Not a wave this time. Something larger. Something that starts at the base of my spine and radiates outward in every direction simultaneously, tightening, tightening, my whole body drawing inward around a single bright point of sensation that keeps expanding rather than breaking, keepsbuildingrather than cresting —
“Oh god,” I gasp. “Oh god oh god oh —”
“Now,” Alistair says.
His fingers press and circle andpressand Sarah cries out against my mouth and Matt drives into my pussy one final time and every muscle in my body releases at once —
The world goes white at the edges.
I make a sound I will be taking to my grave.
The orgasm doesn't arrive so much asdetonate—a full-body obliteration that moves through me in long rolling waves, each one cresting before the last has fully receded, and I am shaking with it, my arms barely holding me up, not caring about anything except the extraordinary, all-consuming, holy-fuck fact of what is happening to my body right now.
Behind me, Matt's grip on my hips tightens as he pulses inside me, his cock throbbing with his own release.
I close my eyes.
I ride the last of it out, boneless and grateful and completely, utterly gone.
CHAPTER 8
Russian Spring Punch
IVY
After a light lunch of beautiful fresh fruit and Spanish omelette, Alistair and I are lazing in the sun on the beach loungers. We slept in, skipping breakfast, but the lunch more than makes up for it. We’re quieter than usual, most likely still processing what happened the night before. Body relaxed, eyes closed, he trails his finger softly along the back of my arm. Despite the sunscreen, I’ve picked up a decent tan, but Alistair’s is golden in the afternoon light. It reinforces the image I have of him as a Greek god. The moment I first saw him—he was like a beacon of light. Sure, I was suffering from head trauma and most likely shock and a light concussion, but he has since lived up to the pedestal I’d put him on. How is it possible that we are married?
“You okay?” he murmurs, sounding half asleep.
I want to eat him up when he looks like this, his defenses completely down, his muscles as impressive as ever, firm under his burnished skin. If my mouth wasn’t so dry I might have drooled a little. The cross around my neck—his wedding gift tome—sways as I shift to sit up. A slight headache nags, most likely due to last night’s indulgences, and I know I need hydration.
I call over a waiter and ask for coconut water and a bottle of sparkling. I need electrolytes, but that will have to do for now.
Alistair groans as he stretches, then moves to sit up too. The drinks arrive and we are both grateful. I can’t see his eyes behind his Tom Fords, but I can tell he is happy and relaxed, which makes me relax.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
I breathe in and sigh it out. “Okay.” I’m nervous but also genuinely curious as to what he is thinking.
He lifts his shades so that I can see his eyes. “Any regrets?”
He asks it casually, like he’s asking whether I want another coconut water. Which is exactly how I know it cost him something to ask.
“No,” I say. “None. You?”
He considers this with the seriousness it deserves, which I appreciate. Alistair has never once told me what I wanted to hear at the expense of what was true. The waves roll in, slow and unhurried. A gull wheels overhead, catching the light. I wait.
“No,” he says finally. “Though I reserve the right to revisit that position if Matt tries to friend me on LinkedIn.”
I smile and sink deeper into my lounger, tipping my face up to the sun. The light is syrupy and golden and the air smells of coconut oil and salt and somewhere nearby someone is grilling fish. My body feels wrung out in the best possible way—loose and warm and deeply, profoundly rested.
Back home, things are as good as they have ever been. Ari and Henderson, solid and warm. Alex almost walking, Brumilde sending daily videos of him pulling himself up on the furniture and looking immeasurably pleased with himself. Becks already laying the groundwork for the Foundation, firing emails at all hours as only Becks can. Even Jamie, settled in his new flat, driver’s license freshly printed. The thought of all of them—safe, contained, whole—sits warmly in my chest alongside the sun.
I am thinking, vaguely and pleasantly, about whether to order something sweet, when Leo appears at the edge of my vision, making his way along the deck toward us. He sets the tray down between our loungers with a small knowing smile—the smile of a man who poured a lot of cocktails last night and is very pleased to see us still breathing—and disappears back toward the bar without a word.
I reach for my glass. The condensation is cold against my fingers and the drink is the same pale gold as the afternoon light and it smells incredible.
I am halfway to my lips when Alistair’s hand closes around my wrist.
