Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
KAI
This isn’t a vacation.
This is more content for Harry.
I’m sure he made the paps aware of exactly where we’ll be.
Tipped them off. Probably even booked a few “local photographers” to stake out the beach paths around the villa’s perimeter.
So they can catch every hand-hold, every sunset kiss, every poolside lounge on camera.
The fans will go wild. The charts will stay hot. The label gets their money’s worth.
I know this.
I still feel like I’m stepping into someone else’s life.
Luca’s hand finds the small of my back as we step out onto the floating dock—warm, steady, thumb brushing once in a slow circle. No hesitation. No checking if anyone’s watching. He just touches me because he wants to. Because we’re done pretending we don’t want each other.
The driver—a quiet local in a white polo—nods politely and loads our bags into the cart. Luca’s fingers lace through mine as we climb in. He doesn’t ask. He just does it. My palm is clammy. His is warm and sure.
The cart takes us along a narrow path lined with hibiscus and palms. The villa appears at the end: over-water, all glass and pale wood, perched on stilts above water so clear I can see fish darting beneath.
We climb out of the golf cart, he grabs our bags, and I stand there taking it all in. Luca stops next to me.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I swallow. My throat is tight.
“I’ve never…” I gesture at the villa, at the water, at everything. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not up close. Not for me.”
Luca’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. More like he’s trying not to smile and losing.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m something unexpectedly fascinating instead of a guy who just admitted he’s out of his depth.
“You’ve never seen a villa?” he asks lightly.
I huff. “Not one I was allowed to touch.”
Something shifts in his expression—not pity or surprise. Just…understanding he doesn’t fully understand.
He grew up with this. Places like this. Glass and water and staff who don’t look you in the eye. To him, it’s normal.
To me, it feels like I’m trespassing.
“So,” he says after a second, voice softer now, “we fix that.”
Before I can ask what he means, he steps closer.
Close enough that the warm salt air carries his scent with it, and the dock creaks under the shift in his weight. Close enough that my pulse immediately forgets how to behave.
“Luca,” I murmur, glancing toward the empty stretch of dock, the path behind us, the open sky. “There aren’t any cameras yet.”
His gaze flicks once toward the horizon as though he’s checking out of habit.
Then it drops back to me.
“Even better.”
And then he kisses me. Not a staged version. Or the press-room version. There is no timing or right angles with this one.
This one is quiet. Warm. Unhurried.
His hand slides up my arm to my jaw, thumb brushing just beneath my ear as his mouth presses to mine as if he’s testing something—like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away.
I don’t. I lean in. Just a fraction.
A low sound hums in his throat, almost approving, and the hand at my jaw tightens slightly, tilting my face the way he wants it.
His lips move against mine once, and the world goes very still around us—water, wind, gulls, everything fading until there’s just the heat of his mouth and the steady slide of his thumb along my skin.
No cameras.
No audience.
Just him.
Just me.
When he pulls back, it’s only far enough that our noses brush.
“You’re allowed to enjoy this,” he says quietly. “All of it.”
My stomach flips. I don’t know if he means the villa. Or him.
I let out a shaky breath against his mouth.
He smiles—small, real—and tugs me forward.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s check out the inside.”
We step onto the deck.
The glass doors are already open. Cool air spills out—AC, yes, but also that expensive scent of clean linen, citrus, and sea salt.
The living area is open to the bedroom; one big space with white everything—white couch, white linens, white teak floors that gleam under recessed lighting.
A bottle of champagne chills in a silver bucket on the coffee table, two flutes beside it.
Beyond the bed, another set of glass doors opens to the private infinity pool and the ocean beyond.
I stop again just inside the threshold.
Luca lets go of my hand just long enough to kick off his sandals and drop our bags next to the door. Then he’s back—arms sliding around my waist from behind, chin resting on my shoulder.
“Bed’s huge,” he murmurs against my ear. “Pool’s private. No one’s gonna bother us…until the paps show up tomorrow morning. So we have some time to enjoy it all. Unless you want the other room…”
I lean back into him. His chest is warm through his shirt.
