Chapter 22

22

Millie

Fuck, that feels nice .

Ezra’s wet chest is pressed against my bare tits. The contrast between his cool skin and my overheated skin is jarring. And the tight, purposeful grip he has on my waist feels too damn good.

Based on the thick, solid rod poking my belly, I’m going to go out on a (large) limb and say he shares that opinion.

I tip my head back, though all I can see is the column of his neck. “Ezra?”

His throat works in a way that nearly hypnotizes me. “Yup, I know.”

“How are we going to do this?” This , meaning get my bathing suit top on without blinding the people nearby with a shot of my super pale breasts.

“If we shuffle that way”—he tilts a fraction in one direction—“There’s a towel in my backpack.”

“Yeah, okay. That could work.”

Still chest to chest, we sidestep in tandem until we reach his bag.

“Now bend,” he commands, and together we squat like two idiots getting low at a middle school dance. I wobble, certain I’m about to go down, but Ezra steadies me.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter. This is absolutely ridiculous.

Once he’s got the towel in hand, we carefully stand, and he wraps it around my back, creating a makeshift curtain.

“Eyes up, buddy,” I quip.

The motherfucker smirks, but he obediently averts his attention to the clear skies above. With shaking hands, I straighten the white dental floss around my neck, then hold the fabric in place at my chest.

“Could you, um, help me with the back?” I ask, turning.

He tosses the towel to the side and, collecting my ponytail, lays it over my shoulder. Then with warm, gentle fingers, he ties the strings at my back. Goose bumps erupt all over my body at his touch.

After a solid thirty seconds, he still hasn’t released me, so I peer over my shoulder. “Have you forgotten how to tie a bow?”

“Nope.” A moment later, he pats my bottom. “Let’s swim.”

In the shower that afternoon, I replay my bathing suit snafu—how I went from panicky to horny in two minutes flat. With my hands, I mimic the pressure of Ezra against my bare chest, the way my nipples rubbed against his hard body, imagining the beating of his heart against mine. I lower my hand, remembering how his growing thickness felt, the way my clit pulsed in response beneath my swimsuit. Stifling a moan, I paint circles over the bundle of nerves, eliciting pleasure. And with the assistance of the detachable shower head, I find my release, with Ezra’s name drowning on my lips.

“Have you seen my— whoa .” Ezra’s jaw drops, and his focus gets stuck on my exposed midriff.

I’m wearing high-waisted jeans that hug every curve and, this evening, I feel really good in them. The lacy white crop top is an item Joey forced me into buying the last time we went shopping. The straps are thin, and it has a built-in underwire so I don’t need a bra. Ezra took way too long in the shower, which left me no time to style my hair, so I’ve parted it down the middle and pulled it into a low ponytail.

“I’d say the white makes you look virginal, but…”

A laugh escapes me as I shuffle to the closet. “Please don’t say virginal .”

“You look like an angel.”

Heart in my throat, I stop in my tracks. I can’t tell whether he’s being serious. “Are you flirting again, Mr. Miller?” I ask, keeping my tone even as I slip into my wedges.

“It’s Mr. Greer.” He drops to his knees in front of me and works one buckle. “And absolutely.” He looks up, surveying me from beneath dark lashes. “Is it working?”

Is what working? Seeing Ezra on his knees? “Hmm, we’ll see.”

He promised me karaoke in exchange for wearing that damn bathing suit, and he’s staying true to his word. To be honest, it wasn’t as horrendous as I anticipated. The way he couldn’t stop drooling over me made it worth it. Unless he was wrestling Kane in the water, his attention was fixed on me, drinking in every one of my curves. It was a major boost to my self-esteem. I started this trip with massive body insecurities, and I was positive Ezra would be disgusted with my new figure. But that is not the case. While I’m still not totally comfortable in my skin, it eases my mind to know that he isn’t judging me in the least .

We indulge in authentic shave ice before walking to the Japanese BBQ place next door to the bar where we sang karaoke last time and both immediately drool over the menu.

“I think telling Kane the truth went well,” I say, picking up my glass of water.

He’s silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the menu. Finally, he cups my free hand and looks at me. “It did.” He squeezes. “Thank you.”

He releases me, but I grasp his wrist to stop him. “You’re welcome. I meant what I said, too, about staying in his life. If that’s okay with you, of course.” I bite my bottom lip and inspect his expression, searching for clues about how he feels. Maybe I’m overstepping here. Kane and I don’t have any type of link connecting us now that our fake marriage has been revealed. But in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve come to really like the kid. Not only that, but I understand what it’s like to be a queer person in this world; it’s beautiful, but it’s not easy, and I feel the urge to be a safe person in his life.

Ezra pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.”

“You’re something else, Mills. You know that?” His dark eyes bore into me, his expression so endearing I swear it causes the elastic on my panties to snap.

The blush I’m now sporting is not from the Hawaiian heat. “So, um…” I pull my hand away.

He does the same, picking up his own water. “Have you picked out a song for me yet?”

I perk up and bite back a smile. “Yup.”

“And…” He raises a brow. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Nope.”

Dinner was delicious, and the conversation flowed as smoothly as my mai tai, but I’m most excited about karaoke. Ezra tries to perform the second we arrive, but I make up excuses to put it off; I’m waiting till there’s a full house. We pass the time by playing a stupidly competitive round of darts that nearly has me aiming for his stupidly tight ass . He’s wearing his slutty shorts again, paired with a button-down. His chest is smattered with dark hair, distracting me in a way that makes it impossible to aim. I make up for the loss, though, when I beat him at foosball. All those years at theater camp have finally paid off.

