Chapter 37
VOM-COM
RORIE
The tarmac shimmers under the tropical sun, the horizon a wobbling mirage.
Heat punches us in the face the second we step off the stairs.
This heat doesn’t politely warm your shoulders like a gentle, tropical breeze.
No. This heat fucks. Relentless, sweaty, grabs you by the throat, grips around your thighs, slides under your bra, and settles somewhere deep in the hormonal core.
Or that’s just sixteen hours sitting next to Nolan “Sex with a Pulse” Rhodes. The man made me horny by breathing.
“Jesus,” Maya mutters, fanning herself with an oversized hat. “Did we land in someone’s armpit?”
“More like ballsack.” Jeremy adjusts his oversized sunglasses. “I’d want to formally request a refund.” He glances over at me, sees me sneering at him. “You aren’t still mad are you?”
“Yes.” Traitorous, scheming bastard. My glare could fry electronics. “You set me up.”
He raises both brows behind obnoxiously large sunglasses. “Set you up for success, thank you very much. Some people call that friendship. I call it horny humanitarianism. I did it because I still believe in you two.”
I gape. “You are the worst.”
“In approximately twenty-four hours, you’ll be thanking me. Possibly mid-orgasm. Possibly in interpretive dance.”
“Jeremy—”
He holds up a finger. “I don’t want details. But if he ruins your posture and rewires your brain, I do want a positive review.”
I roll my eyes so hard I practically give myself a migraine. “You need professional help.”
“I need SPF 500 and a therapist who doesn’t flinch when I talk about lube preferences. We all have dreams.”
Maya snorts. I turn away to hide my smirk and that’s when I see him.
Nolan is standing to the side, talking to Rishi and a few other people. Of course he’s already networking. Of course he looks tan and smug and as though the only thing he’s ever lost in life was patience.
And of course, he turns.
A hint of collarbone shows, and his sunglasses are hooked onto the neckline like he woke up in a GQ ad and decided to stay there.
My mouth goes dry.
Our eyes connect. Heat flares in my cheeks. Not the sun’s fault this time.
Jeremy follows my gaze, then says. “There he is. The reason your vibrator’s been working overtime.”
I don’t respond. I just keep staring. Don’t think I didn’t consider joining the Mile High Club with the travel-sized rose stashed in my carry-on.
Because the whole trip, Nolan was too close. Too big. Too everything.
His thigh touched mine more than once, and neither of us moved, or shifted. We just sat there. Let it happen. Our legs were seemingly on some kind of mutually assured destruction pact and committed to the bit.
Which, fine. Whatever. Airplanes are tight quarters. Appendage grazing happens. Except this one isn’t. This one has more legroom than my apartment. Which means the only reason Nolan Rhodes’s thigh was pressed against mine for half the flight is because he let it be.
And I, in a moment of unparalleled self-control failure, let it stay.
And that scent? Not acceptable. That should’ve been a federal offense. Cedar and spice, and so unfairly masculine it should be trademarked. Crotch Siren?
Now available in TSA-unapproved levels of potency.
Honestly, the man violated every rule of basic airplane etiquette:
No touching.
No excessive hotness.
No weaponized pheromones.
No existing with that jawline at 30,000 feet.
And sure as hell no reading my spicy scenes out loud like he’s auditioning for the audiobook.
Instead of a vibrator, I should’ve packed a chastity belt and noise-canceling ovaries.
To add insult to injury. I had a sex dream about him. Mid-flight. Somewhere over the Pacific.
One second, I was nodding off to the sound of turbulence and Rishi talking about post-flight oysters to some chick. And the next, I was dreaming about Nolan Rhodes pressed against me in a five-star hotel shower, growling things he has no business knowing how to say.
“Dream” Nolan had his hands everywhere. And they were good hands. Unfairly talented, annoyingly cinematic hands.
The details are fuzzy now—mercifully—but the feeling?