His hands slide under the hem of mine—palms flat against my stomach, thumbs brushing slow arcs over my skin.
Touch is his love language, I realize. He’s always been tactile—shoulder bumps, knees knocking under tables, fingers brushing when he passes me water.
But now there’s no pretense. No audience.
He touches me because he wants to. Because he can.
I turn in his arms.
His hands slide to my lower back—keeping me close.
I cup his face. Thumbs brushing the faint stubble along his jaw.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For making this feel…like it’s not just a job.”
His eyes soften. “It’s not. Not for me. Not anymore.”
He kisses me again, nibbling on my lower lip as he takes his time devouring my mouth.
His hands roam—up my back, into my hair, down to grip my hips.
He walks me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the bed.
We don’t fall down to it, though. We just stand there—kissing, touching, breathing each other in—while the ocean laps gently beneath us.
The cameras will come tomorrow.
The staged photos. The “candid” moments. The hand-holding on the beach, the lounging by the pool.
But right now—before any of that starts—this is just us.
No script.
No performance.
Just Luca’s hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, his heartbeat thumping against my chest. He pulls back first this time, just enough to look at me. There’s something wicked in his eyes. Soft, but wicked.
“You’re overthinking again,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His thumb drags along the waistband of my jeans, not dipping beneath, just tracing. Testing. “I can feel it.”
My breath stutters. “You can’t feel thoughts.”
“No,” he says lightly. “But I can feel this.”
His hand slides up, flattening against my chest above my thumping heart, fingers splaying wide. He presses his mouth to the corner of mine instead of my lips this time as if he’s in no hurry at all.
It’s unfair.
He kisses along my jaw. Just brushes of his mouth, tongue, and teeth. Not enough to satisfy. Enough to make me chase it. I tilt my head without thinking.
He pauses. Smiles against my skin.
“Oh,” he whispers, almost amused. “That’s new.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The words are playful, but there’s an edge beneath them.
I grab his shirt and pull him back to me.
The kiss this time is mine first—less careful, less measured. I push into him instead of waiting for him to guide it. His surprised sound is quick, low in his throat, and then his hands are everywhere again—stronger now, gripping my hips, dragging me closer until there’s no space left between us.
He laughs softly into my mouth.
“There he is, that feral puppy I was looking for.”
“I’m not feral.”
My fingers curl into his hair. I don’t mean to. I just do. The strands are soft, warm from the sun, and when I tug slightly, his breath catches.
That does something to me, something not quite in control, so maybe he’s right.
He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, and suddenly, it’s not slow anymore. His tongue brushes mine, and my knees actually weaken. Warmth and dizziness thread through me making me feel lightheaded, too.
“Don’t fall,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Bed’s right there.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
He shifts his weight, nudging me backward again until I feel the mattress behind my thighs again. He doesn’t push me down. He just stands there, crowding me, smiling as though he knows exactly how much he’s affecting me.
“You’re not as controlled as you think,” he says softly.
I swallow. “I’m plenty controlled.”
His thumb traces up my neck, until it rests beneath my jaw.
“Then prove it,” he murmurs.
He kisses me again—but this time it’s teasing. Brief. Almost chaste. He pulls away before I can sink into it, leaving me chasing air.
“That’s not fair,” I say, breathless.
He grins.
“There aren’t any cameras yet,” he reminds me. “Thought I’d give you something real.”
My chest tightens at that.
He leans in again, but slower now. Gentler. His lips press to mine in a way that feels less like teasing and more like claiming. His hand slides from my jaw down to my chest, palm flat over my heartbeat again.
“Relax,” he whispers against my mouth. “You’re allowed to like this.”
I do.
God, I do.
I lean into him fully this time—no hesitation, no checking the glass doors or the open sky. My hands slide down his back, gripping him the way he’s been gripping me. I kiss him like I mean it.
He makes that sound again—low and pleased. I could become addicted to that sound.
“This is my favorite version of you,” he murmurs.
My pulse jumps. “Which is?”
“The one that stops pretending.”