Chapter 2
If NHL money is good, coach money is fucking criminal—the kind that buys silence by the acre, privacy measured in shoreline instead of square footage.
A stretch of beach untouched by tourists unfurls in front of us, water so clear it makes diamonds look dull, palm trees spaced just far enough apart to keep the sand cool beneath their shade.
Behind us, the villa looms all clean stone and glass, so oversized it probably has more square footage than our entire goddamn arena.
I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
Not the view. Not the house. Not the champagne sweating on ice or the butler who nearly tripped over himself this morning trying to figure out whether I wanted breakfast delivered on a tray or ferried in by boat like we’re characters in a rich-people fever dream.
None of it registers past a passing acknowledgment that it exists.
Because Elias is in my lap. His weight settled into me like it belongs there, like it always has. I can feel his breath, the subtle shift of his body as he relaxes, the way he fits without effort, and that’s all that matters. The world can keep its ocean and its money and its quiet luxury.
This—him right here—is more than enough.
He’s straddling me on the blanket, thighs bracketing my hips, curls wild from the wind and the salt and the fact that I ruined him last night and didn’t stop until he couldn’t speak.
His skin is sun-warmed, slick at the edges from heat and sweat and coconut oil he slathered on before dragging me out here.
He’s in tiny swim trunks that should be illegal.
One of my tanks, oversized and loose and slipping off one shoulder every time he moves.
And right now he’s feeding me fucking mango.
Like I’m some beast he tamed with sugar and thighs and vows whispered in the dark.
“Open,” he says, smirking, holding up a sticky slice.
I narrow my eyes. “We’re in public.”
“It’s private,” he counters, swaying his hips just enough to grind down on me through the thin layers of fabric. His voice drops to a purr. “Unless you’re planning to put on a show.”
I take the mango from his fingers, suck it into my mouth slowly, and never break eye contact. He watches my lips, his pupils blowing wide, and his breath hitches just the tiniest bit. Victory.
He squirms in my lap, smug little shit, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Which he does, as always. Even when he pretends to play innocent—especially then.
“You’re handsy today,” I murmur, sliding one hand up under the hem of the tank top. His skin’s hot to the touch, smooth and marked in places where I know my fingers bruised him the night before. “What happened to being sore?”
“I am sore,” he says with a dramatic gasp. “But I’m also insatiable. You married this.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly.
He laughs and leans in, kissing me slow, it’s mango-sweet and lazy, open-mouthed in a way that doesn’t ask for anything except that I keep my hands on him.
His fingers tangle in my hair, familiar and sure, while mine settle at his waist, holding him there like I need the contact even though we’re already wrapped together.
The ocean breaks softly somewhere in the distance, gulls screaming overhead like they’re offended by our happiness, and for the first time in my goddamn life there’s nothing in me that feels coiled or braced for impact. Just quiet. Just this.
“You know,” Elias murmurs between kisses, voice thick with sugar and smug satisfaction, “I could get used to this.”
I cock a brow, thumb pressing into his side. “Being hand-fed mango while straddling your husband on a private beach?”
He grins—bright and entirely unrepentant. “Exactly. Honeymoon me is a brat with high expectations.”
“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t marry you for your manners.”
He giggles, all light and unguarded, and the urge to bite his throat open for it hits hard and immediate.
Instead, he leans back against my thighs, basking like a cat in the sun, trusting me to keep him there.
My hand slides to the small of his back and lingers, thumb tracing slow, idle circles over the faint bruise blooming just above his waistband.
He shivers.
And I smile, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and nothing else I’d rather ruin..
His gaze flicks over my shoulder, casual at first. Then his entire body stills.
“Don’t,” I say instantly, narrowing my eyes.
He doesn’t answer me. He just keeps staring—past my shoulder, past the beach, past reason itself—like he’s spotted a hidden shrine to chaos carved into the horizon.
His pupils widen, his mouth curling slowly as something bright and unholy lights up his face, the kind of look that should come with a warning label and a signed waiver.
I turn to follow his gaze, already regretting it before my head finishes the motion, and there it is—a hammock strung between two palms like a trap laid by the universe itself, woven white rope swaying lazily in the breeze, empty and patient and very clearly waiting.
