The salt air was thick with memory. It clung to the whitewashed villa’s plaster, to the bougainvillea that spilled over the stone wall, and to the space between Elara and the man who had just stepped out of the hired car.
Marcus. He was broader than she remembered, his shoulders stretching the seams of a thin linen shirt, his hair sun-bleached to a shade of pale gold. He stopped at the gate, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and his gaze found hers instantly. A slow, familiar smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his grey eyes. Those eyes were busy, cataloguing her, assessing the years that had passed.
“Elara,” he said, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down her spine, a sound she’d replayed in her head a thousand times. “You look… well.”
“You look like you’ve been lifting more than just your camera bag,” she replied, her own voice steadier than she felt. She’d chosen a simple white sundress for his arrival, the fabric thin and cool against the heat of the afternoon sun. It was a deliberate choice, an armour of casual elegance.
This was their villa, a three-bedroom sanctuary they’d rented years ago, a lifetime ago, as a couple. A last-ditch effort to salvage something that was already crumbling. It hadn’t worked. They’d broken up three days into that trip, the beautiful scenery merely a backdrop for their spectacular, brutal implosion. For ten years, this place had been a ghost in her mind. And now, fate, or a twist of malicious holiday planning, had brought them back.
It was their mutual friend, Sofia’s, idea. A group trip. But Sofia had come down with a sudden, severe case of food poisoning the night before, leaving them stranded together in paradise with a well-stocked bar and a heavy, unresolved history.
“Sofia’s loss,” Marcus said, reading her mind as he always could. He set his bag down by the door and walked towards her, his steps crunching on the gravel path. He stopped just a foot away, close enough that she could smell his scent—sandalwood and the clean, metallic tang of sea salt. He smelled the same. It was a gut-wrenching kind of nostalgia.
“Is it?” she asked, tilting her head up to look at him. The sun was behind him, creating a halo, making him look almost ethereal. The effect was infuriatingly attractive.
“I think it might be the best thing that could have happened,” he said, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. The heat in his stare was undeniable. It was a look he’d given her a decade ago, before anger had clouded it.
The tension was a living thing between them, a taut wire humming with unspoken words and the electric potential of skin against skin. The reasons for their breakup—his ambition, her stubbornness, a catalogue of petty grievances—seemed pathetic in the face of this powerful, visceral pull.
They moved around each other for the rest of the afternoon with a careful, diplomatic grace. He carried his bag to the master suite, she took the room at the end of the hall. They unpacked, they made small talk about the flight, about the villa’s stunning infinity pool that seemed to spill into the turquoise Aegean Sea. They decided, with a forced casualness, to open a bottle of local wine on the terrace as the sun began its slow descent.
The wine was sharp and fruity, loosening the knots of tension in her shoulders. The sky was a watercolour of pinks, oranges, and deep violets. Frogs croaked in the undergrowth below the terrace, a rhythmic counterpoint to the gentle lapping of the waves against the cliffside below.
“Why did we come here, Elara?” he asked, swirling the ruby liquid in his glass. “Sofia’s sick, the villa is booked. We could have just gone home.”
“We could have,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “You didn’t.”
“Neither did you.”
It was a challenge. A question. The wine was a pleasant warmth in her belly. “Maybe I wanted to see if we could close a chapter properly. Without the screaming.”
“The screaming was never the problem,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “You know what the problem was.”
Did she? The silence, the distance, the way he’d put his work before everything else. But right now, in the fading light, with his gaze fixed on her so intensely, all that seemed like noise. The only thing that was real was the heat coiling low in her abdomen, a familiar ache that had only ever been his to coax into being.
“Tell me, then,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
He set his glass down with a soft clink. He stood, walked around the small table, and knelt beside her chair. His hand, warm and rough, came up to cup her cheek. It was a gesture so possessive, so familiar, it stole her breath.
“The problem was that every time I looked at you, I forgot to breathe. And when I was away from you, I was drowning.” He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. “I made it my work because it was the only thing that made sense. Being your lover… it was too much. You consumed me.”
She stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. “And now?”
“Now?” A slow, predatory smile curved his lips. “Now I’m ten years older, and I know better. I know that drowning with you is far better than surviving without you.”
