For the next seventy-two hours, none of it exists.
That’s the deal Shelby proposed this morning, his voice still rough with sleep, his fingers tracing lazy patterns across my bare hip.“Come away with me,” he murmured against my hair.“Just us.No Syndicate, no surveillance, no talk of your father’s operation.I want to show you something.”
I didn’t hesitate.Didn’t ask where or why or how long.I just said yes.
Now, somewhere over the Atlantic, I’m beginning to understand what he meant.
Shelby emerges from the cockpit area, where he’s been speaking with the pilot.He’s wearing faded jeans and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.The perpetual tension in his shoulders has eased.The shadows under his eyes have softened.
He looks almost happy.
The realization makes my heart stutter.
“Everything okay?”I ask as he settles into the seat beside me.
“Perfect.”He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.“We’ll land in Florianópolis in about ten hours.I’ve already called ahead to dismiss the staff for the weekend.”
“Staff?”
His mouth curves into that devastating half-smile.“I have a house there.Beachfront property on a private stretch of coastline.I bought it years ago, before I was deployed to Syria.When I still believed in things like vacations and future happiness.”
The admission is casual, but I hear the weight beneath it.Before Syria.Before he stopped believing he deserved good things.
“And now?”I press gently.
His blue eyes find mine, and vulnerability flickers in their depths.“Now I’m starting to believe again.”
I don’t trust myself to speak.Instead, I lean across the armrest and kiss him, soft and sweet, trying to pour my feelings into the contact.His hand comes up to cup my face, holding me close even after our lips part.
“I have one condition for this trip,” he says, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.“No role-playing.No ‘sir’ and ‘pet’.Just Shelby and Serena, figuring out what this is between us.”
My breath catches.Our D/s dynamic has become a comfortable space for both of us, a structured framework where the rules are clear and the boundaries defined.Without it, we’re just two people, raw and exposed.
The thought terrifies me.
It also thrills me.
“Deal,” I whisper.
We land in Brazil as dawn breaks over the coastline.
To my surprise, the drive from the airport takes us through rolling hills and vast farmland.From the main road, I sometimes catch glimpses of sugar-white beaches down cliffs.We turn onto a private road that winds through dense vegetation.When the property finally comes into view, I forget how to breathe.
It’s not a house.It’s a dream rendered in glass and stone.
The structure rises from the hillside like it grew there, all clean modern lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the turquoise ocean beyond.An infinity pool spills toward the horizon.Tropical gardens cascade down the slope toward a pristine crescent of sand.
“Shelby.”His name escapes me on an exhale.
“You like it?”He’s watching my reaction with an intensity that warms my heart.
“It’s paradise.”
His smile is quiet, pleased.“That’s the idea.”
Inside, the house is just as stunning.Open spaces flow into one another, decorated in shades of white and pale blue.The furniture is comfortable, inviting.Every window offers a different view of the ocean.
But what catches my attention is the art.
