Chapter Eleven
Scott
* * *
I can still feel her on my lips—not literally, but the ghost of that almost-kiss last night lingers. My thumb brushing her bottom lip, her breath catching, pupils large before I forced myself to step back. Vanilla and salt that clung to the air this morning after I left the suite early. My hands are still unsteady from not taking what she was too stubborn to give.
I’ll make damn sure she knows exactly what she’s walking away from.
The promise from the villa room hammers in my skull as I brace against the exterior wall, forcing my breathing to level before anyone clocks the state she’s left me in. My cock is rock-hard from the memory of her flush this morning at breakfast—eyes tracking water down my chest as I rose from the pool, that telltale hitch in her breath she tried to hide.
“All contestants to the main deck immediately! Challenge time!”
Perfect fucking timing. Nothing burns off this restless, possessive energy like a challenge.
By the time I hit the main deck, Lyla is already there. Skin still carrying that faint flush from breakfast, white bikini top cupping her breasts perfectly, denim shorts showcasing her ass in a way that makes me clench my jaw. She must sense me approaching, because then her whole body tenses—shoulders squaring, chin lifting like armor.
She’s still processing. Still fighting what we both feel.
The other female contestants flank her like bodyguards, but I catch the quick glance she steals—eyes locking on mine for half a heartbeat before darting away.
“Good morning, couples!” Miranda sweeps in wearing a red dress that barely qualifies as clothing. “I hope you’re all feeling...physical today.”
Something about her tone sets my instincts on edge. Cameras repositioned—more of them, tighter angles. Crew buzzing harder than usual. This isn’t another trust exercise.
“Ladies,” she purrs, “today you get to sit back and watch the men compete for your attention. Literally.”
My pulse kicks up. Beside me, Damon straightens—interested, calculating. I see his gaze flick toward Lyla. I clench my hands into fists.
“Gentlemen, you’ll be participating in a tournament. Single elimination, bracket style. Seven men, three rounds, one winner.”
A tournament. Physical. Raw. I coil with anticipation.
“You’ll be competing in a pushing battle.” She gestures as PAs wheel out a bracket board. “Three-minute matches where the men will compete in a pit to push each other out. No strikes or no intentional injury are allowed— This is about strength, strategy, and who wants it more.”
Who wants it more.
I almost laugh. Less than twelve hours ago, I had Lyla backed against the villa doors, thumb on her lips, telling her I’d rather die than walk away again. Now I get to prove it in the sand.
“The prize,” Miranda continues with perfect dramatic timing, “is a private helicopter tour later today. Just the winner and his chosen companion will enjoy a secluded beach, gourmet picnic, and champagne… Complete privacy, with the exception of remote cameras, naturally.”
Secluded beach. No producers. Only a few mounted cameras.
I can work with that.
My blood heats. A few stolen hours alone with Lyla—no group chatter, no Damon hovering, no eyes except that one lens. Enough time to come clean about everything. Enough time to make her remember exactly what she’s trying to deny.
I find her in the crowd. Her eyes widen as understanding seems to dawn— She knows exactly what I’m about to do.
The producers think they’re manufacturing drama. They just handed me the perfect weapon.
Fuck yes!
“Beach in fifteen minutes!” Miranda chirps. “Gentlemen, might want to stretch.”
The group scatters. Damon steps in close, voice low.
“Convenient timing.” He sounds almost amused.
