CHAPTER SIX #2
And my penis shuts down.
“That’s revolting.”
“Exactly! And that’s why I’m glad I got stuck next to him. This is all fine and dandy, but if everything’s always perfect, you miss out on the good stuff. You won’t have any wild travel stories if you only fly private. The chaos… That’s what makes life interesting.”
She shifts on the couch, trying to get comfortable in the sleeveless vest.
“This fancy outfit is not made for lounging.”
Her arms go behind her head as she wiggles and—
“Petra.”
“What?”
“Your, um…” I clear my throat, looking anywhere but directly at her. “You’re having a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. See! This is why Sebastian should have let me wear my bra,” she mutters, hastily adjusting the fabric.
It’s too late. The sight of her exposed breast is seared into my mind. The delicate dusty rose of her nipple contrasting against her pale skin. The perfect curve. Her bud, hard from the cool cabin air.
My tongue— God help me —tingles with the desire to lick her.
That is the final straw. I’m confining myself to the bedroom for the rest of the flight. Nothing good can come from being in such close quarters with Pip.
***
Three hours later, we land at the private airfield in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
The second the aircraft doors open, the next wave of logistical choreography kicks in.
A matte black helicopter waits on the tarmac, rotors already slicing through the air.
Behind it, two cargo trucks idle—ready to haul our luggage to the estate.
I confirm the transfer protocol with the ground crew chief—a former Marine who runs travel like a military operation. One pilot. Two drivers. Three handlers. ETA: forty-two minutes post-arrival.
Things are in order, just as I like it.
“Ever consider carrying your own underwear?” Petra’s eyebrow arches. “Might give you a cheap thrill.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Only a little, Moneybags.”
“At Casa Cashmere, self-service is considered a system failure. They have staff whose entire job is anticipating needs you’re unaware of.”
“They should get hazard pay for dealing with especially difficult guests… Ya know, like Fiona.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“Fiona Whitfield is a high-maintenance red flag disguised as a person.”
“That must be why your brother needs your assistance. You speak fluent chaos.”
She smiles as I place my hand on the small of her back, steering her to the helicopter. Petra doesn’t flinch. She walks toward it like she’s heading into a rock concert, not a flying metal blender. No death-grip on the door handle. No hesitation. Just hops in like it’s an Uber.
Amanda treated helicopter rides like dental surgery—necessary but traumatic. She once cried the entire flight to Napa because it ruined her blowout .
Petra? She’s buzzing as she settles onto the passenger bench, fastening her seat belt.
As soon as we’re airborne, wind whips through the cabin. Her dark hair transforms into a wild storm cloud, strands attacking her face.
“This is amazing!” she shouts over the engine noise, holding her hair back.
I catch a rogue strand between my fingers and tuck it behind her ear. My thumb lingers against her cheek, tracing the firm bone beneath her soft skin. Her pupils dilate, transforming her hazel-green eyes into pools of molten gold.
“Headphones!” I shout, jerking away to grab the aviation headsets. “Here.”
She slides them over her ears while I adjust my own, willing my pulse to stop sprinting.
“Can you hear me?”
“Loud, commanding, and vibrating in all the right places. Keep going.”
“Petra.” My voice hardens (in solidarity with my cock) .
“What? I’m talking about the helicopter ride. Obviously.”
I point to the sweeping landscape. “That’s the Puerto Vallarta coastline.”
“Looks like L.A.’s prettier cousin. Mountains, beaches, but the water isn’t sewage gray—it’s actually blue. And the mountains are green. What kind of high-society witchcraft is this?”
“The picturesque views come free of charge, Pip. You can thank Mother Nature. See up there, beyond the resorts? We’re heading into that jungle. The estate sits on a hill right in the thick of it. ”
“Hold up. In the actual jungle? With the snakes and spiders and things that want to eat my face? If something bites me without my consent, I’m suing.”
“I would be fascinated to see that lawsuit. What grounds would you have?”
“Endangerment. Emotional distress. Forcing a civilian into wilderness conditions wearing couture, and hot billionaire negligence.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the one who lured me here and won’t let me wear my combat boots to defend myself. If I die from a spider crawling into my panties, you better avenge me.”
“Rest assured, I will instruct my assistant to attend to that.”
“Outsourcing the job? Damn, B. I thought I meant more to you.”
Petra shoots me a wink before glancing back at the coastline. “So what’s the deal with this place we’re headed to? Why does everyone gasp like they spotted Taylor Swift shopping at Target?”
