
“Why are you here?” he asked, setting the bottle down on the side table.
“The vacation?”
“No.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why are you really here? You could have stayed home. You’re young. You should be in a club somewhere, or on a beach with people your own age.”
“Maybe I wanted to see you.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. She felt the blood rush to her face, her ears burning. She stared at the label on her beer, peeling it with her thumbnail.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “That’s dangerous.”
“I know.” Her voice was a whisper.
“I’m married, Alina.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known you since you were six.”
“I know.” She looked up, met his eyes. They were dark, almost black in the fading light. “Does that make it less true?”
He held her gaze, and something shifted between them. The air thickened. The distance between them—three feet of teak and space—felt like a chasm and a breath all at once.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said.
“Then show me.”
He stood up. Slowly. He walked around the chaise and stood in front of her, blocking the last of the sun. His shadow fell over her, cool and vast. She looked up at him, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat.
He reached down and took her hand. His palm was rough, calloused, warm. He pulled her to her feet. She was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to see the tiny scars on his chin from a long-ago accident.
“If we do this,” he said, his voice a low rasp, “it’s not a game. You don’t get to run later.”
“I won’t run.”
His hand came up to her face, cupping her jaw. His thumb traced her lower lip, feather-light. She parted her lips, and he pressed the pad of his thumb inside. She closed her mouth around it, sucking gently, and his breath hitched.
He pulled his thumb out and replaced it with his mouth.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming, a slow burn that started with a press of lips and deepened into hunger. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of beer and salt, and she moaned into his mouth. Her hands came up to his bare chest, splaying over the hair, the firm muscle beneath.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Inside. Now.”
He led her by the hand through the villa, past the open-plan living room, past the kitchen, to the master bedroom. His bedroom. The one he shared with his wife. The irony didn’t escape her, but she didn’t care. She was past caring.
The room was cool, the air conditioning humming. A large bed dominated the space, draped in white linens. French doors led out to a private balcony, the night ocean a dark, restless blanket.
He turned her around and pressed her back against the door, his body flush against hers. He was hard; she felt the thick length of him through the towel, pressing into her hip. He captured her mouth again, his hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips, pulling her against him.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against her lips.
“No.”
He groaned and dragged the strap of her sundress down her shoulder. He followed the path with his mouth, kissing the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his damp hair.
The sundress pooled at her feet. She stood before him in a thin white lace bra and matching panties, her skin flushed, her nipples peaked against the fabric. He stepped back, his eyes traveling down her body, hungry and reverent.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “God, you’re beautiful.”
He reached behind her and unclasped her bra. It fell away, and his hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples. She gasped, her head falling back against the door.
He lowered his mouth to one nipple, laving it with his tongue, then taking it between his teeth. The sharp pleasure-pain made her cry out. He sucked, hard, and she bucked against him.
He released her breast and dropped to his knees. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled them down. The cool air hit her wet, aching core, and she shuddered.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark as sin. “Spread your legs.”
She did, opening herself to him. He leaned in, and the first touch of his tongue against her clit was a revelation—a bright, searing heat that made her knees buckle. He caught her, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her up as he devoured her.
He licked her with long, deliberate strokes, circling her clit, then dipping lower, into her folds. She was soaked, her juices coating his chin. She grasped his head, her fingers tightening in his hair as the pressure built.
“Marcus, I’m—please—”
He didn’t stop. He sucked her clit into his mouth, pressing two fingers inside her, curling them just right. The dual sensation sent her over the edge. She came with a sharp cry, her body convulsing, her inner walls clenching around his fingers.
He gentled her through it, licking her softly until she sagged against the door, panting.
He stood up, his towel long gone. His cock was thick and erect, the head swollen, a drop of precum gleaming. He took her hand and led her to the bed, laying her down on the cool sheets.
He crawled over her, his body a warm, heavy blanket. He kissed her again, and she tasted herself on his lips. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging her slick folds.
“Look at me,” he said.
She met his eyes.
He pushed in.
The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that bordered on pain. She gasped, her nails digging into his back. He paused, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers.
“Okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. Move.”
He began to thrust, slow and deep, each stroke hitting a place inside her that made her see stars. The rhythm built, faster, harder. The bed creaked beneath them. His breath came in ragged gasps against her ear.
