2. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 2
A t just over nine and a half square miles, St.
Barts was definitely the tiniest tropical island I’d ever visited.
I also suspected it might turn out to be the ritziest, considering that the French West Indies territory was referred to as the Hamptons of the Caribbean.
But the minute I laid eyes on the picturesque, red-roofed capital city of Gustavia from the ferry, I was enchanted.
“Wow,” I murmured, not realizing I’d spoken out loud until Ford looked over.
It was the first time he’d torn his gaze from his phone since we’d gotten on the boat almost an hour ago.
“You like?” he asked, gesturing at the curved expanse of beach.
“I love ,” I answered.
Falling for St.
Barts was easy.
The teal blue water, the quaint buildings huddled along the palm tree dotted shore, the lush hills, dense with greenery, the white sand—the whole place looked like paradise.
Sure, my family had gone to a fancy resort in the Bahamas for Luka’s birthday last year, and of course I’d been to the beaches of Florida and to Cancun for Spring Break…
but this was something else.
It wasn’t overrun with tourists or neon signs or souvenir shops, and seemed like more of a low-key hideaway than a party town.
I felt like I had truly left the stress of my life behind and arrived someplace utterly charming and magical.
Even Ford seemed to be affected by the magic; when I squeezed his hand, he squeezed right back.
When we stepped off the ferry, a uniformed man from our hotel was waiting for us with a wheeled luggage trolley and a grin.
“Mr. and Mrs. Malone?” he asked, holding up a sign with our names on it.
“Welcome to St. Barts. I’m Phillipe, your dedicated concierge, courtesy of Eden Rock. I’ll be taking care of all your needs during your stay—twenty-four/seven. Please allow me to chauffeur you to your accommodations.”
We were staying in a private villa at a luxurious boutique resort, and Eden Rock more than lived up to its name.
The hotel was practically on its own island, most of it jutting out over the crystal clear water, with a mossy-looking garden of coral just below the cliffs.
The modern-style villa Phillipe brought us to was stunning.
High ceilings, light-filled rooms, teak wood and crisp white fabric everywhere, and panoramic windows providing an unobstructed view of St.
Jean beach and its azure waters.
The windows gave the impression that our villa was floating over the ocean, and someone had thoughtfully placed fresh flowers throughout the house.
Outside, the property had a deck with an infinity pool, a fire pit, a bar, woven hammocks and umbrella-shaded loungers, and our own personal palm trees.
My God.
It was gorgeous, and so chic that I immediately felt self-conscious about my worn black leggings and rumpled appearance after the four-hour flight and slightly nauseating ferry ride.
“I set up your private cabana on the beach this morning,” Phillipe informed us, “so please let me know if you’d like an escort there or anywhere else. You also have a dedicated chef on call, your own butler, and, of course, the entire Eden Rock Guestcare team at your service.”
“This is incredible,” I breathed.
“Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Malone. And congratulations to both of you on your recent nuptials. We’re happy to do everything possible to ensure your honeymoon with us exceeds your expectations in every regard.”
Ford thanked him again, discreetly pressing a folded bill into the man’s palm before sending him away.
Then he turned to me.
“How are you feeling? Up for an adventure?”
Even though I was dog tired after what had seemed like an endless day of pretend-wedding followed by hours of travel, I wanted to explore.
It was still daytime, and I didn’t want to waste a single moment of our time on the island.
“Hell yes,” I answered.
“I just need to change clothes. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to the beach,” he said.
I smiled.
“Perfect. I’ll put my suit on.”
It was the most we’d spoken to each other since leaving Martha’s Vineyard.
Things still felt chilly between us, but they were starting to thaw.
Maybe we could treat this trip like a friendly vacation after all.
As I ducked into the bathroom to change into my Agent Provocateur one-piece (black, of course), I couldn’t help feeling a little ridiculous.
Ford had seen me naked plenty of times in the weeks leading up to the wedding.
But I couldn’t risk what might happen if he saw me naked.
If I saw the look in his eyes as he watched me change.
I wouldn’t be able to resist him.
Obviously this whole avoiding-sex thing couldn’t go on forever—we were married and it was inevitable—but I still felt too vulnerable, too worn down from the emotional roller coaster of the last few days.
It was pointless to think about that now, though.
The deal had been made.
Now I had to follow through with it.
I pulled my hair back and threw on a patterned DVF cover-up dress—my sexy swimsuit had seemed like a perfect choice when I’d gone shopping with Tori and Brooklyn for my honeymoon, but now I just felt exposed.
In fact, my entire suitcase was stuffed with sexy nothings, from lingerie to dresses to bathing suits.
The black suit I was wearing technically covered everything, but looked held together with string.
