34. Helen #2
I take a sip and feel the warmth slide down my throat.
“So which came first?” I ask. “The vet dream or the billionaire part?”
He smiles. “I wanted to be a vet since I was a kid. Being on the run at fifteen didn’t help. But I worked. Learned how to build money fast. The investments were moving by the time I finished vet school. And the clinic broke even before I crossed my first billion.”
“And here I thought you just drove a nice car.” I don’t even try to hide my stare.
“Is that a problem?” he asks.
“Oh.” I lift a shoulder. “That was my I can’t believe that’s real but I’m into it reaction.”
He laughs and kisses me. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“It’s a big house,” I say, drifting across the room, taking it in again. “You live here alone?”
“I’m a bachelor who needs a lot of space.”
“Okay…” I nod, glancing up at the massive chandelier overhead.
“I host a lot. Work mostly. It’s easier having the space.”
“Why does that make me feel less special being here?”
“This is just a place. Tonight is about you, Helena,” he rasps.
Helena.
He says it like he’s keeping it.
I want to ask him to say it again, but the words dissolve before they reach my mouth. “You know the rest of the world calls me Helen?”
“Well, I’m not the rest of the world.” He takes his time saying it. “Does it bother you? That I call you Helena?”
“It bothers me that I like it so much.”
“It’s how I know you. Even one letter less feels wrong.”
That goes straight to my center. When a man cares about your name like that, you keep him. And that’s not even all of it. He found another part of me.
“I like Hellion too,” I say. “Because you gave it to me.”
His mouth curves. “You are both.” He sets his glass down, then holds out his hand. “Walk with me.”
We amble toward a private dock where a boat waits. Even at rest, it feels like it could surge forward without warning. But it’s the whole setup that gets me—the stretch of water, the shoreline lights in the distance, his arm around me.
“Wow,” I murmur.
“Feel special yet?”
He helps me aboard, steadying my waist as I step down. The champagne fabric brushes his wrist. His hand pauses there, passing its warmth into my skin.
We’re hip to hip when the engine starts, and soon we glide away from the dock. The house recedes behind us as wind lifts my hair and night opens around us. I didn’t realize how tightly wound I’ve been until the water stretches wide in front of me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
The ride is smooth. He handles the helm like a man who trusts his hands.
Soon the lights of Sag Harbor appear in the distance.
We approach slowly as the marina comes into view.
Boats are moored with gaps between them.
The water lies almost undisturbed, only our wake folding back into itself. We glide in without waiting.
I frown. It’s Saturday night at the start of summer. “Is it always this quiet?”
“Not usually.”
A harbor attendant steps forward the moment we ease in. “Good evening, Mr. Hunt.”
Liam returns it casually.
A smaller yacht is redirected with a polite wave further down. No one complains. Once we’re fully moored, he guides me toward the side of the boat.
I look at him. “Do they always roll out this much silence for you?”
He steps onto the dock first, then turns, offering me his hand.
“Sometimes,” he says.
I have nothing to say to that than just take his hand.
We walk up toward town. Sag Harbor glows in candlelit windows and polished wood storefronts. The night air carries salt and something floral from nearby planters as he leads me to The American Hotel.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving. I can eat a whole fish right now.”
He smiles and guides me through the doorway as a staff member swings it wide.
Inside, the dining room feels like a hidden garden framed by brick and timber. I catch rosemary first, then basil and thyme. The tables are set with crisp white linens and maroon runners, each one touched by the shimmer of candlelight.
It’s open, yet I’m immediately aware that there are no other diners. Just a few staff members gliding past with knowing smiles. The ma?tre d’ greets Liam by name, as though they’ve been expecting him all evening.
We’re led to a table near the window.
“You didn’t…” I begin. “You closed this whole restaurant just for us?”
He reaches for the bottle before the waiter can, topping up my glass himself.
“I prefer privacy,” he says. “In fact, I closed the whole marina.”
“Shit, Liam…” I lower my voice. “You didn’t.”
He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he studies the wine as it settles in my glass.