“Casa Cashmere is invitation-only. A gathering place for the ultra-elite.”
“How elite? Like, private-island elite, or we-secretly-run-the-world elite?”
“Both. It’s a playground with absolute privacy. When I visited as a boy, they had an ice rink, movie theater, bowling alley, spa, cigar room, Olympic-sized indoor pool, bird-watching observatory—”
“Wait. A room just to stare at birds? What, regular windows weren’t boujee enough? God forbid you spot a macaw without climate control.”
Her eyes sparkle with a challenge, daring me to justify the ways of the affluent .
“The estate was built by a British aristocrat as a winter retreat from England. Somewhere to entertain guests without—”
The words die in my throat when I see it.
Casa Cashmere.
“Holy fuck, B! That’s not a house. That’s a… I mean… look at the size of that thing. That’s some serious supervillain lair shit.”
It rises out of the wilderness like it doesn’t belong to this era—or planet.
White limestone and Spanish tile and sunlit archways, perched arrogantly on a jungle-covered hilltop that rolls all the way down to the ocean.
The main house alone could swallow a city block.
Twin bell towers anchor the corners while endless balconies and terraces cascade down the facade.
At least twenty additional buildings share formal gardens that stretch in engineered elegance. Their manicured hedges and marble fountains form an absurd contrast to the wild jungle pressing in on all sides.
From this angle, you can see the plank extending down to a private dock—where a superyacht waits, lazy and hulking, as if it owns the sea. Surrounded by 150 acres of untamed jungle and coastline, the nearest hint of civilization is miles away from this paradise cove.
“It’s just as majestic as I remember.”
“Wow! There’s only one kind of money that builds a hidden jungle palace with a yacht docked in the front yard. Oil.”
I nod. “The Von Cashmeres made their fortune in oil. At their peak in the late 1800s, they controlled twenty percent of global reserves.”
She whistles. “Not bad. But don’t be jealous, Moneybags.
The prestige of your family name wins. You’ve got buildings named after you in every major city, and your family personally sends me a ‘Hey girl, your credit card is maxed out’ letter every month.
I feel special. Like getting scolded by a rich king of finance. ”
My spine stiffens.
“I guess someday you’ll be the king sending me those ‘you’ve been a bad girl’ letters, huh?”
The observation hits like ice water as we descend toward the landing pad—a concrete circle surrounded by grass so green it seems spray-painted.
The helicopter touches down, and before the rotors even slow, a small army materializes.
Staff in crisp white uniforms swarm as we exit in a well-choreographed ballet.
“Refreshment, Mr. Sterling?” a server asks with a silver tray balanced on his palm, crystal glasses catching sunlight like prisms. Pink liquid swirls inside, dotted with fresh strawberries and mint sprigs.
Another attendant offers warm, lavender-scented hand towels, while a third snaps open a white umbrella above our heads, shielding us from the Mexican sun.
I accept a towel, demonstrating the ritual for Petra’s benefit—wipe hands, fold neatly, return to tray. Then I take the drink, nodding my thanks.
“Are you kidding me?” Petra stage-whispers, mimicking my actions with dramatic flair. “There’s etiquette for washing your hands? Where’s the guidebook for blinking correctly?”
She finishes with a mock curtsy, and I notice one of the male attendants letting his gaze linger on her cleavage, enhanced by her tailored vest. Something hot and territorial flares inside me.
Keep your focus, Bryce. You succeeded in getting her here, but the real task is helping her to fit in .
Petra may be dressed the part in her designer clothes, but she’s still Petra—unfiltered, unimpressed by wealth, unafraid to ask questions that make people squirm.
“Mr. Sterling.” The man’s voice carries generations of British refinement. “Allow me to officially welcome you to Casa Cashmere.”
The gentleman before us could’ve stepped out of a PBS historical drama.
Silver hair parted like it was combed with a ruler, steel-blue eyes that miss nothing, dressed in a crisp, charcoal morning coat with tails.
His pocket square forms precise triangular points, and his black shoes gleam like they’ve never met a speck of dust. He looks so frozen in time, he could moonlight as a haunted portrait.
“I am Nigel Featherwick, estate manager and personal butler to Miss Muffy Von Cashmere II.” He executes a flawless bow.
“Should you require anything—anything at all—please do not hesitate to contact myself or my assistant, Miss Thistlewood, who has been briefed on your caviar pairings, preferred conflict de-escalation phrases, and the angle at which your morning toast must lean upon the plate.”