Luxury
Iwake to warmth. Not just the soft sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains, but the heavy, slow-breathing heat of Ash wrapped around me. His arm is slung over my waist, his face buried in the curve of my neck, like he’s decided I’m the pillow and he’s never letting go.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I just listen to the waves outside, smell the salt in the air, and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
“You awake?” His voice is a sleepy rumble against my skin.
“Mmhmm.” I shift slightly, and his arm tightens, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I don’t have to pretend I’m asleep so you won’t run away.”
I smile into the pillow. “Run away? You’ve basically got me in a full-body lock.”
“That’s the point.” His lips graze my shoulder—lazy, unhurried. “We’re not leaving this bed for… I dunno. Ever.”
“Not even for breakfast?” I tease.
“Actually,” he says, “I thought of that. We’re having breakfast in bed.”
I laugh, twisting in his arms to face him. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in half a dozen directions, his eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling in that way that makes my stomach flip.
This—this right here—is the part no one else gets to see. Not the man on stage or the one in the glossy photos. Just Ash. Warm, rumpled, ridiculous Ash.
“I think it should be here already. Let me check.”
He gets up, and a minute later returns with a tray the size of a small coffee table.
My jaw drops. It’s piled high with mango slices, fresh papaya, croissants, tiny jars of jam, eggs that look like they belong on a cooking show, and a pot of coffee that smells like it was brewed by angels.
I sit up, tugging his oversized black shirt down over my bare legs. It swallows me whole, the sleeves falling past my hands.
His eyes skim over me, slow and appreciative. “That shirt’s never looked better.”
“Flattery will get you a croissant,” I say, breaking one in half and tossing him a piece.
We eat cross-legged on the bed, stealing bites from each other’s plates, the ocean breeze drifting through the open doors. Ash pours me coffee, adds just the right amount of milk without asking. I lick mango juice from my fingers, and he watches me like I’ve just done something scandalous.
“This is ridiculous,” I say around a mouthful of pastry. “No one actually eats like this.”
“Correction,” he says, leaning back against the headboard with his coffee, “we eat like this.”
I throw a strawberry at him. He catches it in his mouth, grinning like he’s twelve.
We spend a few more hours tangled in this luxurious bed, laughing, cuddling, and gorging on fresh fruit.
But there’s so much I want to do here, and the pool is calling my name. I finally convince Ash to put on a bathing suit, and I’m the first to dive in.
The water is warm, sunlit, and impossibly blue—like it’s holding a piece of the Mexican sky just for us. I float on my back, staring at the cloudless horizon, until a splash hits my face.
I blink water out of my eyes. Ash is treading water a few feet away, wearing that lazy smirk that always means trouble.
“Did you just—”
Another splash. This one hits me square in the chest.
“Oh, it’s on,” I say, lunging toward him.
We end up in a ridiculous splash war, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. I duck under the water to escape his counterattack, but when I come up, he’s right there—hands catching my waist before I can wriggle away.