“Here’s the thing, Hellion,” he says. “I don’t particularly enjoy my own company. But I’m selective about who I spend my free time with.”
He lifts my hand and presses a slow kiss to my knuckles. He adds, “Tonight is for us.”
I arch a brow. “Your free time, huh?”
He exhales through his nose. “Why do you always find the one phrase I shouldn’t have used?”
“Because you handed it to me.”
He shakes his head, already half defeated. “Just give it to me. Say you’re impressed.”
“Tortured already?” I tease.
“Fine. I named you Hellion,” he reminds me. “I assumed you’d live up to it.”
I laugh and lean forward across the table to kiss him. He moves at the same time, one hand sliding to my elbow, then abruptly catching the chain of my necklace before it dips too close to the candle flame.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
I glance down at the tiny flicker of fire threatening my jewelry and burst into laughter.
He does too.
The first course arrives on tiny plates.
I know this small-portions-big-impact strategy.
When it’s exceptional, you forgive the size.
And my God it is exceptional. Citrus, herbs, seafood so delicately seasoned I forget myself entirely—and end up staring at the empty plate as if it might refill out of pity.
Liam looks at me with a smile that suggests this was the intended effect.
And there’s something else. For a man who once built an entire evening around cardamom and sandalwood, the absence of spices is no accident. He’s keeping my senses clear, for now.
The tiny plates disappear, and nothing replaces them.
He clears his throat, guilt creeping in. “I thought we’d take the main upstairs.”
“Liam…” Suddenly I don’t care about any lingering taste in my mouth but his.
I slide the candle aside and catch his tie, winding it around my fingers as I draw him closer. My mouth finds his. My heel drifts higher, pressing against the firm outline beneath his zipper.
“Jesus, Hellion. You’re trying to test how much privacy I arranged?” he murmurs against my lips.
I rise from my chair.
“Then maybe,” I say, stepping into him so he feels the heat of me through silk, “you should have arranged more.”
I tug his tie again. He turns the chair, spreading his knees to make space. I kneel between them, unfastening his belt hurriedly and lowering the zipper as his composure thins.
“Hellion…” His gaze sweeps around the dim dining room, caution threading through his voice.
I don’t share it.
The room lies quiet. The staff is discreetly absent. If a billionaire closes a marina for the night, I assume the discretion is built into the arrangement, whether through loyalty or the convenient choice to look the other way.
I kiss him through the fabric first, then my hand slips inside, wrapping around his shaft, shaking it.
My mouth follows, closing over him, teasing, tasting, drawing a reaction I know he’s trying to contain.
His fingers dig into my bare back. His lips part as his length grows hotter in my mouth, twitching urgently, erratically.
Then I pull away.
He’s left breathing hard, as if he’s just surfaced from deep water.
“Holy—” he exhales, dragging his clothes back into place before pulling me upright. “Upstairs.”
I glance around. “You want to test how soundproof nineteenth-century architecture is?”
“We could make it to the boat,” he offers.
“Too long.”
“It’s a couple of minutes.”
“I don’t have a couple of minutes.”
I catch his collar and hold him still. Then I take his hand, driving it beneath the slit of my skirt, down under my panties. I pry his forefinger free from his clenched fist, then dip it into my opening. “Still thinking about the boat?” I murmur.
“Fuck...” he sighs.
For a moment, he looks undone. Then decision snaps into place and he sweeps me into his arms and takes the stairs two at a time. Our mouths devour each other. Clothes are tugged loose and abandoned in our wake. Buttons are strained, silk sliding, fabric falling wherever it lands.
When we reach the bed, there’s nothing left between us. We crash against the sheets of the four-poster in a tangle of limbs. He settles between my thighs, his hands kneading my ass, then pinching.
“Hmm…” I breathe, already understanding.
The memory of that riad pool flashes hot through me. Sweet Lord. If he asks to spank me, I’ll say yes, I might say yes before he even forms the words. It wasn’t only the sting, it was the way it spread and bloomed. I want it again, badly.
“Tonight, I want every part of you,” he rasps.
I turn slowly, easing onto my belly, ass raised.