And Laurel was caught doing the walk of shame from Thatcher’s suite at sunrise, barefoot, bed-headed, and clutching her heels like they’d personally betrayed her.
Oh, it doesn’t end there.
They have an escape room built into an old cabana, where I discovered that Nolan is terrifyingly good at solving riddles under pressure… and also prone to gloating. Loudly. Complete with a celebratory moonwalk and a grin that nearly cracked a mirror.
Yesterday, we had an underwater scavenger hunt. I may or may not have screamed into my snorkel when a fish kissed my mask, only to realize later, it was actually a shark.
And, of course, the burlesque night.
Oh, burlesque night.
I don’t know who allowed Jeremy in the prop room, but let’s just say I’ve seen enough feather boas and rhinestone nipple tassels to last a lifetime.
He managed to “accidentally” sign us up as the opening act for the talent portion of the evening. I played the “classy distraction” with a fan. Jeremy wore leather pants and lip-syncedLady Marmaladewith more conviction than any performer ever. I’m eighty-seven percent sure someone from another firm invited him to perform at their upcoming wedding.
And through every ridiculous, wild, beautiful moment, there’s been him.
Nolan.
The connecting door between our rooms has stayed open since our confession night and I wake up to the sound of his voice when he’s dreaming, uttering nonsense about spreadsheets and coffee. We drift to sleep with our limbs tangled together, like our bodies forgot they ever existed separately.
He devours me in so many delicious ways.
And God, does he take his time.
Nolan’s mouth is…
Well.
I’m convinced that whatever God built into my pleasure centers, Nolan Rhodes has discovered the cheat code
He kisses me like he’s trying to etch me into his bones. Tastes me like I’m his favorite flavor. His mouth is a slow build and focused worship—tongue teasing, fingers pumping, rooting me in place as he draws out every stuttering gasp and broken plea as though he wants to own them.
And he never rushes.
He’ll whisper filthy promises against my thigh one minute, then make good on every single one the next.
Every time he brings me to the edge, he looks up at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole damn life.
It’s… addicting.
Because somewhere between burlesque boas, stolen glances, and whispered laughs under moonlight, we’ve blurred the line between rival and lover.
And we’re okay with that.
Right now, Nolan’s in a final prep meeting for their pitch. I’d offered to head back to my room, give him space, but he just smirked, kissed my forehead, and said,“Absolutely not.”
So now I’m here, lounging on his bed, wearing one of his soft T-shirts that smells like cedar and heat and that warm spice that is so Nolan Rhodes, half-listening to the ocean outside.
Eventually, I pad toward his bathroom, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The air is still tinged with the last traces of his body wash. I twist the shower knob, steam filling the glass enclosure in seconds.
The hot water cascades down my back, easing the tension in my shoulders. I grab his body wash and lather it into my skin, slow and indulgent. The scent is rich, woodsy, masculine, and it only makes the ache between my thighs more persistent.
Eyes closed, I lean into the spray, hand drifting lower as a naughty idea strikes and I yank the other shower head out of its resting position, turn it on, and switch the setting.
The pressure sharpens. And when I move it between my legs, a gasp escapes my lips as my head falls back against the tile.
My hips roll gently, breath catching as sensation pulses through me. It’s not enough, but it’s something to take the edge off.