He leaned in, and the kiss was not tentative. It was a claim. A reclamation. His lips were warm and demanding, tasting of wine and salt. Her hands flew up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer. It was a kiss that bridged a decade of longing, a desperate, hungry thing. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she moaned, the sound swallowed by his.
It was all the permission he needed. He pulled her from the chair, his hands sliding down her back, gripping her hips and pressing her against him. She could feel the hard length of him through his linen trousers, a shock of heat against her thigh. He walked her backwards into the villa, their mouths never parting, his hands exploring her body with a frantic familiarity.
He pressed her against the cool plaster wall of the hallway, his mouth tearing from hers to trail a burning path down her throat. He bit her collarbone, a sharp, possessive sting that made her gasp. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Elara,” he breathed against her skin. “I’d forgotten how good you feel in my arms.”
His hands found the hem of her sundress, and he pushed it up her thighs, the thin fabric bunching around her waist. His fingers traced the edge of her underwear, a teasing, maddening pressure. She bucked her hips against his hand, seeking more.
“Please,” she whispered, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice a low growl. He dropped a kiss on the swell of her breast, exposed by the plunging neckline. “Please remind me what I gave up? Please remind me how your skin feels, how your cunt tastes?” His words were filthy, and they set her blood on fire.
He hooked his fingers in the lace of her underwear and tore them aside, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The cool air hit her wet, exposed flesh, and she gasped. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He sank two thick fingers into her, the stretch a delicious, familiar ache. She cried out, her head falling back against the wall.
“Oh, god,” she moaned as he pumped his fingers slowly, deeply, his thumb finding her clit and circling it with a ruthless precision. “Marcus…”
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, his mouth next to her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Every single night. How you’d feel. How you’d sound when I made you come.”
His fingers were relentless, curling inside her, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. Her climax was building, a powerful tidal wave rushing towards the shore. He felt her tighten around his fingers and withdrew, leaving her trembling on the edge.
“Not yet,” he commanded, pulling his fingers away, glistening with her wetness. He brought them to his lips and sucked them clean, his eyes dark and locked on hers. The sight was so obscene, so intensely erotic, it made her knees weak.
He pulled her away from the wall and led her to the main bedroom, kicking the door shut with his heel. The room was awash in the last amber light of dusk. He didn't bother with the lights. He wanted to see her in this half-light, all shadows and soft curves.
He pushed her onto the large, bed, the white duvet swallowing her. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at her. She was a vision—her dress bunched around her hips, her chest rising and falling rapidly, a flush spreading across her skin.
“Take it off,” he ordered, his voice low. “I want to see you.”
She slowly sat up, holding his gaze as she pulled the sundress over her head, tossing it aside. She was left in just her bra—a simple, dark green lace that stood out against her pale skin.
He shook his head. “All of it.”
Reaching behind her, she unclasped the bra and let it fall. Her breasts were full, her nipples tight from the cool air and his intense gaze. He made a low sound of approval. He shed his own clothes with a swift efficiency, his body a study in hard lines and muscle. His chest was broad, dusted with golden hair, tapering to a narrow waist. His cock was already thick and fully erect, jutting out from his body, a vein pulsing along its length.
He prowled onto the bed, his body covering hers. The weight of him was amazing, a warm, solid anchor. His skin was hot against hers everywhere, a delicious friction. He captured her mouth again, his kiss deeper now, more languid as he reacquainted himself with the taste of her.
He kissed a path down her body, his lips and tongue worshipping every inch of skin. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, then soothing it with a soft lick. He did the same to the other, leaving her writhing beneath him, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her skin.
He continued his descent, his mouth moving over her stomach, dipping into her navel, before settling between her legs. He examined her with his eyes first, his gaze a physical touch on her most intimate flesh. “Look at you,” he breathed. “So wet for me. So perfect.”
He lowered his head and parted her folds with his thumbs, exposing her clit to the cooling air before his tongue swept up, flat and broad, the sensation electric. She cried out, her hips bucking upwards. He lapped at her, a slow, rhythmic torture, tracing circles around her swollen nub before flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.
He buried his face in her, devouring her, his moans vibrating against her sensitive flesh. He slid two fingers back inside her, curling them, pressing and stroking in a maddening rhythm. The dual assault was too much. Her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, shuddering release. She screamed his name, her back arching off the bed as waves of pure pleasure ripped through her.
He didn't stop. He rode out her climax, licking her gently until
