Chapter 13 Lily
LILY
The third day in Panama smells like hibiscus and salt, like the entire coastline lulls itself to sleep reminding me that this place is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
The late afternoon sunlight pours over the villa’s wide balcony in molten sheets, painting the pale stone floors gold and making the ocean glitter like something unreal.
From where I’m curled in a deep wicker chair, I can see the waves rolling in and out, lazy and endless, crashing against the pale sand in slow motion.
The whole world feels like it’s holding its breath, soft and warm and quiet.
The villa itself feels like it belongs to another reality—one carved out just for us.
Open and airy, walls of glass that fold away so the ocean breeze can drift through, high ceilings with beams the color of sun-bleached driftwood.
Inside, every surface seems to hum with understated luxury: linen-draped couches, polished teak tables, pale marble floors that hold the chill of morning even as the day turns hot.
There are fresh hibiscus flowers in vases that magically appear every day, their petals still damp, and a bowl of fruit so perfect it looks painted. We never see the hands that set them out—just the result, as if the villa itself tends to us.
We have a daily cleaner who ghosts through in the late mornings, leaving everything spotless and smelling faintly of citrus and salt.
A private chef who comes in the afternoons and fills the kitchen with impossible aromas, plating food so beautiful it could be a still life.
And then there’s Jon, the butler—kind, always discreet, always within reach if we need anything at all, though he seems to know instinctively when to vanish and when to be present.
It is, quite literally, paradise. The kind of paradise where nothing exists except this ocean, this villa, and Aleksandr.
And I am wasting every second of it because I can’t stop thinking about sex.
Sex with Aleksandr, specifically.
Which is not happening.
In the three days since we landed, I’ve finished two entire books just trying to distract myself, and now I’ve moved on to one of the three romance novels I shoved into my backpack. Because the need I have—the tension coiled tight in my body—feels like it’s going to kill me.
At this point, I am convinced that if Aleksandr so much as blows on my clit, I will cum so hard I’ll see stars. And yes, in case anyone is wondering, I have masturbated in the shower six times since landing. Six.
And no, Aleksandr hasn’t touched me since he fingered me on the jet, and begged me to let him be a better man for me, as I don’t want him exactly like he is. As if I don’t know his darker urges and welcome them with equal measure.
I am seconds away from throwing on some piece of lingerie just to parade around this villa, but every single one Gwen packed for me has a hundred straps, and I still can’t figure out where half of them go.
I want him.
I mean, I am his—right? And he wants me. I know he does. So what exactly do I have to do for him to stop being this composed, terrifyingly controlled gentleman and finally unleash the man I saw in that alley? The one who was primal and hungry and looked ready to tear me apart?
I’ve never even had sex, but if the ocean between my thighs isn’t enough of a sign, I don’t know what is. I am beyond ready for him, and yet he is being a complete, infuriating gentleman.
A gentleman who plans couple’s massages, candlelit dinners, walks on the beach, slow dancing at sunset.
And I don’t want to slow dance at sunset.
I want to ride him into the sunset.
What doesn’t he get?
I’m walking around this villa in thin sundresses, in shorts so small they barely qualify as clothing, in tops that are basically bras because it’s Panama and hot as hell—yet he still hasn’t taken me down.
So now the only solace I have is my book.
A dark, brutal little romance full of obsession and sharp teeth—open in my lap like a lifeline.
Only, I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for over an hour because I can’t focus on anything except the fact that the real thing is sitting in the same villa, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.
I keep thinking about the way he pressed me against the kitchen counter, about the scrape of his teeth against my mouth, about the weight of his hand closing around the back of my neck like he owned me. And how much I wanted him to.
My thighs press together helplessly. Heat pools low in my stomach, sharp and needy, and my fingers curl tighter on the book because if I don’t hold on to something, I might actually fall apart.
I’m not even reading anymore. I’m just picturing him, and the longer I sit here pretending to be calm, the more turned on I get. My pulse is climbing into my throat, and the sun feels too hot on my skin, sticky and slow, making me feel restless and feverish in my own body.
The table in the parlor, where he ruined me with nothing more than his hands and his mouth. The hallway, where he pinned me against the wall and kissed me until my legs nearly gave out.
