When I cry out, hips rocking, he slows just a little, dragging me back from the edge.
“Not yet,” he growls softly. “I want to watch you fall apart. Again. And again.”
I clutch at his arm, my whole body trembling, a sound slipping from me that doesn’t even feel human anymore. He finds that rhythm again—just right, deep and sure—and everything inside me tightens.
His lips brush my temple. “Now, Ash. Let go for me.”
Orgasms crash through me, not like an avalanche, but in waves—one after another—my body seizing, pulling him in, my breath breaking, the pleasure almost too much, too deep.
I sob his name into the crook of his neck, and he just holds me through it—hand gentle now, soothing.
There are no words. No pressure, and for a few stolen seconds, the world shrinks to nothing but the sound of our breathing and the hum of the ship’s engine.
Then his phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Intrusive. Annoying. Persistent.
I freeze. My skin still shivering. My heart still open.
“Don’t,” I whisper against his mouth. “Don’t answer it.”
He doesn’t move at first. His forehead rests against mine, and for one suspended breath, I almost believe he won’t.
That this time, I matter more.
But then he sighs—rakes a hand through his hair—and the shift is unmistakable.
He’s pulling away.
“I have to,” he says.
Cold air hits me.
He grabs the phone, and before I realize what’s happening, he’s on the balcony, closing the door behind him.
And just like that, it’s last year all over again.
Warmth replaced by silence.
I sit up, stunned—but only for a second.
You stupid, stupid woman.
I don’t just hear the words once. I hear them on repeat.
I scramble for my underwear, my shorts—fumbling as I shove myself back together. I grab the veil and my sewing kit like I’m packing shame into a getaway bag.
The massive walk-in closet calls to me, the only place in the suite that feels remotely safe. I step inside, close the door behind me, and sink onto the carpet.
Tulle spills across my lap in soft, crumpled waves, and I press trembling fingers to the fabric, trying to remember what I was doing before everything turned upside down.
It’s fine. It didn’t mean anything.
My hands are shaking but I still manage to thread the needle.
