Maya rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother hiding her smirk. Rorie cracks a grin before glancing away.
My team hangs back, trailing a few steps behind. They’re on full vacation mode, ready for happy hour instead of a corporate blood battle.
Jackson’s busy whispering into Chloe’s ear, his hand grazing her lower back. Thatcher’s scrolling through his phone, already bored with the entire trip. Rishi’s flirting with one of the resort staff, teeth and charm. The man has no shame.
Tammy trudges beside him in five-inch wedges and a look that saysI hate sand, people, and this entire damn island.
The phantom of that boat ride still curdles in the pit of my stomach—a ghost of nausea—but I ignore it. I’ve got bigger things to focus on.
Such as Rorie’s shoulders stiffening every time she knows I’m near. I like that reaction from her. A little tension. A little heat. Tells me I still get under her skin and not in the polite, pass-the-salt way. In the way that makes her breath hitch and heart rate spike. I can feel it. It makes my dick pulse.
I move my carry-on bag in front of me, silently ordering him to stand down as we weave through a series of palm-lined pathways, the island buzzing and the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance. One by one, people start veering off as they find their cottages. Key cards beep. Doors click shut.
But not us.
Rorie and I keep walking.
Eventually, it’s just the two of us left, the silence between us thicker than the humidity.
We reach the end of the pathway where the last cottage stands with two doors side by side. Room twelve and Room thirteen.
I stare at the numbers for a beat, then glance over at her.
She’s already looking at the door, key card in hand, doing her absolute best to pretend I don’t exist.
I can’t help myself.
“We’re neighbors,” I say. “Guess fate’s got a sense of humor.”
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even flinch. Just slides her key card through the reader, the door beeping as it unlocks. She disappears inside without a word, the door clicking shut behind her like punctuation.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head.Cold.
But somehow, it makes me grin.
I unlock my own door–lucky number thirteen–and step inside, greeted by a rush of cool air-conditioned perfection.
The room is… well,reallynice.
High vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams, modern décor mixed with tropical touches that aren’t tacky. Light linen fabrics, rich wooden accents, and a massive king-sized bed that could swallow me whole.
A welcome basket sits on the dresser filled with fresh fruit, champagne, and what I assume are hand-rolled chocolates that probably cost more than my first car.
The bathroom’s even better. A rainfall shower with glass walls, stone tiles straight from an architectural magazine, and—because apparently luxury has no limits—a small shelf labeled “Pillow Menu.”
But it’s the second shower head that catches my attention. Detachable, mounted just right, an indulgence most people wouldn’t think twice about.
But I do.
My mind goes straight to Rorie on the other side of that wall, alone in her own suite, probably as restless as I am.
Will she use it?
Would she tilt her head back and let the hot water glide over her clit?
Will she think about that night? About the way she rode my fingers, desperate and wanting, her body completely unguarded for once?
My cock’s already halfway to mutiny.
