I should say no. Should climb into my rental car and drive to my perfectly nice guest villa and process what just happened with some distance and perspective.
But then I look at him and see the vulnerability in his expression.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
His shoulders relax, like he’d been bracing for rejection.
When we reach the SUV, Keon is standing by the driver’s side, professional as always. If he notices our flushed faces or rumpled clothing, he doesn’t comment.
He just opens the back door for us.
The drive back to resort is quiet. Corin’s thumb traces circles on my palm. I watch the dark ocean blur past the window and try to process what just happened.
You just had incredibly hot sex with Corin. Your employer.
Again.
And now you’re going home with him instead of maintaining any shred of independence.
Great life choices.
Really stellar.
But beneath the sarcasm, there’s something else.
Hope.
16
Amara
Iwake up in Corin’s bed for the third morning in a row, and honestly? It still feels a bit too good to be true, like I’m committing some sort of fraud.
The morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private villa, casting everything in golden shades.
Corin is already gone, his side of the bed still faintly warm. I can hear the distant rumble of his voice somewhere in the villa, probably on a call with Manhattan.
I stretch, and immediately wince.
My butt isstilltender from two nights ago. Not painfully so, but tender enough that I’m acutely aware of every surface I sit on. Corin rubbed some fancy healing lotion on it that first night, because of course a billionaire has specialty post-spanking skincare products. Or maybe he just has good skincare products in general and I’m projecting.
Either way, my ass has been moisturized by a man worth nine figures.
Wonder if I can put that on my LinkedIn?
I roll out of bed and pad to the bathroom mirror. The hickeys from our latest night are still visible on my neck, a constellationof purple and red joining those from the previous nights. I’ve been covering them with makeup, but in this humidity, I have to reapply constantly.
Worth it, though.
I shower, dress in my most linen trousers and a tank top, apply a quick brushing of makeup to hide most of the evidence, and then head downstairs.
Corin is on the terrace with his laptop, his phone pressed to his ear. He’s wearing a washed navy linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Mmm those forearms never get old.
He catches my eye through the glass and warmth flickers across his face, along with a smile that feels private, just for me.
I wave awkwardly and make a beeline for the kitchen.
