Those aren't the carefully sculpted, surgically enhanced breasts I've become numb to in locker room conversations. These are real. Soft. The kind that would overflow my hands, heavy and warm and—
My hand drops to my zipper on instinct.
I press my palm against the painful ridge of my erection, trying to ease the pressure, and nearly groan out loud.
I'm hard as a rock in my pants like a teenager because a woman I barely know is standing topless in a window.
She pulls on a white t-shirt from her luggage—thin, worn, the kind that's been washed a hundred times—and it clings to every curve. No bra. I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric, and the casual domesticity of it is somehow more erotic than the push-up bra.
Then she does something that destroys me.
She rolls her hips. A slow, exaggerated circle like she's working out the stiffness from wearing heels all day, hands on her lower back, head tipped back. The movement is fluid, unselfconscious, and when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, she laughs.
Actually laughs at herself.
It's not a performance. There's no audience she's aware of, no attempt at seduction. She's just... herself. Comfortable in her skin. The hip roll transitions into what looks like a terrible attempt at a dance move, and she's grinning at her own ridiculousness when she turns away from the mirror.
That's what breaks me.
Not the body—though sweet heavens, that body. Not the accidental striptease or the braless t-shirt or even the white lace panties that are somehow more devastating than theengineered lingerie.
It's the fact that she's completely, utterly real.
I'm still gripping myself through my pants, trying to breathe through the need pounding in my veins, when she disappears from view.
I should move. Should get back to my villa before someone sees me lurking in the landscaping like a creep. Should take a cold shower and forget this ever happened.
Instead, I stand here, hard as granite, burning the image into my memory.
This is a problem.
She is a problem.
And I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do about it.
My phone buzzes violently in my pocket. I jerk back. The spell breaks.
I yank my gaze away, heat crawling up the back of my neck like I'm seventeen instead of thirty-four.
When I risk another glance, the curtains are drawn.
Thank hell.
I stumble back toward my own casita, adjusting myself through my pants. Pathetic.
My phone buzzes again. Family group chat, because the universe hates me.
Mom:Veronica's mother confirmed pool party on Tuesday. Wear the navy blazer. No excuses.
Aunt Milly:Penelope will be at the Thursday cocktail. I told her mother you're looking to settle down. Don't embarrass me.
Mom:We should sync our schedules. You can’t possibly evaluate all the candidates if you don’t optimize your time with the wedding plans, groomsmen activities and everything else.
I stare at the screen.
If they move from matchmaking to stud farming, I’m walking into the ocean and letting nature decide.
Ilet myself into my casita—white marble, vaulted ceilings, a private infinity pool that costs more per night than most people on the island make in a month. Everything pristine. Everything perfect. Everything a reminder that my family's money can buy anything except the ability to see me as something other than a legacy management problem.
