by Kira Blakely
She’s supposed to be my brother’s. That’s got to be the attraction. She’s supposed to be his, and I can’t stand that I don’t get her, instead.
I knock on the door, then tuck my hands behind my back and wait.
Footsteps, the rattle of a latch, and then the door swings inward.
Dani stands on the threshold, wearing a pair of loose cotton shorts and a camisole, her nipples pricking at the fabric. Hourglass figure, so sweet and tight, but none of that matters, now.
Her eyes are puffy and red. Her hair is damp from the shower.
“Holden,” she whispers.
“Mr. Long.” I can’t do this if she calls me by his name. I extend my hand to her. “I’m sorry.” Words I never fucking say. I’m never sorry for anything. Never doubt anything, but I’m apologizing on my brother’s behalf. As much as I love him, he can be a jackass sometimes. “I was… confused.”
She swallows but doesn’t take my hand. She folds her arms across her chest and squishes her breasts together, struggling to maintain eye contact. She’s so voluptuous, yet so tight at the same time.
The woman is my fucking Aphrodite.
“Confused,” she says.
“Yes, I hope you understand why.” I don’t even understand why. If this woman was my nanny, I’d have fucked her long ago. Shit, the thought of a live-in caretaker who looks like this… my dick twitches. “Things are complicated. Let’s go for a walk. We’ll talk it out.” I’m not asking because I’m not used to asking for anything.
I take what I want. Always.
“I—” She purses her lips, those kissable, fuckable lips, and inhales through her nose. “Mr. Long, maybe you were right. Maybe it’s better if—”
I raise my index finger and press it to her lips. “Don’t think this weekend. Let’s make a deal. We’ll forget everything else and focus on this, together, the sand, the beach, the moon. We’ll deal with all that other shit later on.” Her lips are hot against my skin. She breathes against me and I picture that on my neck, on my dick. “Let’s walk.”
I take her hand, and she shuts the door behind her. She’s barefoot, cute, and a little cold. She wraps her arm around her waist and holds it there.
“There were no coats in the closet,” she says and shakes her head. “Weird. There’s every type of lingerie, there are whips and even ball gags, but no coats. This is a strange place.”
“Here,” I say and stop short. I unbutton my shirt and strip it off, then hand it over to her.
She bows her head and shadows envelop half her face, the other half illuminated by the moon overhead. “Thanks,” she says and slips it on. She sniffs the collar, then frowns.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing, it’s just—nothing.”
We link hands again and walk across the sand together, a slow pace, drowning in the moonlight and the sounds of water lapping the beach. Crisp wind tugs at the shirt she clasps to her breasts and chills my skin.
We stop just beyond the line of water, still hand-in-hand.
She turns to me, traces my body with her gaze. “I love your tattoos. I’ve never seen them before. Around the house, I mean.”
“No talk about the house. Or tattoos,” I reply. Specifically, not the meaning of the twins on my chest, back to back. Warriors. Brothers. “Talk to me about you. About your future. About what you want.”
She chews her bottom lip and releases it, slowly. “I—well, you already know I want to be a pilot.”
“Yeah,” I say and nod, though I had no fucking clue. I don’t know her at all, and Holden does. Christ, that bites my balls.
A pilot. That’s something special. How did she end up as a nanny?
“I know,” I say, at last. “But we’ve never discussed it in detail.” Even now, standing side by side, we’re too far apart. I twirl her into my arms and hold her close.
She lets out an adorable yelp.
I take in the sight of her, the curve of her nose and arch of her strong cheekbones. Perfect American beauty. “Tell me more about it. Tell me more about what you want.”
“What I want,” she repeats, almost as if talking to me like this is a dream, like she’s drifting through it toward me. “I want to travel the world. I want to see things that I’ve never seen. Experience cities and countries. I want to fly.”
“You want to be free,” I say.
She wants to live like I do. She wants my life. So, she’s not made for Holden after all.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Usually, it’s the opposite.”
