"That must be difficult," I say. "Especially for someone used to being at the top of his field."
Michael nods. "I suggested he consider sports broadcasting. He has the name recognition, the expertise, and he's always been good on camera. But he needs to get the drinking under control first."
"Is that a family issue?" I ask, not wanting to pry but genuinely concerned.
"Our father had problems with alcohol," Michael admits. "It contributed to his death, indirectly. He stares up at the sky. "David was always the most like him. Charming, athletic, the life of the party. I worry sometimes that he inherited more than just those positive traits."
Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand over his on the blanket between us. "You're a good brother, Michael."
He looks at our hands, then at me. "I try to be. Not always successfully."
Chapter 9 - Michael
"I try to be. Not always successfully."
Her hand rests on mine, small and warm. We've barely touched during this trip, occasional brushes of hands when passing items, that brief moment when I showed her how to adjust her snorkel mask. But this contact now, her palm against my skin, feels monumental.
"You're too hard on yourself," Elena says softly. "It's obvious how much you care about your brothers."
I struggle to focus on her words rather than the sensation of her touch. "Caring isn't always enough. Sometimes they need more than I know how to give."
She squeezes my hand gently before withdrawing hers, and I immediately miss the connection. "Sometimes just being there is what matters most."
The sun beats down on us, intense even under the shelter of our beach umbrella. Elena's skin has taken on a golden glow, but I notice pink beginning to tinge her shoulders and cheeks. My eyes trace the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist above her modest swimsuit. I've seen beautiful women before, dated models, executives, women who cultivated perfection, but none of them have affected me the way Elena does in this simple one-piece.
My body responds instantly to these thoughts, and I shift uncomfortably on the blanket, grateful for the casual shorts I'm wearing over my swim trunks. This physical reaction to her isn't new, but the intensity of it here, alone on this secluded beach, is overwhelming to the point where I can feel beads of sweat trickling down my neck.
"You're getting pink," I say, voice slightly trembling. "Do you need more sunscreen?"
She touches her shoulder and winces slightly. "I think you're right. I can feel it starting to burn. Would you mind? I can't reach my back."
My heart rate spikes. "Of course."
Elena turns away from me, presenting her back. She reaches up to gather her hair, lifting it off her neck, and the simple movement is somehow the most erotic thing I've ever seen. The curve of her spine, the slight dimples at her lower back, the roundness of her ass cheeks in that swimsuit… I have to take a steadying breath before reaching for the sunscreen.
"Tell me if I press too hard," I say, squeezing lotion into my palm.
"I'm sure your touch is perfect," she replies, then clears her throat. "I mean, I'm sure it's fine."
I place my hands on her shoulders, feeling her warm skin beneath my palms. She shivers slightly despite the heat.
"Cold?" I ask, beginning to spread the sunscreen in slow circles.
"No," she murmurs. "Not cold."
I cover her shoulders, the nape of her neck, and her upper back. Her skin is soft and smooth beneath my fingers. I can feel her relaxing into my touch, her head dropping forward slightly. Every instinct in my body is screaming to pull her back against my chest, to press my lips to that spot where her neck meets her shoulder, to discover if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
Instead, I move lower, tracing the edge of her swimsuit where it cuts across her back. My fingers dip just slightly beneath the fabric to ensure no skin is left unprotected.
"Is this okay?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," she breathes. "More than okay."
I move lower still, to her lower back, just above the swell of her ass. Part of my brain—the CEO part, the rational, strategic part—is screaming that this is inappropriate, unprofessional, potentially disastrous. But that voice is increasingly drowned out by the heavy rhythm of my heartbeat and the soft sounds Elena makes as I touch her.
"Elena," I say, my hands stilling at her waist. "I should probably stop."
She turns her head, looking at me over her shoulder, her blue eyes dark and questioning. "Why?"