On our wedding night, when he untied my corset so slowly I thought I might die from it, when the silk fell away from my shoulders and he breathed against my neck like he’d been starving for that moment for years.
My body remembers every single second, and it’s betraying me now—sitting here in a dream paradise, trying to focus on anything else, with heat coiling low in my stomach just from thinking about him.
My lips part, just slightly, and I find myself staring at the horizon without seeing it, the book heavy in my lap and a complete tease only adding the sexual tension rolling through me.
On the page, the heroine is running.
Running barefoot through the dark woods, lungs burning, heart clawing at her ribs as if it’s trying to escape before she can.
Her breath tears out of her throat in short, panicked bursts, and still she runs, because she knows he’s behind her.
She can feel him. Every branch that snaps, every whisper of leaves feels like a hand closing around her.
She’s fast. She’s clever. She has a head start.
But he’s relentless.
And there’s a moment—just one—when she stumbles, catching herself on her palms, the earth cold and damp beneath her fingers, and she knows it’s over. She can hear him closing in, steady and sure, not even breathing hard.
And when he finally catches her, when his body slams into hers from behind and she hits the ground, there’s no gentleness in it. He pins her there, dragging her against him with a hand over her racing heart, and he doesn’t say a word. He just takes it.
It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s raw, and messy, and it feels like being devoured alive.
And as I stare at the page, at that wild, breathless surrender, something sharp and low and desperate coils inside me.
I want that.
I didn’t think twenty-four hours of our honeymoon would pass without him taking me—without him claiming me in a way that leaves no room for questions.
And now all I can think about is the weight of him pressing me into this floor, the sound of his breath in my ear, his hands on me like there’s no escape and no part of me that isn’t his.
I want to stop pretending that my body doesn’t belong to him.
I want to be caught.
I want to be claimed.
And the worst part?
Aleksandr’s sitting across from me in one of the low, wide chairs in the villa’s sunlit living room, long legs stretched out, an open book resting casually in his big hands.
A book I gave him. His head is bent, damp hair curling at the ends, a thin white T-shirt pulled across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled high on his forearms. Even relaxed, he looks like a threat.
And of course, I’m staring.
I’m deep into a chapter when my eyes snag on a line, a description so filthy and intense that it drags a shocked gasp out of me before I can stop it.
The sound shatters the lazy quiet of the villa.
Aleksandr glances up from his page, brows pulling together, his beautiful stormy grey eyes pinning me in place. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, hugging the book tighter to my lap, praying my face isn’t as red as it feels.
“Moya.” He draws the word out, soft and edged with curiosity, and it makes my pulse skip.
“It’s just—just a book,” I stammer, trying to slide my bookmark in and close it, but he’s already moving.
Before I can protest, he’s on his feet, crossing the room with that quiet, predatory grace. My heart trips over itself as he stops in front of me and simply takes the book from my hands.
“Aleksandr!”
He ignores me completely, flipping it open with a thumb and skimming the page I was on. His brows lift, his mouth tilts into something slow and dangerous, and when his eyes meet mine again there’s a new heat there.
“Are you sitting here reading smut, Moya?” His voice is low, threaded with something dark that sends a shiver straight down my spine.
I swallow hard, but it’s useless—he can already read everything written across my face. “It’s a book.”
“A book you’re reading during your honeymoon, Moya,” Aleksandr rasps, leaning over me. One hand braces on the arm of my chair, the other on the back, caging me in. The scent of him—cedar, salt, and dark heat—wraps around me until I’m dizzy on nothing but him.
“Well, I was promised to be yours,” I whisper, my voice barely holding steady, “and since I’m apparently not…I will be Killian’s.”
His head tilts, eyes narrowing with that sharp, dangerous amusement that makes my stomach flip. “Is Killian up there with Edward?”
“He is not,” I say, holding his gaze, trying for brave as I tap my pen against his chest. “Edward is the man you marry. Killian is the man you fuck.”
“Oh, really?” The sound that leaves him is low, a snarl wrapped in a chuckle, and I feel every syllable in my bones. “And who am I?”
He tosses it carelessly onto the coffee table, leaning in closer, so close my thoughts scatter like frightened birds.