Yeah. A branding iron from the Department of Naughty Thoughts seared that part into my brain.
I woke up breathless, skin flushed, thighs clenched. Sweaty, like I’d just finished a HIIT workout, only the H stood for Horny, the I’s for Involuntary and Intense, and the T for Thighs-never-closed.
I was wet.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Literally.
My subconscious had apparently decided to run a full simulation of what it would feel like to straddle Nolan Rhodes as if he was a SoulCycle seat. And I didn’t even get a warm-up.
Two staffers in bright teal polos and wireless earpieces unload our luggage from the jet. It’s a blur of designer suitcases and logo-stamped garment bags, all tagged and whisked away before we can so much as reach for a handle.
Apparently, on White Thorn Island, you don’t carry anything except stress, grudges, and a strategically packed vibrator in your carry on.
After they transfer our luggage, we make our way across the tarmac toward the dockside bar. Laurel already ordered a daiquiri and traipsed off to schmooze with execs from the other firms.
By the time we speed-walk to the nearest shade table, my hair’s glued to the back of my neck, my deodorant has officially thrown in the towel, and I’m two degrees away from rage-sweating. The sun is merciless, no warm-up, just raw, blistering dominance. Even the palm trees look offended.
Maya lowers her sunglasses, studies me. “Alright. What’s that face?”
Jeremy’s leaning halfway across the table, waving down a bartender with the desperation of a man dying for a frozen drink. “She’s got Nolan on the brain,” he announces.
I shoot him a death glare. “I hope you choke on your stupid tiny umbrella.”
“Oh, please. You adore me,” he sings. “Sixteen hours of thigh grazing and smoldering tension? Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy playing sky-high seduction.”
“We didn’t play anything,” I say.
Jeremy leans in, stage whispering, “Right. And your little nappy nap? On. His. Shoulder. Not to mention the blanket situation…”
“Wait,” Maya interjects. “Did you give him a handie under a monogrammed throw?”
I groan. “Absolutely not.”
Jeremy grins, devilish. “Shame. Would’ve been a great story. Five stars for turbulence.”
The drinks land and we grab them like sinners at communion, parched and desperate, worshipping at the altar of crushed ice and rum.
Maya holds up a finger, suddenly solemn. “Look at me.” I do. “Don’t let his jawline or your tragic sex drought steer you off course. We came to win, not to ride the Rhodes.” She sips her drink. “Keep your crown, bitch.”
My mind stutters back to Maya’s monogrammed throw comment.
I blink. “Did Nolan put a blanket on me?”
Jeremy’s smirks resembles a cat who just knocked something off the counter on purpose. “Yeah, while you were out cold. Real tender moment. Gave the rest of us heart palpitations.”
I replay the scene—me waking up, warm, covered, Nolan pretending to be asleep.
That asshole.
He covered me. Quietly. Gently. Without needing credit.
And now that I know it hits different. Sweet in a way that’s lethal. The type that sneaks in when your defenses are down, crawls under your skin, and stays there.
And I hate how much it makes my heart squeeze.
But—no. Absolutely not. That is not a narrative I will be subscribing to, thank you.
The frozen margarita glides down my throat, cold, blessedly numbing. I want to crawl inside the glass and live there forever.
Maya’s eyes shift toward the dock. I follow her gaze. Nolan is still with Rishi, who’s wearing fitted linen pants, designer sunglasses, and a shit ton of confidence. Tall, toned, with that hot professor vibe and the high cheekbones to match.
“Rishi is a walking vacation fantasy.” Maya licks her lips. “I might make him my island rebound. I bet he comes with room service and a safe word.”
“You said comes and my soul left my body via erection.”
“You are disturbed,” I laugh.
Nolan’s eyes are on me. Expression brooding. Glass in hand.
My pulse spikes. I take a long sip of my drink, straighten my spine, and turn back to my friends.
“Okay,” I say, voice even. “Here’s the plan. We win this thing. We keep it professional.”