“What? That women want to settle down?” She raises an eyebrow at me, and I absorb that defiance.
“People do. Everyone wants a home and a family to go back to.” Except for me.
“And so do you,” she says. “I—I’m sorry things have been difficult for you, lately.”
“It’s fine.” I wave that away. “I try not to think about that stuff too much.” I release her, because holding her like this and talking about my brother’s home life makes me cringe hard, then take her hand again and walk her back down the beach. “So, you’re saving up to study.”
“Yes.” She nods, and once again, she’s lit up from the inside out. She stalls again, tugs on my fingers. “Holde—Mr. Long, did you invite me here? Was all of this planned?”
Fuck. If only I could tell you the truth. But I have to figure out what I want to do about this, other than fuck her senseless again. “No. It was a surprise to see you here,” I reply. And that’s true. The first time I laid eyes on her she knocked me over.
Tan and long-legged and tempting rolled into one.
Her brow wrinkles.
“Come on,” I say. “It’s getting late.” And if I stay out here a minute longer with her, I’ll take her in the sand. She doesn’t need that right now. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
I walk her back to her villa, and we say goodbye on the doorstep. She makes to take off the shirt, but I stop her with a kiss. “Keep it,” I say, then walk off, still bare-chested.
At least she’ll have something of mine with her.
A part of me hopes Holden will see it and flip the fuck out.
Chapter 9
Danielle
I’ve never been a wallflower, but Mystique Island has unlocked a whole other side to me. Here, I’m brave, carefree. I’ll have sex in the waves where anyone might see, so a banana raft is nothing, right?
The two-cylinder yellow craft floats alongside the makeshift dock, attached to the back of what has to be an expensive yacht, if the silver and white sheen is anything to go by. The driver wears a pair of aviator sunglasses—no mask for him—while the rest of us, ladies and billionaires—everyone’s rich here—line up on the dock, giggling, chatting, wearing these ridiculous masks.
We’re not allowed to take them off even now.
I adjust my bikini top, two tiny triangles of wet-gold fabric, and rub my upper arms.
I haven’t seen Holden this morning, and that’s fine. That’s the whole reason I’m down here. To prove that no matter what, I can still enjoy this weekend without being fixated on the man I shouldn’t have fallen for.
Last night was a mixture of amazing and disappointing.
I’m confused, and I despise that. I usually have my head on straight—it comes with the territory when there’s a five-year-old to look after.
Besides, a clear head is something I inherited from my mother.
A pang goes off in my chest, and I rub the spot over my heart. Years have passed, but I still miss her like hell.
“Lifejackets,” the driver of the boat calls out. “There on the dock. Strap ‘em on, people. We’re not going anywhere until you’re wearing them.”
We meander over to the pile of bright orange jackets, and I pick one out, then slip my arm through the puffed-out holes. I strap it on, while all around me, men help their sex partners slip into theirs.
I walk back to the banana raft then sit down on the edge of the dock and sta
re at it. I’m really going to do this.
I’m not afraid of the water. Cautious certainly isn’t my middle name, or I wouldn’t be on Mystique in the first place, but it still kinda gives me the chills. It’s the ocean, the beautiful turquoise ocean.
The color is a replica of Holden’s gaze.
That thought sends me into the water.
Others join me and clamber onto the raft one by one. I join the back of the line and heave myself on board with a little help from the burly man in front of me.
Women loop their arms around guys, and men chuckle. We’re ridiculous. The sun shines on our heads and bakes our backs, and our masks glimmer. We’re about to shed a metric ton of glitter into the water, and we’ll return to shore with sunburn in the shape of these damn masks, too.
That’ll be the hot summer look this year.
The boat’s engine roars to life, and I jolt, grabbing hold of the tiny blue handle in front of me. I squish around on the rubber and mentally prep myself.
It’s all right. Just a raft. Gonna be fun. You’ve got a lifejacket. What’s a little water up the nostrils between friends?
The driver eases the boat away from the dock and put-puts out toward the open ocean at a crawl. It’s nice, actually, what with the breeze whipping my hair back and the chill chasing off the sun’s heat.
I can get used to this.
Palm trees and white sands wane, and the sun’s glare on the open ocean is almost unbearable.
I release a sigh and squeeze my eyes shut behind my mask.
“Let’s go!” a man yells in front of me, and I jerk with shock, eyelids snapping open again.
The boat’s driver laughs and throws a thumbs up toward us, then rams the accelerator forward.
We leap forward, and I shriek, redoubling my grip on the stupid plastic handle in front of me. My stomach whoops. We zoom along the water, crash over a swell, and keep going. We’re far out, way too far out for my liking.
I cast a glance over my shoulder, and my insides burn.
The sand is a pale white strip, the trees barely visible. There’s a figure on the dock, but I can’t make out who it is.
“I don’t like this,” I say, but my words are taken by the wind and dissolved by the rush.
The boat turns in a long arc, and I let out another shrill squeal, along with several of the others on the raft. At least, I’m not the only pussy, ha. But there’s no comfort in that thought. My terror does not subside.
My eyes squint from the sun and the speed. The maniac behind the wheel turns again, this time sharply, and the raft flings out sideways.
One of my legs slips free with a rubbery squeak of doom. “No, no, no, no, no,” I yell, but once again, my words are snatched away, and my mouth is crammed with wind.
Violated by nature, god damn. This is not how I envisioned my weekend.
My other leg slips free, and I ram my mouth shut, tight.
This is it. This is how I die.
Melodramatic, sure, but warranted. I cling to the raft for my dear life, but it’s like my fingers are coated in butter and the raft’s handle is made of… well, butter. I slide free in a great swoosh and smack into the water so hard it takes the air from my lungs.
I’m under for a second, before the lifejacket—thank God for it—shuttles me toward the surface. I break it and splutter, choke. Hair clings to my forehead and gets in my eyes. There’s saltwater up my nose, and I sneeze-wince at the pain. It’s like my whole head is stuffed with water.
My neck pains, probably from whiplash, and that glittery mask is gone. I flail for a second, then calm myself.
OK, I’ve got a lifejacket on, and the boat will circle around, right? I can’t be the only one who’s fallen off.
I tread water and turn in a circle, ignoring the horror at what may be lurking beneath me. Sharks? Some great mythical beast, like, uh, the Kraken from Pirates of the Caribbean?
“Stop,” I say to myself, and saltwater laps into my mouth. I spit it out in a fountain. “Ugh.”
I search for the boat, but it’s already streaked off in the opposite direction. It’s way too far away. And it’s getting farther by the second. No one else has fallen off. They’re all still there on the raft, happy-go-fucking-lucky while I’m out here, crapping myself over sea creatures.
“Hey,” I croak, but it’s never going to work. I’m hoarse from screeching.
I lift an arm, then flop it down, turn toward the distant strip of sand and refuse to panic. It’s still there, and the palm trees, and the dock, but… wait, what?
It’s getting farther away.
Farther by the second.
I gasp and kick my legs, bob up and down like a cork. “No!” I can’t propel myself forward. I’m sucked backward by the sea. A rip current.
My mother taught me about these as a kid. She told me—
Don’t panic, if it happens. Don’t panic, there’s nothing you can do. You’re at the mercy of the ocean. Keep swimming. Swim parallel to the shore.
Tears streak down my face, and I do as she told me long ago. I try for an easy breast stroke, but it’s useless. My arms are weak. I choke and sob.
“Stop it, you can do it. Don’t give up,” I whisper and keep going. Water laps my lifejacket. My legs burn. “Keep—”
The sound of an engine cuts across my panic.
I stop swimming and turn in the water.
A boat!
“Hey!” I croak-yell. “Hey! Hey! Help me, help. I’m over here. Oh, my god, please see me.” I wave my arms over my head and bob again, go under, and resurface. My vision is blurred by rivulets of sea water. “Please,” I splutter.