Just as I’m about to win another round, Ezra is called to the stage.

“Go get ’em, big guy.” I slap him on the ass.

He scowls playfully. He’s only a little annoyed that I still haven’t told him what song I picked.

Leaning against a tabletop to the side of the stage, I pull my phone out, ready to record.

At the podium, Ezra grips the mic but leaves it in the stand. His hair is pulled back in a low bun, and beneath the colored lights, his temples are dotted with perspiration. It’s the only hint that he may be nervous. He stands tall, his shoulders back, the perfect picture of confidence. That facade slips a little, though, when the title is revealed on the screen behind him and on the smaller one in front of him.

“Man, I Feel Like a Woman!” by the one and only Shania Twain.

This oughta be good…

He hangs his head, and for a second, I think he’s going to back out. A single curl falls from his bun, and he tucks it behind his ear without looking up. The first seven notes played by the horns come through the speakers, and on cue, he announces, “Let’s go girls.”

I scan the crowd, finding a mixture of secondary embarrassment and amusement plastered on each face.

His voice is quiet at first, but as soon as he pants “Uh!” and the crowd cheers, his entire demeanor changes. He sways his hips and— no, no, no . This is not how this was supposed to go.

He might as well be fucking Harry Styles in a sequined jumpsuit with the way he’s working the crowd right now.

Annoyance licks up my spine. This was supposed to be payback for making me wear the flimsy bikini; instead, he looks like he’s having the time of his life. And when the lyric about letting our hair hang down appears on the screen, Ezra pulls out his own elastic and shakes his curls free.

The women in the bar go absolutely feral in response, making it impossible to hear the next few lines.

That’s it.

I concede.

There’s no way I can come back from this.

He even imitates Shania’s high-pitched whoo s at the end.

That fucking mother-fucking-fucker .

When he descends the stage, he’s followed by a sea of women—and one man—acting like cats in heat as he strides to the high-top. I’m shoved out of the way by a cougar, but Ezra steps around her to get to me. “Sorry, ladies, but I’m here with my wife.” He flashes them his wedding ring, and I swear their groans of disappointment are louder than their screams.

“Is your shirt unbuttoned?” I ask as his little fan club disperses.

“Oops, don’t know how that happened.” With a laugh, he does up the bottom few.

“So…” He pulls me in by my waist, holding me against him. “How was I?”

I scowl.

“That good, huh?”

“I cannot believe you.” With a groan, I pick up the vodka soda our server sets on the high-top. She’s thin and leggy and zipped from toe to tits in tight black leather. Her hair is cropped a lot like Sam’s was when we dated. She places an arm on Ezra’s bicep, the move sending a zap of jealousy through me. At the same time, though, she’s also ogling my boobs. That’s when I notice a rainbow sticker on her name tag next to a pin that reads she/they . Is she flirting with us both? Would I be into that? Would Ezra ? I’ve only ever had one threesome. But for years, I’ve had to fight like hell to convince people that not all bisexuals are nonmonogamous, despite the stereotype.

In my tipsy state, though, my judgment is a tad clouded. I can’t tell whether Ezra is flirting or being friendly. Sometimes they look the same. The server writes her name and number on a cocktail napkin and winks at the both of us before turning to leave.

“Would you ever have a threesome?” I blurt over the rim of my drink.

“ Amelia .” He takes my glass and sets it on the table. “Shh, not so loud.”

“What? She seemed interested.” I shrug.

He holds me hostage in his gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, before I know what’s happening, he drags me by my waist and pins me between him and the high-top, pressing me in so firmly the wood digs into my spine. “I will only say this once.” His breath, laced with whiskey and orange, is hot against my ear. “I do not share my women.” He slides a hand under the hem of my crop top and digs his nails into the skin of my back. “If I’m with you, I’m with only you . Got it?”

I’m pretty sure my responding gulp can be heard all the way to Maui. Does he mean you as in me ? Or you as in women in general ?

Either way, I nod .

“Good.” He pushes off me, but not before I feel the bulge in his shorts.

After one more drink, Ezra cuts me off. He’s nursing an old-fashioned, the spicy citrus scent of which brings me back to the night we shared in Greece. I was so riled up about his surprisingly stellar karaoke performance that evening. I never expected him to win the crowd over when he sang “Under Pressure” by David Bowie and Queen. But he did. One thing led to another, and I found myself riding his hand in a storage closet, followed by a night that should have been hot but turned out to be a flop.

I was itching to try out the vibrator I’d purchased from a vending machine in Crete’s city center. After stealing batteries from the hotel’s TV remote, we put that bad boy to good use. But when I went to return the favor, Ezra stopped me.

“You’ve been drinking,” he said.

“So?” I argued. “If I’m sober enough to have an orgasm, I’m sober enough to give you one.”

“That’s not how it works.”

I guess he was right about the not sober part because the details are fuzzy after that. The next morning, Joey and Cam walked in on us buck naked in bed together. Ezra tried patching things up the next day, but it was too late—my ego had already been bruised, and I dismissed him.

I’d like to think I’ve matured since then, though. I’m done writing him off.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.