“No,” I say flatly, not raising my voice, not negotiating.
Elias is already moving.
“No.”
He climbs off my lap with the buoyant confidence of someone who has never faced consequences and genuinely believes the world will bend around him if he smiles hard enough. He grabs my hand and yanks, all enthusiasm and bad intentions, already halfway toward it.
“Pup.”
“Cap.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“It’s right there, baby,” he says, like that explains anything, like that isn’t exactly the problem.
I let out the kind of sigh that sounds like it belongs in a war film.
I already know there’s no stopping this.
Not once he gets that look. That full-body mischief.
That wild, reckless glint that says he’s going to climb in and straddle me again and get us kicked out of paradise for public indecency.
He tugs my hand harder, practically vibrating with excitement. I reach behind me, grab the cane I was trying to pretend I didn’t need, and haul myself up with the kind of weary resignation only a husband can understand.
The second I’m standing, the sand shifts under my feet. My knee throbs once in warning and I grit my teeth, weight settling heavier on the cane as we start walking.
Elias immediately pretends he doesn’t notice.
I know he does because his grip tightens on my hand. His steps slow just a little to match mine. And even though his whole body is practically buzzing with the need to climb that hammock and use it as a sex swing, he keeps glancing at me—like he’s ready to catch me if I stumble, like he knows.
I hate the fucking cane, but I love him, so I let him drag me through the sand toward what will absolutely be our second piece of broken furniture in under twenty-four hours, and I don’t stop him—not even a little—because by the time we reach the hammock, Elias is already climbing into it like it owes him something.
He's not lying back or stretching out. No. He plants his ass dead center, legs dangling off one side, using it like a swing. The rope creaks under his weight, sways gently with every shift of his hips, and he grabs the edge with one hand for balance, the other already reaching for me like I’m late to the execution.
I stare at him.
He blinks up at me with those bright green eyes, curls wind-tangled, sweat gleaming at the hollow of his throat, and grins. All teeth and trouble.
I sigh, reach for the nearest palm, and lean my cane against it.
It’s not that I hate it. Not exactly. I hate what it means.
That even now—after surgery, after rehab, after goddamn marriage—I’m still one bad step away from being benched by my own body.
I hate that Elias knows it. That he’s always watching.
Always measuring how much weight I’m putting down.
But he never says a word, just offers his hand again like he’s inviting me into something stupid and sacred all at once, and I take it without hesitation, his fingers curling around mine as I step forward, sand shifting under my bare feet while the sun paints his skin in warm gold.
The hammock sways as I move between his legs, crowding him in, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since we hit the beach.
My hands settle on his thighs and he leans back just enough to balance, one hand braced behind him in the netting, the other still tangled with mine.
His knees part wider, an inch at most, just enough to let me step closer, just enough to make it clear this is an ambush disguised as a cuddle.
“Comfy?” I ask.
“Getting there,” he says, the smile curling at the edges of his mouth betraying everything.
I run my hands up his thighs, and his breath catches. The hammock rocks gently, a soft creak in rhythm with the pulse that starts to thrum between us again.
He’s not wearing underwear. I swear this man is trying to kill me.
I press forward until our chests nearly touch, until his legs cage me in and the sway of the hammock brings our mouths a hair’s breadth apart. His lips are parted, his eyes heavy. But he doesn’t kiss me.
He just murmurs, low and teasing, “You gonna rock me to sleep, Cap?”
I grip his thighs tighter. “No, pup,” I say, voice low against his mouth. “I’m gonna make sure you can’t walk back to the villa.”
His mouth is already parted when I lean down, soft and eager and still tasting like fruit and sun. I kiss him slow, my tongue sliding against his, lips molding easily, like I’ve got all the time in the world to kiss him stupid in this swaying excuse for furniture.
And he lets me press him back just enough to angle deeper, lets his fingers curl in the front of my tank top, lets out a soft, hungry sound into my mouth that makes my grip on his thighs tighten.
He’s warm under my hands. Always warm. Always buzzing with too much energy and not enough patience, squirming like he wants more but doesn’t know what kind of more he’s asking for.