Whiteness spreads in front of me.
It’s the side of the boat. The side of the boat! I’m saved, thank god.
Strong, tan arms reach down and grab hold of me. I’m lifted free of the ocean, astounded by the strength of the person who’s saved me and tugged me on board.
He wraps me in his arms, and I’m enveloped in spicy, slightly sweet warmth.
Holden. It’s Holden.
The thought brings a fresh wave of tears. I sob and rest my forehead against his collarbone, the top of my sopping wet head tucked under his chin.
“What are you doing out here? Why would you come out here? Don’t you know it’s dangerous? You could’ve died.” Anger snarls every word in the last sentence. “What would I do without you, Danielle? What would Jessie do without you?” He gives me a little shake. “I can’t lose you.”
I can’t speak, can’t think. I cling to him and choke on my own tears.
Finally, the iron grip softens, and he strokes my back. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. You’re safe with me.”
Chapter 10
Holden
I couldn’t be more fucking angry.
What was she thinking?
What is she even doing out here?
She could’ve fucking died, and I would never have seen her again. Only heard about it from Port Authority after the fact. My nanny, the woman I’ve fallen for, dead out at sea.
I stroke her back and use that soft brush of my skin on hers to calm the beast raging inside me.
Guilt sweeps through me.
And if she had died? Her last memory of me would’ve been me telling her that I can’t do this with her, anymore. That I have to leave. How can I love this woman and let her go so easily?
Simple, I can’t.
I can’t.
I kiss the top of her head. “Don’t do that again.”
She’s stopped crying, at last. She pushes back from me, and I suck in a breath. A weight drops onto my fucking ribcage. She hasn’t got the mask on, now, and neither do I. I didn’t exactly anticipate any company out here.
It’s the entire reason I left the island behind. I need time to think about everything that’s happened.
How am I supposed to think with her here? Her beautiful face is exposed. Puffy eyes, red nose, and still she’s stunning. My gaze drifts lower. She fiddles
with the straps on the front of her lifejacket, shivering, fingers wrinkled.
I gently nudge her hands aside and rip the straps off, then slip her out of the life jacket. I inhale sharply a second time.
She’s lost her bikini top. It must’ve slipped out from under the vest, tugged free by the current.
Her breasts are exposed to the open air, drying in the breeze, baked by the sun, two white triangles against tan skin.
I look away and walk to the boat’s wheel, taking hold of it. I don’t start the engine or turn it. I’m just trying to hide the fucking erection tearing at the front of my shorts. “What are you doing out here?” I ask, again, and this time it’s arousal that snarls my words.
She hiccups but clears her throat. “I was on a banana raft thing,” she croaks.
Christ, she’s hoarse, battered, afraid, and I’m worried about my cock. The thought sobers me and helps the situation downstairs. I walk to the cooler beside one of the benches and flip it open, I reach inside and grab a bottle of water then take it to her.
She accepts it, still shivering, then unscrews the lid and drinks deeply.
Water snakes from the side of her mouth and down her throat. I track the droplet all the way to her collarbone then leave her above deck. I duck down and rustle around in the small cabin on board, finding a towel in one of the tiny cupboards beside a single bed.
I return to her then wrap it around her shoulders. “Here. That will help. I have candy bars. You’ll need sugar for the shock.”
“I don’t want any,” she replies and sits down on one of the benches, clutching the bottle between her hands. “I don’t want to eat.”
I stand over her, my shadow shielding her from the glare. “You have to be more careful. You can’t go on one of those things alone. You need a buddy. Or friends who’ll make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m not a child,” she replies, through chattering teeth.
“Then don’t behave like one,” I snap.
“Excuse me?” She levels me with a glare. “What’s your problem? I almost died and all you can do is—”
“Almost died,” I growl. “Don’t you fucking get it, Danielle? You can’t die. I can’t be without you. I can’t live—” I cut off because that’s too far.