The island ran on tourism, I realized. Every bracelet, every plate of grilled fish, every whitewashed wall maintained for the benefit of people like us. Once, that kind of money would have made me uneasy. Now I watched Jonathan bargain in halting Greek and tip too much afterward, and I felt something closer to recognition than resentment.
One afternoon we climbed to the windmills of Kato Mili. They stood in a row, ancient and beautiful, their sails still catching the constant breeze. From the hilltop, the harbor glittered below us, as ferries carved bright white lines across the water. Jonathan stood beside me, hair whipped by the wind, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his hand sought mine without hesitation.
At sunset we sat in Little Venice, on a terrace that seemed to float over the sea. The sky bled pink and gold, the waves lapped at the café’s foundations, and the whole world felt like it had narrowed to the two of us and the glow between us. Plates of grilled fish and tomato salad appeared, a carafe of cold white wine sweating on the table. Jonathan talked about Singaporeand Suzuka and Shanghai, his voice threaded with excitement, and I let myself imagine being there, walking foreign streets with him, watching lights glimmer over water on the other side of the world.
But it was the sea that kept calling us back.
Every afternoon we swam, diving into water so clear I could see the shadow of our bodies on the sand far below. Salt stung my lips, clung to my hair, coated my skin until I tasted like the ocean itself. We’d swim out past the clusters of tourists until we were alone, suspended in endless blue. Sometimes he splashed me until I lunged at him, dragging him under. Sometimes we just floated, side by side, letting the water hold us.
That last afternoon, the sun high and merciless, he swam close. His hair was plastered to his forehead, droplets tracing paths down his jaw. He bumped against me, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, and I laughed, pushing him back only for him to circle and catch me again.
Then his mouth was on mine. Salty, wet, dizzying. A kiss without hurry, made weightless by the sea, his hand cupping the back of my neck as if to anchor me to him.
I pressed back, opening to him, our tongues tangling as the swell rocked us together. His thigh slid between mine, the hard line of his cock unmistakable even through the thin fabric clinging to us. I groaned into his mouth, grinding against him, the salt stinging my lips, his body hot against mine despite the cool water.
“God, Waldo,” he whispered, breathless, and the sound of my name on his lips went straight through me.
I wrapped my legs around him, letting the water hold us up. His hands slid down to cup my ass, kneading, pulling me tight against him. I could feel every inch of him, hard and insistent, trapped between us. He rocked against me in the rhythm of thetide, slow at first, then harder when I gasped and clutched at his shoulders.
The sea lapped around us, gulls wheeling overhead, but all I knew was the heat of him, the delicious drag of our cocks grinding together through wet fabric. His mouth stayed on mine, kissing me deep, groaning into me as I rutted against him, slick and desperate.
“Don’t stop,” I begged, biting his lip.
“Never,” he said, and thrust harder.
The world narrowed to friction, to salt and heat and sunlight flickering on the waves. I came first, shuddering against him, my body seizing with pleasure that pulsed through every limb. He followed with a low cry, clutching me tight as his release spilled hot between us, mingling with mine, the water swirling around our tangled bodies.
I realized, with a jolt, that I wasn’t thinking about disclosure at all, and that frightened me more than the secrecy ever had.
We clung together, breathless, still rocking with the swell, kissing like we could drink each other down. The sea carried us, and for a long moment it felt like we were the only two people in existence, weightless, endless, unbreakable.
36
BACK TO REALITY
Amsterdam Airport - Arrivals Hall
The flightfrom Mykonos to Amsterdam felt like a hangover. The sky outside the window had traded brilliant Greek blue for a flat, damp gray, the kind that promised rain. Jonathan slept most of the way, baseball cap pulled low, earbuds in, while I stared at the clouds and tried not to think about how fast everything was moving again.
We touched down, taxied forever, then finally reached the gate. As soon as I switched my phone back on, it lit up like a pinball machine. Texts, missed calls, and notifications rained in so fast I couldn’t keep up. Jonathan stirred beside me, frowning as his phone buzzed to life with the same relentless chorus.
“What the hell?” he muttered, thumb scrolling, then freezing. His jaw tightened. He shoved the phone at me.
It was us.
The photos were everywhere, grainy but unmistakable. Jonathan’s hands on my ass, my legs wrapped around his waist, our mouths locked together in the Aegean. Headlines in English, Greek, Dutch, French. Paparazzi gold, spread across every feed.
My stomach dropped.
By the time we were through passport control, my phone was still vibrating with new messages. One from Thea, in all caps:CALL ME NOW.Another from Michael:Need to discuss damage control ASAP.
Jonathan was getting the same treatment, his screen full of texts from his father, his manager, even the team principal. A string of increasingly sharp ones from Shep, each less polite than the last.
He swore under his breath, stuffed the phone in his pocket, and slung an arm around my shoulders as we pushed into the arrivals hall.
That’s when I saw the newspaper stand.
The vendor, a weathered Dutch man in his sixties, was arranging the morning papers with practiced efficiency. But it was the tabloid headlines that made my blood freeze:
