Her hips sway. Just a little more than necessary. The green dress she chose for the wedding—tasteful, fitted, a neckline that's been tormenting me since noon—moves with her like it was designed specifically to test men who've recently tackled other men at the altar.
She knows I'm watching.
I am.
We pass the pool. Tourists laughing, oblivious. A bartender pouring rum punches. Staff rearranging lounge chairs. The normal world continuing as if we didn't just detonate a billionaire wedding forty minutes ago.
But all I can focus on is the woman in front of me. The way her dress catches the breeze. The bracelet catching light on her wrist—Jan 24, 2026.Us. —the engravingwinking at me with every step she takes.
The way she glances back at me over her shoulder. Quick. Innocent.
Except there's nothing innocent about that look.
My knuckles ache. I flex my right hand at my side—the one that drove into Blake's chest—and the dull throb feels like punctuation. Deserved punctuation.
We reach the casita. I unlock the door. She brushes against me as she steps past—shoulder to chest, hip grazing my thigh—a full-body whisper.
"Oops. Sorry."
Her voice is light. Apologetic.
But her eyes aren't sorry at all.
The door closes behind us. The click of the latch sounds louder than it should. The air inside is cooler, the ceiling fan turning slow overhead, and the shift from bright heat to dim quiet makes everything feel compressed. Pressurized.
She moves into the room. Stretches—arms overhead, back arching, the dress riding up her thighs as her body elongates. The hem lifts high enough that I can see the muscle in her calves, the soft crease behind her knees.
"Long day."
She's not looking at me. But she knows exactly where I'm looking.
She's playing a game.
I lean against the door. Cross my arms. Watch her. "Yeah. Long day."
She touches the bracelet on her wrist. Runs her fingers over the diamonds. Tilts it to examine the engraving like she's reading it for the first time instead of the twentieth.
"This really is beautiful."
She bites her lip. Then looks up at me through her lashes—dark eyes, warm and deliberate.
"Thank you. Again."
My jaw tightens. "You already thanked me."
"I know." She turns away. Starts removing her shoes. Bends over. Takes her time with the ankle straps, fingers working the tiny buckle with exaggerated precision. "These heels are killing me."
The dress rides up further. I can see the backs of her thighs. The curve where thigh becomes something else entirely. She's not wearing stockings. Just bare, sun-warmed skin anda deliberate lack of urgency.
Acting like she doesn't know exactly what she's doing to me.
She straightens. Kicks the shoes aside. Rolls her shoulders back like she's working out tension, and the movement makes the thin straps of her dress shift, one sliding down her shoulder.
"I'm a little sore." Said completely innocently. "From earlier."
The implication lands exactly where she intended.
I'm getting hard just watching her pretend.
