thirty-six #3
He caught my wrist, pressed my palm flat against his chest, his heartbeat hammering beneath it. His voice was rough, barely controlled. "Don't think for a second I don't want to."
"Then why don't you?"
His eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat I thought he might. I thought he'd forget whatever line he'd drawn in his head. My breath hitched, waiting. Wanting.
But then he kissed me again—slower this time, measured—like he was pulling back the reins on something that wanted to run wild. When he eased away, his hand slipped from my thigh, leaving heat behind like a brand.
"Tell me what you want to do first when we land," he said suddenly, his voice steadier than it had been a moment ago.
The question knocked me off balance. My mouth was still parted from the kiss, my body still humming from the pressure of his hand. It felt like a pivot I hadn't agreed to, like he'd opened the door and then shut it before I could step through.
"I—" I blinked, trying to catch up. "I don't know. Swim?"
He smiled faintly, almost too faintly, and leaned back in his seat like the moment hadn't just burned a hole straight through me.
The rest of the flight passed like that—close, unbearable. His knuckles brushed mine when he reached for his glass, his lips found mine more than once, but each time it threatened to tip too far, he pulled back. Redirected. Changed the subject.
And the worst part was...I didn't want him to.
Hours after, the wheels touched down with a soft jolt, and twenty minutes later the cabin door opened to nothing but dry heat and white light.
No crowded terminal, no boarding calls blaring overhead.
Just an empty stretch of tarmac, a handful of workers moving without hurry, and a black car idling a few feet away.
A man in a pressed suit held a small sign that read Welcome to Mykonos, Brooks Whitmore.
Of course he did.
Brooks descended first, moving like this was routine. Like stepping off a plane into silence and being whisked into a waiting car was the most natural thing in the world.
I paused at the top of the stairs, the air hot against my face. The horizon shimmered, sea and sky blurred into one. For a second, I let myself just stand there, toes curled against the edge of luxury I wasn't sure I belonged on.
"Amira?" His voice carried up, faint but sharp, pulling me back.
I startled, realizing he was already halfway across the pavement.
"I'm coming," I called. I wish.
I forced my feet to move, heels clacking against the metal steps. Inside, though, my thoughts were anything but steady.
By the time I reached him, Brooks had already slipped on his sunglasses, unreadable again. He offered his hand like a gentleman, like it was automatic. And I took it, even though my pulse still hadn't settled.
The car door closed with a muted thump, sealing us inside cool leather and faint cologne. The driver didn't speak, just eased us forward, the hum of the engine low and steady.
The scenery hit fast and hard. Mykonos wasn't shy about itself.
The whitewashed buildings clung to hillsides, doors painted in shocking blues and reds that looked like they'd been baked in the sun for centuries.
Olive trees swayed in the breeze, their shadows darting across stone walls, and beyond it all—an impossible sheet of glittering water, so blue it felt unreal.
I pressed my palm against the glass like I needed to touch it.
And then, because I couldn't stop myself, I looked at him.
The shirt he wore—white, linen, casual in a way that wasn't casual at all—was unbuttoned just enough at the throat that I could see a sliver of his skin. His wrist rested against his thigh, the veins carved deep under his skin. Every small shift he made felt deliberate, like he knew I was watching.
Heat curled low in my stomach.
I turned back to the window too fast. The island blurred, the waves crashing against the rocks, but none of it dulled the sharp, restless ache climbing higher inside me.
Since that night—since the night he'd stopped himself—I'd been waiting. Wanting. My body had been wound too tight, left simmering under the surface, and now it only took the brush of his knee against mine to make my thighs press together.
"You're quiet," he said after a beat.
"I'm just...looking." My voice was thinner than I meant.
His gaze slid over me, deliberate. "At the view?"
My pulse thudded in my ears. "Mm-hm."
The corner of his mouth tilted, like he knew exactly what kind of view I meant.
The car climbed higher, twisting through narrow roads carved into cliffs.
I should've been scared, should've been holding my breath as the tires skimmed the edges of steep drops, but all I could think about was him.
The way the sun lit his profile, the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw, the memory of his mouth on mine.
I shifted again, thighs tightening, desperate for any kind of friction.