“Like I said,” Maya reminds me.
I nod. “And no matter how good someone smells or how many dreams they accidentally star in, we remember who the hell we are.”
“Bad bitches,” Jeremy says.
“Bosses,” Maya echoes.
I lift my glass. “Let’s go sink some empires.”
I don’t tell them that if Nolan Rhodes so much as breathes in my direction again, I might dissolve into a puddle of lust and career sabotage.
Pretty sure they’re already aware anyway.
A sleek white boat pulls up and docks to take us to White Thorn Island. The water stretches endlessly before us, a perfect shade of deep turquoise that would be breathtaking if I weren’t currently dealing with a second stomach-turning sight:
Chloe.
Nolan’s ex. Jackson’s current.
The realization is infuriating.
She steps up to the dock and I recognize her instantly from the online photos. Long auburn hair, perfect glowing skin, the kind of beauty that belongs on display.
I didn’t notice her on the plane. She must’ve been seated too far up, hidden in the plush, early boarding section while I was still huffing my way down the aisle as a woman on a mission—and twenty minutes late thanks to airport security and a very confusing escalator detour.
Now, here she is. Perfectly put together. Perfectly timed. And perfectly ruining Carl’s—er—Nolan’s trip.
Of course she is.
She’s standing way too close to that Temu Ken who was at Asher’s party.
I don’t know everything about Nolan’s history with her. Not all the details. But I know enough to recognize how much this stings him.
And watching them flaunt their relationship—gross. Chloe’s tossing her hair, laughing at whatever nonsense that guy is saying, her hand grazing his arm. She knows exactly what she’s doing. It makes my blood boil for my friend.
Who is Nolan.
Fucking hell.
I tear my gaze away in an attempt to focus on the boat as we begin boarding. Everyone is enchanted by the scenery, phone in hand, chattering about how pristine and untouched the distant island appears.
I sense Nolan’s intense, calculating eyes on me. He’s trying to decipher every fracture in my defiant facade. It unsettles me.
So, I refuse to look at him.
Once everyone is on, the boat shudders to life and we slice through the water toward White Thorn Island.
The ride is anything but the smooth, luxurious escape I had anticipated. The choppy waves slam against the hull, tossing the boat unpredictably. Each crest of a particularly large swell sends my stomach lurching as if I’m trapped on a relentless roller coaster.
Maya grips the railing beside me, laughing breathlessly, while Jeremy spreads his arms wide and shouts something about “King of the World.”
Bracing myself against another violent dip, I grip the seat tightly when I suddenly hear it—a low, miserable groan.
I glance over, and there’s Nolan. But something is off. His posture has collapsed into desperation as he clutches the edge of his seat as if it’s his only lifeline.
Nolan’s face has turned unnaturally pale, and his jaw is set in a rigid line as his throat fights to hold back the inevitable. His Adam’s apple bobs, throat working like he’s actively fighting for his life.
“Oh shit,” I mutter, recognition slamming into me.
Nolan Rhodes is falling apart. One moment he’s that powerful, enigmatic rival, and the next he’s lurching over the rail, white-knuckled and in agony, vomiting violently over the side.
My mouth drops open.
Holy. Shit.
Maya stares in horrified fascination. Jeremy lets out a sympathetic whistle.
“Damn,” he murmurs. “That’s brutal, man.”
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Because what the hell am I supposed to do?
Offer him water? A mint? My pity?
Nope. Not happening.
Instead, I do the only thing I can do.
I sit back, watch my nemesis, and the guy who told me to use him in the bathroom of a bar, then inboxed me a rejection email, get absolutely wrecked by Mother Nature.
In that stark moment, the undeniable power surges within me, and yet it is tainted by a deep, gnawing conflict. I’m torn between reveling in his downfall and a reluctant, warring empathy that refuses to let me completely celebrate his humiliation.
What kind of a person does that make me exactly?
Well, it’s complicated.