Still, it was the most modest one I had.
Cursing my past self for being so na?vely romantic and optimistic, I headed back out to the living room and told Ford I was ready.
He was in nothing but swim trunks and sandals, and it took all my willpower not to drool all over myself at the sight of his already perfectly tanned, tight-abbed torso.
“Do you, umm, want to call Phillipe?” I asked.
“To take us to the cabana?”
Ford shook his head.
“Nah. We can do the cabana later. I just want to stroll for now.”
“Okay. Great.” But it wasn’t great.
At the cabana, I could read a book, drink a margarita, take a nap in my own chaise lounge a safe distance away from my half-naked, sexy-as-fuck new husband.
Walking with Ford, though, there’d be nothing to keep me from clinging to his hand, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine, breathing him in, dreaming about throwing him down on the sand and climbing him like a tree.
It would be torture.
We headed down to St.
Jean’s, and from the sand I picked out a few kayaks and small yachts in the water, some windsurfers, boats taking people to snorkel.
The boats were close enough that I could see more than one couple huddled against the rails together as they headed to where there was probably a gorgeous coral reef full of sea life.
For a brief moment, I imagined Ford and me out there, just another happily married new couple on their honeymoon.
He’d make some raunchy joke about my snorkel, I’d hit him in the arm.
He’d pretend to be a shark or something, tickling my feet while we were swimming around, I’d get back at him by putting my hand over the top of his snorkel.
We’d steal kisses in the waves and climb out of the boat, wet and salty and hungry.
But not for food.
We’d rush back to our room, not even bothering to fully remove our swimsuits before he’d be fucking me against the door.
“Sunscreen?” Ford asked, breaking my reverie.
“What?” I’d barely heard him.
“You don’t want to burn up on your first day.”
“Right. Sure,” I said, digging around in my beach bag for the spray can of SPF 45 I’d picked up at the airport in St.
Martin while Ford had been off exchanging dollars for Euros.
“Here, I’ll do it.”
He knelt and started spraying me, ankle to thigh, shoulder to wrist, my back and neck, stroking my bare skin in slow circles after each spray to rub it in.
Standing still the whole time he massaged me under the thin fabric of my dress was a challenge, as was holding in my moans.
I could feel myself getting wet.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was trying to seduce me right there on the beach.
Luckily, I was able to hide my blush beneath the wide brim of my straw sun hat.
We walked along the postcard-perfect beach, Ford pointing out the church built in 1855 and the lighthouse, as well as a few of the huge, free-roaming iguanas I’d read about.
I couldn’t help wishing that we were actually enjoying the snorkeling and windsurfing going on all around us, rather than me spending my time with Ford secretly fantasizing about what could have been.
Since picnics were more common than restaurants that were open for lunch, we stopped at a small grocery store and bought a few things, packing a mix of cheeses, fruit, fresh bread, cold cuts, water, and wine into my beach bag for later.
“I have an idea,” Ford said, turning to me as we exited the shop.
Much to my surprise, he had a mischievous grin on his face.
He’d barely smiled—really smiled—for most of the day.
It was almost jarring to see it now.
“What kind of idea?”
He grabbed my hand.
“Come on.”
Having no idea where this was all leading, I decided it would just be easier to go along with it than try to make sense of Ford’s changing mood.
It was a decision I regretted the moment we arrived at the Anse Grande Saline.
A nude beach.
“What do you think?” he asked, still wearing that grin.
I was speechless.
All around us were naked people.
I wasn’t a prude, and I’d been to a nude beach or two on various vacations, but this felt totally different.
Mainly because I was with Ford.
The person I was trying desperately not to be in love—or lust—with.
But he had just laid out a blanket for us under the shade of a few palms, and was already stripping down to his birthday suit.
There was no turning back.
His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his swim trunks, and I watched—rapt—as with one smooth movement, he whisked them away, exposing his hard, gorgeous body in its entirety.
I was probably imagining it, but I was certain I could hear the sound of the entire female population on the beach letting out a sigh of appreciation.
Part of me wanted to throw my hands over him and shout, “Mine!”
The other part of me wanted to do whatever I could to avoid any kind of attention at all.
Ford didn’t seem to have that problem.
He looked amazing and he knew it.
And yeah, I had to admit that his flawless body was worth a few fantasies of its own.
With his hands on his hips, he faced the ocean, looking like a Greek god in the sunlight.
My mouth went dry at the sight of him, and because he wasn’t looking at me, I could stare at him as much as I wanted.
Nothing that had happened over the last few days had tamed my desire for him.
Not one iota.
Especially now that I had personally experienced the full scope of what his body could do.
Turning around, his hot gaze swept over me.
