Outside, wood scrapes against wood as Falco drags the chopping block out of the shed and brushes it down. He sets the fish out along it one by one and twirls a knife skillfully between his fingers. After wiping his brow, he hunches over slightly and starts cutting.
My heart catches in my throat while watching him through the window.
In the setting sun, his skin becomes a deep bronze and the silver streaks in his hair melt into his dark hairline.
The muscles of his forearms subtly shift and rise as he works with the fish, and I’m struck with the strongest urge to go down there and sink my teeth into his arm to see if his muscles are as firm as they look.
Of course they are.
I’ve been in his arms enough times to know how strong he is.
No one has ever lifted me like he has.
To him, I weigh nothing, and I know for a fact he could throw me around the way I’ve read about in books or seen online.
But what real chance do I have?
He looks at me and sees his job or worse, his oath to my father. I’m off limits and I’m certainly not worth him risking his life.
So why do I want him to? Why do I want him to throw all that to the wind, toss me down, and ravish me until he’s the only touch that lingers on my skin?
It would be a death sentence.
Standing in front of the wooden-framed mirror, I go through each swimsuit three times. One makes my stomach look too large, the other looks too childish with the frills at the crotch but it does give a weak illusion of skinnier thighs.
The third is a smock that covers me up just enough, but the color’s almost the same shade as my skin tone and makes me look like a smooth, plastic Barbie doll. None of these are sexy.
None of these could entice a man.
But they’re all I have.
If I focus on the fact that I have no chance at all in attracting an older man as hot as Falco, then it’s easier to pick a swimsuit. I stick with the smock. It covers my stomach and goes past my hips enough that my ass doesn’t look as large.
Despite those reassurances, my heart pounds like an over-taut drum as I step out onto the back porch and approach the hottub. Falco glances up as if he’s already aware of my presence, but other than a look to pinpoint where I am he focuses on the fish.
Of course he does.
Cooking fish is clearly more interesting than me.
Turning on the bubbles with the flick of a switch, I slip into the hot tub and momentarily forget about Falco as warmth surrounds me like a blanket and the bubbles massage gently against my aching limbs.
The flare of my smock swimsuit fans out across the top of the water until the fabric is wet enough to sink.
It’s bliss.
My head rests back against one of the cushions and I close my eyes, sinking into heat with the murmur of bubbles and the rhythmic movements of Falco working.
If we were normal people, this would be a romantic getaway. That time he touched me in the shower would be an intimate memory rather than a game. Our kiss wouldn’t have ended in Falco pushing me away. As my heart sinks with the reality of my crush’s future, I crack open one eye and freeze.
Falco’s staring at me.
It’s subtle with how his head tilts toward me, and he continues to work on the fish, but his golden eyes glint in the remains of the sinking sun.
He’s definitely watching me.
This doesn’t feel like his usual protective, watchful gaze. It’s heavier. Slower. Through the soft blur of my eyelashes, I watch Falco’s tongue sweep out and dart across his lower lip.
Is he imagining what I taste like the same way I imagined what his muscles would feel like against my teeth? There’s no way I’ve made all of this up in my head. Falco feels something. He has to. I’ve had bodyguards before in the same situation as Falco and none of them have shown me the same attentiveness as he.
