West
Iam NOT a voyeur—which sounds like a lie, considering this is the second time in twenty-four hours I've accidentally seen a half-naked woman who had no idea I was there.
I’m also not a stalker.
I was conducting reconnaissance. There’s a difference.
Jane Cooper—Barbie’s mysterious plus-one—has been circling Blake like a shark scenting blood for the past four hours, and every instinct I’ve honed over sixteen years of professional hockey says something is off.
The problem is, I can’t figure out what.
She’s not like the usual women who orbit Blake. Not polished enough, for one thing. Despite the designer dress and obvious attempts at sophistication, she moves wrong for this place—like she’s wearing borrowed shoes. Too careful. Too aware of every step.
And she looks at Blake like he’s a problem to solve, not a man to seduce.
I should let it go. Blake’s choices are Blake’s business. I already made the decision to keep my mouth shut about Scarlett—stand beside him as his groomsman, play the loyal friend, pretend everything’s fine.
So why am I standing here, watching Jane disappear down the path toward the guest casitas instead of joining Blake at the bar?
Because you’re an idiot with a protection complex, the honest part of my brain supplies.
Even if it’s Blake Hartwell.
Fair enough.
Jane disappears inside her casita. My feet don’t move.
Seconds pass.
Then movement catches my eye through her sheer curtains.
Which brings me to this moment—
Jane Cooper is struggling with her zipper.
She contorts her arms behind her back, twisting like she's trying to scratch an unreachable itch, and the movement makes the dress pull tight across her chest. Even from here, I can see the strain of fabric over curves that have been testing my focus all damn day.
When the zipper finally gives, she lets out what looks like a relieved exhale and shimmies the dress down.
Hot damn!
The bra underneath is white sheer lace—the kind designed to create cleavage that could stop traffic. It's working. Her breasts are pushed up and together, full and round, spilling slightly over the cups like the contraption can barely contain them.
My cock goes from interested to fully hard in the span of a heartbeat.
She reaches behind her back, and I know what's coming.
I should look away now. Right now. This second.
The bra releases.
Her breasts fall free—heavy, natural, the kind that would overflow my hands—and she tosses the bra across the room with a flick of her wrist, watching it land on the back of a arm chair before turning towards the mirror again.
The relief on her face is immediate, her hands coming up to rub at the red marks where the underwire dug into her ribs.
I grip the trunk of the palm tree like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
She starts massaging herself. Thumbs pressing into the grooves left by the bra, palms cupping the underside of herbreasts as she works out the ache, and my brain shorts out completely.