“You’re not going to keep that on, are you?” he asked.
I was still wearing my beach dress and my swimsuit.
Compared to everyone else, I looked like I was practically in formal wear.
Taking my clothes off was the last thing I wanted to do, but people were starting to stare.
Staying fully dressed was obviously drawing far more attention than being naked would.
Ford was watching me expectantly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Just a minute,” I said, feeling flustered.
I took off my hat first, dropping it onto the towel, and then loosened the ties of my dress and unwrapped it.
Trying to ignore Ford’s eyes following my every movement, I slid down one strap of my swimsuit and then the other.
But then I looked up, and our eyes locked.
With all the heat in his gaze, I completely forgot that we were on a crowded beach and I was about to do a striptease for a hundred strangers.
I pushed my swimsuit down, exposing my breasts.
I knew that Ford liked my breasts.
Licking his lips, sending a shockwave of want through me, his gaze moved down and continued to follow the path of my swimsuit as I tugged it over my hips, past my narrow landing strip, down my thighs, and then let it drop to the sand.
I swallowed hard, wondering what he would do next.
I half expected him to throw me over his shoulder and run all the way back to the hotel.
But when he looked at me again, he was suddenly the same man who had been waiting for me at the end of the aisle earlier that day.
His face was impassive.
Cool.
Impossible to read.
“I’m going for a swim,” he said.
“Me too,” I said, but he was already striding toward the water, turning heads as he did.
Feeling more naked than I had when I first got undressed, I followed, wanting to hide.
The water was crystal clear, which didn’t provide much cover, but I still felt better when I dove in.
The ocean was warm and perfect.
I felt the weight of the day lift off my shoulders as I swam into the softly cresting waves.
Ford stayed nearby, diving under and reemerging farther out with a toss of his head that flicked a cascade of water into the air.
I took a break to put on more sunscreen and have a snack, watching Ford swim.
When he realized I’d gone back to our towel, I held up the bottle of wine to lure him over, but he just tapped his wrist as if to say “in a few minutes,” and by the time he got out of the water, I was ready to get back in.
Or I guess, ready to avoid the possibility of us sitting on a towel naked and wet together.
It was too tempting.
We stayed until late afternoon.
Making my way over the sand toward our shady spot, I pulled my hair over my shoulder to squeeze the water out of it, savoring the delicious exhaustion coursing through me after hours of sun and swimming.
I had just dropped to my knees on the edge of the towel when strong arms lifted me up, and I found myself gazing at Ford.
“What are you—” I began, wondering if he was about to kiss me.
“Centipedes,” he said, and I looked down and realized that he wasn’t being romantic at all.
Instead, he’d just rescued me from stretching my naked self out on top of a couple of the island’s native black and red bugs that had made themselves at home in the folds of the towel.
I’d heard they were venomous, but I hadn’t been prepared for how gigantic they were.
Shuddering in his arms, I said, “Fuck. You’re my hero.”
Ford’s expression went shuttered and distant right before my eyes.
“Don’t mention it.”
He set me down and helped me shake out my clothes so I could get dressed.
Then he checked inside the beach bag to be sure we weren’t inadvertently taking any of the critters with us before heading back to our villa.
After a long day of waiting to assist us, Phillipe was thrilled to make a reservation for us at the Eden Rock’s Sand Restaurant.
The place had a relaxed, luxurious vibe and a decadent menu, but Ford and I were so tired that we agreed to make it a quick meal and go to bed early.
Being the resident foodie, I expected to get more pleasure out of the local mahi-mahi and coconut sorbet I ordered, but between the physical exhaustion of the day and the emotional strain of holding myself back around my new husband, I barely tasted anything.
After a quick shower back at the villa, I crawled into bed beside Ford, expecting to pass out the second my head hit the pillow.
But he surprised me by rolling over and taking me in his arms.
His kiss was sweet, but it felt more obligatory than romantic—it couldn’t hold a candle to the kiss at the wedding.
Still, my body began to respond almost instantly, and when he rolled the condom on, I was ready for him.
He kissed me as he fucked me, and we both came without too much effort…
but once we were finished, I couldn’t help feeling like the first post-wedding sex I’d had with my husband had been decent but perfunctory.
Like we’d both been on autopilot.
It was disappointing, even though I knew a lot of that was on me.
The moment I’d decided to take the Malones’ bribe and lie to Ford about my feelings, everything between us had shifted.
Even still, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from hoping that Ford would make some sort of gesture.
Shout his love from the rooftops, so I could shout mine back.
Maybe then we could join forces and find a way out of this mess together.
But as I drifted off, I realized that even a fairy tale gesture could never fix the web of mistakes and dishonesty we’d gotten ourselves tangled up in.