If he noticed, he didn't say anything. Just let his hand rest on the seat between us, close enough that my fingers itched.
I almost reached for him. Almost.
Instead, I exhaled hard and forced my eyes back to the sea, pretending like it wasn't his skin I was imagining, hot against mine.
The driver wound them through a ribbon of road that seemed too narrow to hold us.
On one side, white houses stacked like sugar cubes; on the other, the sea flashing silver and blue.
Every turn revealed something new—a windmill perched against the sky, fishing boats bobbing in the harbor, balconies overflowing with bougainvillea.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, watching it all blur past, pretending that was why my pulse was racing.
"This island has a way of making you forget everything else," Brooks said, his voice low enough that it felt like it was meant only for me.
I looked at him. The sun flared off his sunglasses, hiding his eyes, but his mouth was soft, unreadable. His hand still rested on the seat between us, close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from it.
Forget everything else.
The gates opened soundlessly, and the car glided forward, tires crunching over pale stone.
The resort looked less like a hotel and more like a private estate—low, whitewashed villas spilling down the hillside toward the water, their flat roofs gleaming under the sun.
Bougainvillea spilled in magenta over the walls, and somewhere close, I could hear the faint rush of waves.
A man in crisp linen greeted us at the entrance.
He said Mr. Whitmore like it belonged to Brooks and no one else, like he'd been expected.
The words slid past me in accented English as I followed, trying not to stare at the sweep of the lobby—cool marble floors, glass walls thrown open to the ocean, the kind of quiet luxury that made me feel like an intruder.
Brooks signed something with a flourish of his pen, efficient, practiced. He was used to this. I, meanwhile, stood beside him in yesterday's dress and sandals that pinched my toes, wondering if the desk clerk could tell how badly my pulse was tripping.
"This way, please," the attendant said, leading us down a shaded path lined with olive trees. The scent of salt and jasmine clung to the air.
Brooks walked close beside me, his hand brushing mine once, then again. Each time it felt deliberate. Each time, I wanted to catch it and hold on.
When the attendant unlocked the villa, the hush inside was immediate. Cool air, a sweep of pale stone, glass doors opening straight onto a private pool and, beyond that, nothing but sea and sky.
"Your luggage will be delivered shortly," the man said, bowing out with quiet efficiency. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving just the two of us in the silence.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Brooks tossed the room key onto a table, shrugged out of his sunglasses, and turned toward me.
"Well?" he asked. His voice was easy, but his eyes weren't.
I looked past him, out toward the horizon where the water stretched endless and impossible. "It doesn't feel real."
"Good." He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne under the salt air. "That's the point."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The quiet pressed in, thick, expectant.
I could still feel the echo of his hand against mine from the drive. I could still feel how close he'd leaned when he said he hadn't been talking about the view.
And now—here, with no one watching, no Monte in the front seat, no walls between us—the air felt charged, dangerous.
I wanted him to kiss me. To touch him. To forget whatever line he'd drawn on the plane and finally, finally cross it.
Instead, he reached past me and slid the doors open, letting the sunlight flood the room. "I'm gonna take a shower. Hopefully our suitcases are here by then and we can get ready and go for food."
The shift was so casual it made me want to scream.
But I only nodded, forcing a smile, while inside every nerve in my body was still on fire.
The sound of running water started a moment later, steady and distant behind the bathroom door.
I stayed where I was for a beat, the silence of the villa heavy around me, sunlight pooling across pale stone floors and glass walls that felt too clear, too open.
Then I moved, slow at first, letting my fingers trail over the smooth wood of the dining table, the cool marble counter, the small bowl of fruit arranged too perfectly to touch. Every corner looked pulled from a magazine spread—minimal, intentional, impossibly clean.
It didn't feel like it belonged to me.
My feet carried me toward the open doors, where the heat of the day pressed in again. I stepped outside, the stone warm beneath my soles, the air fragrant with salt and jasmine.
The pool stretched out like a mirror, sharp blue reflecting the sky, and beyond it the ocean was endless. Boats dotted the horizon like afterthoughts, white sails against deeper blue.
I sank onto a cushioned lounge chair and let myself breathe.