“Donottell me to relax—Callum!”
He leaped to his feet, bending to throw me over his shoulder. I hung upside down limply, not even bothering to fight.
“If you’d let me finish speaking,” he smacked my ass hard enough to make me yelp, “we need to finish what we started. Can’t have my fiancée greeting our uninvited guests all wound up and desperate for my cock, can we?”
We did, in the end, have sex hard and fast under the hot spray, steam curling around us, his mouth at my neck, my nails biting into his shoulders, his fingers pressing into my ass to fill me everywhere. By the time we stepped out of the shower and pulled on actual clothing, my pulse had stopped trying to break my ribs, and I was, annoyingly, calmer.
So calm that when he turned to grab his shirt, I snapped the towel against his ass, catching him squarely. He swore in Gaelic, shot me a murderous look over his shoulder, and I just smiled sweetly and informed him I wastrès chilléenow.
Balance, restored… at least until our chaos brigade landed.
The steamfrom the shower still clung to my skin when I padded out of the bathroom, towel twisted around my body, hair dripping down my back. I made it as far as the open wardrobe before a warm hand closed around my wrist.
“I’m picking what you wear,” Callum said, eyes sparking with that infuriating, smug certainty. “Punishment for whipping me with that towel.”
I narrowed my eyes at him skeptically. “Absolutely not.”
He got his way, of course. Which was how I ended up standing at the stove in a flowy black romper he’d claimed was “practical,” and I was starting to suspect he meant “designed to make it hard for both of us to think.” It cinched at my waist, skimmed my thighs, and did something to his self-control every time I reached up to the cupboard.
The real kicker, though, was that he’d made me go commando. Which meant every small movement made the fabric brush against my nipples and my pussy.
Bastard.
He moved around the kitchen behind me in soft lounge pants and a worn t-shirt, barefoot and deadly. Every time he passed, his hand brushed my hip, or the small of my back, or the curve of my ass like he couldn’t help himself. He set out plates, opened a bottle of wine, lit a candle he claimed was “for ambience, not romance” like there was even a difference with him. Every few minutes he checked his phone, looking for any indication that our friends were on their way.
The villa smelled like garlic, tomatoes and simmering herbs. My hands moved on autopilot as I measured ingredients to feed ten—since these fucking men ate so much.
Outside, the sea had gone from bright blue to deepening cobalt, the horizon bleeding pink and gold. For a little while, with the sizzle of the pan and the clink of dishes, it almost felt normal again.
Like we were just two people making dinner. Not a scandal waiting to happen.
“Stop hovering,” I said, stirring the sauce. “You’re making me nervous. Go… decant something.”
“Can’t decant this one, love,” he murmured. “But I did pick us a Naxos red that tastes like cherries and trouble. And I bought that olive oil from the old man at the market—the one who kissed your hand and called you his second wife. We’ll do it with balsamic and bread when they get here.”
My mouth actually watered. “You’re using my emotional support carbs against me,” I accused. “That’s low, even for you.”
“You’re the one who wanted pasta,” he pointed out.
“I saidlightpasta,” I argued. “This is light. It has tomatoes. That’s practically a salad. I was talking about the wine. Oh—” Anidea lit up, bright and fizzy. “Can we do that while we’re here? Check out a local vineyard? I want to drink something from old vines and ancient dirt.”
He huffed a laugh, stepping in behind me, one hand braced on the counter next to my hip. “We can do whatever you want, baby,” he said, kissing the back of my head. “Holymoon rules.” He leaned in to smell the pan over my shoulder. “Sauce looks good.”
“Sauce is perfect,” I corrected. “I made it.”
“Obviously,” he said. His lips brushed the back of my neck, barely there. “I meant you.”
My shoulders sank a millimeter, tension leaking out the way it always did when he said things like that. Stupid, soft man. Stupid, soft heart. Stupid, soft me for giving it back to him and then letting him put a ring on my finger like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Flattery will not distract me from the fact that you put me in an outfit specifically designed to make you feral in front of company,” I said.
“In my defense, you do that in sweatpants,” he retorted, nipping at my earlobe. I sighed. “I just chose the option that’ll make them not want to stick around as long.”
Oh, this brilliant man of mine.
“That is an excellent defense,” I admitted, a slow smile creeping across my face. “So this is your plan? Keep us so hot and bothered we kick them out early and keep the sex going?”
“No,” he said, mouth brushing my temple, voice dropping. “My plan is to keep our honeyday intact, mo chridhe.” The way his lips wrapped around the unfamiliar word—khree-yeh, all rough consonant and soft center—made desire unfurl low and slow in my belly. The spatula slipped right out of my hand and clattered into the pan as I melted back against him with a faint, involuntary sound.
