Page 51 of Spotlight Hearts

When I look up, he’s wrecked—chest heaving, eyes glassy, lips bitten red. He’s staring down at me like I just changed his entire world.

I stand. My knees ache. My own cock is throbbing, untouched, leaking steadily into my pants.

He reaches for me—shaky fingers cupping my jaw, thumb brushing my swollen bottom lip.

“You—” His voice cracks. “You just⁠—”

“Yeah,” I rasp. “I did.”

He pulls me in and kisses me. Hard and desperate. Tasting himself on my tongue.

When we break apart, foreheads pressed, breathing ragged, he whispers against my mouth, “No more professional.”

I nod.

“No more.”

SEVENTEEN

KAI

The seaplane skims across the turquoise water and settles with a gentle splash near the private dock. The pilot cuts the engines, and the sudden quiet is almost startling—only the lap of waves against the floats and the distant cry of gulls. I press my forehead to the small window, watching the dock slide closer: polished teak, white linen umbrellas, a golf cart already waiting for our arrival. A discreet sign reads “Overwater Villa 7 – Private.”

This isn’t a vacation.

This is more content for Harry.

I’m sure he made the paps aware of exactly where we’ll be. Tipped them off. Probably even booked a few “local photographers” to stake out the beach paths around the villa’s perimeter. So they can catch every hand-hold, every sunset kiss, every poolside lounge on camera. The fans will go wild. The charts will stay hot. The label gets their money’s worth.

I know this.

I still feel like I’m stepping into someone else’s life.

Luca’s hand finds the small of my back as we step out onto the floating dock—warm, steady, thumb brushing once in a slow circle. No hesitation. No checking if anyone’s watching. He just touches me because he wants to. Because we’re done pretending we don’t want each other.

The driver—a quiet local in a white polo—nods politely and loads our bags into the cart. Luca’s fingers lace through mine as we climb in. He doesn’t ask. He just does it. My palm is clammy. His is warm and sure.

The cart takes us along a narrow path lined with hibiscus and palms. The villa appears at the end: over-water, all glass and pale wood, perched on stilts above water so clear I can see fish darting beneath.

We climb out of the golf cart, he grabs our bags, and I stand there taking it all in. Luca stops next to me.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

I swallow. My throat is tight.

“I’ve never…” I gesture at the villa, at the water, at everything. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not up close. Not for me.”

Luca’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. More like he’s trying not to smile and losing.

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m something unexpectedly fascinating instead of a guy who just admitted he’s out of his depth.

“You’ve never seen a villa?” he asks lightly.

I huff. “Not one I was allowed to touch.”

Something shifts in his expression—not pity or surprise. Just…understanding he doesn’t fully understand.

He grew up with this. Places like this. Glass and water and staff who don’t look you in the eye. To him, it’s normal.