She twists in my hold, but I drive her wrists harder into the doorframe. “The man I am wouldn’t give a fuck that you’re a virgin. He’d bury himself in you so deep you’d bleed for him, mark you from the inside so you never doubt who you belong to.”
Her gasp is sharp, shaky, as she tries to respond, but no words come out.
“But,” I cut in, my hand dragging up her side in a slow, claiming path, “I love you. So you’re going to do us both a favor and take your cute ass upstairs to shower.”
Her eyes widen, mouth opening and closing until she whispers. “Aleksandr, come on, I am literally?—”
I lean in, lips grazing the shell of her ear, my voice a dark promise. “Lily, when I fuck you—and Iwillfuck you—I will prepare you properly. But right now, with that mouth of yours, I’ll make it hurt. Do you want that?”
Her bottom lip trembles, and though she drops her gaze, I catch the flush creeping up her neck, staining the tips of her ears pink.She’s thinking something filthy—something she doesn’t want to admit.
I answer for her, my tone final. “No. You don’t. So go upstairs and take a shower.”
I release her, and she sags back against the wall, chest rising and falling like she’s run a race. For a second, I think she might argue—but instead she spins on her heel and stomps toward the stairs, muttering under her breath.
I can’t help myself. I reach out and smack her ass, the sharp sound echoing in the Villa. She gasps, whirling around with wide eyes, but I’m already smirking.
Fuck me, I’ve got a brat on my hands.
13
LILY
The third dayin Panama smells like hibiscus and salt, like the entire coastline lulls itself to sleep reminding me that this place is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
The late afternoon sunlight pours over the villa’s wide balcony in molten sheets, painting the pale stone floors gold and making the ocean glitter like something unreal. From where I’m curled in a deep wicker chair, I can see the waves rolling in and out, lazy and endless, crashing against the pale sand in slow motion. The whole world feels like it’s holding its breath, soft and warm and quiet.
The villa itself feels like it belongs to another reality—one carved out just for us. Open and airy, walls of glass that fold away so the ocean breeze can drift through, high ceilings with beams the color of sun-bleached driftwood. Inside, every surface seems to hum with understated luxury: linen-draped couches, polished teak tables, pale marble floors that hold the chill of morning even as the day turns hot.
There are fresh hibiscus flowers in vases that magically appear every day, their petals still damp, and a bowl of fruit so perfectit looks painted. We never see the hands that set them out—just the result, as if the villa itself tends to us.
We have a daily cleaner who ghosts through in the late mornings, leaving everything spotless and smelling faintly of citrus and salt. A private chef who comes in the afternoons and fills the kitchen with impossible aromas, plating food so beautiful it could be a still life. And then there’s Jon, the butler—kind, always discreet, always within reach if we need anything at all, though he seems to know instinctively when to vanish and when to be present.
It is, quite literally, paradise. The kind of paradise where nothing exists except this ocean, this villa, and Aleksandr.
And I am wasting every second of it because I can’t stop thinking about sex.
Sex with Aleksandr, specifically.
Which is not happening.
In the three days since we landed, I’ve finished two entire books just trying to distract myself, and now I’ve moved on to one of the three romance novels I shoved into my backpack. Because the need I have—the tension coiled tight in my body—feels like it’s going to kill me.
At this point, I am convinced that if Aleksandr so much as blows on my clit, I will cum so hard I’ll see stars. And yes, in case anyone is wondering, I have masturbated in the shower six times since landing. Six.
And no, Aleksandr hasn’t touched me since he fingered me on the jet, and begged me to let him be a better man for me, as Idon’t want him exactly like he is. As if I don’t know his darker urges and welcome them with equal measure.
I amsecondsaway from throwing on some piece of lingerie just to parade around this villa, but every single one Gwen packed for me has a hundred straps, and I still can’t figure out where half of them go.
I want him.
I mean, I am his—right? And he wants me. I know he does. So what exactly do I have to do for him to stop being this composed, terrifyingly controlled gentleman and finally unleash the man I saw in that alley? The one who was primal and hungry and looked ready to tear me apart?
I’ve never even had sex, but if the ocean between my thighs isn’t enough of a sign, I don’t know what is. I am beyond ready for him, and yet he is being a complete, infuriating gentleman.
A gentleman who plans couple’s massages, candlelit dinners, walks on the beach, slow dancing at sunset.
And I don’t want to slow dance at sunset.
