Chapter 13 — Oil and Water
The midday sun in Las Vegas wasn't a celestial body; it was a death sentence suspended in the sky.
It was a white eye, blind and furious, staring down at the Mojave Desert with malignant intensity, stripping the city of its neon and protective shadows, reducing everything to scalding concrete, blinding glass, and heat mirages that danced over the asphalt like ghosts of water.
Down below, on the Strip, unwary tourists scurried from casino to casino like ants under a magnifying glass, desperate for the artificial relief of air conditioning.
But up here, on the fiftieth floor, on the private deck of The Obsidian's penthouse, there was nowhere to hide. And Maya didn't want to hide.
She lay face down on a solid teak lounger, her face turned to the side, her cheek pressed against a plush white towel already beginning to warm.
The heat was a physical weight, a blanket of molten lead pressing her into the chair.
It was oppressive, suffocating, and, in a strange, masochistic way, purifying.
Maya wanted the sun to burn her. She wanted the ultraviolet rays to penetrate her skin, cook away her doubts, cauterize the confusion Ethan Vance had planted in her mind the night before.
I saw everything.
His voice, coming from the invisible speakers in the bedroom ceiling, still echoed in her ears, competing with the distant hum of the hot wind.
The image of him standing in the doorway, holding the tablet with proof of her solitary performance…
the shame should have been paralyzing. But it wasn't. The shame had transformed into something denser, darker, and infinitely more dangerous: anticipation.
She shifted on the lounger, feeling sweat trickle down the hollow of her spine.
The swimsuit she wore wasn't hers. Obviously. Nothing was hers anymore. Her former identity—the worn jeans, the band t-shirts, the comfortable cotton underwear—had been confiscated and replaced by a curated wardrobe of luxury that transformed her into a living doll.
The swimsuit was black. A one-piece, theoretically, but it covered less skin than many bikinis.
It was an architectural tangle of straps and strategic cutouts.
One strap covered her breasts, another descended along her abdomen, connecting to a high-cut bottom that left her ass almost entirely exposed to the sun.
It was a suit made for not swimming. It was made to be seen.
To adorn the pool deck like an erotic sculpture.
Maya closed her eyes, feeling the sun bite her shoulders. She'd applied SPF 30 an hour ago, but it already felt like it was evaporating, leaving her vulnerable.
She was alone. The silence at the top of the tower was absolute, broken only by the soft splash of water in the infinity pool when the wind blew.
The turquoise water looked like a block of liquid ice, tempting, just a few feet away.
But Maya didn't move. She remained on the lounger, motionless, absorbing the heat like a lizard, hoping the external fire would silence the internal one.
Then the light changed.
It wasn't a cloud. The sky was implacably blue, without a single trace of vapor. It was a shadow. A long, dense, cold shadow that fell over her, blocking the sun.
The temperature on her back dropped instantly, though the air continued to boil.
Maya didn't need to open her eyes to know who it was. The scent arrived before the sight. Sandalwood. Espresso. And that indefinable scent of authority and danger that seemed to emanate from his pores.
“You're going to burn,” Ethan said.
His voice was calm, devoid of the hoarse tone from the night before, but it carried the same firmness. It wasn't dermatological advice; it was a statement about the depreciation of an asset.
Maya opened her eyes and turned her head, shielding her eyes with her hand.
He stood between her and the sun, a dark silhouette against the blinding brightness of the sky.
He was dressed. Completely dressed. Black suit, starched white shirt, charcoal-gray silk tie. Polished Italian leather shoes that reflected the light. He looked like a corporate specter, a thermal anomaly. Who wore a three-piece suit in hundred-and-nine-degree heat?
“I like the heat,” Maya lied, her voice dry. Her mouth felt pasty.
“Skin cancer isn't an attractive feature in a collection,” Ethan retorted, circling the lounger so she could see him without being blinded by the sun.
Now she could see his face. He wore aviator sunglasses, black lenses that hid his eyes, making him unreadable. He didn't appear to be sweating. He seemed immune to the elements, as if the weather asked his permission before affecting him.
“You're dressed for a funeral,” Maya observed, resting her chin on her crossed arms. “Or are you going to fire the sun for inefficiency?”
One corner of Ethan's mouth curved slightly. That half-smile.
“I was on a video call with London. They appreciate formality. And the office air conditioning is powerful.”
He looked at the pool, then at her. His gaze, even hidden behind the dark lenses, had weight. Maya felt that weight travel down her bare back, tracing the path of the swimsuit straps.
“Stand up,” he said.
Maya tensed.
“Why?”
“Because I'm not going to talk to your shoulder blades, and you need to hydrate.”
He walked to a side table under a closed umbrella, where a silver bucket held ice and bottles of sparkling water, alongside rolled towels.
Maya sat up slowly. The movement made her head spin slightly—the heat, the dehydration, his presence.
She pulled her legs up, hugging her knees, trying to cover as much skin as possible.
The swimsuit, which had seemed merely daring when she was lying down, now felt obscene.
The straps bit into her skin, accentuating the softness of her curves.
Ethan removed his jacket.
He folded it meticulously and placed it over a chair. Then he loosened his tie, pulling the knot down with a fluid gesture that made Maya’s stomach twist in response. He removed the tie, rolled it in his hand, and placed it over the jacket.
He was undressing.
Maya watched, hypnotized against her will. There was something ritualistic about it. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling the sleeves with military precision up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, tendons shifting beneath tanned skin as he worked. He unbuttoned his collar, freeing his neck.
“You’re not going into the water in your clothes, are you?” she asked, trying to break the charged silence.
Ethan removed his sunglasses, folding them and setting them on the table. His eyes, now visible, locked onto her. They were dark, intense, dilated despite the bright light.
“Water and cold wool don’t mix, Maya. You should know that. Oil and water don’t either.”
He picked up something from the table. It wasn’t a bottle of water. It was an amber glass bottle with a golden dispenser.
Tanning oil.
He walked toward her. The sun beat down on his back now, illuminating the white shirt that was turning translucent, clinging to his skin, revealing the shadow of muscles beneath. For the first time, Maya noticed a gleam of sweat at his temple. He was human, after all. The heat was getting to him.
“Turn around,” he ordered, stopping beside the lounge chair.
Maya looked at the bottle in his hand. The golden liquid inside looked thick, rich.
“I can do it myself,” she said, reaching out. “Give it to me.”
Ethan didn’t hand over the bottle. He looked at her outstretched hand, then at her face.
“You can’t reach the middle of your back, Maya. I watched you trying for twenty minutes, contorting yourself like a cat trying to lick its own spine. It’s inefficient. And it leaves streaks.”
“You were watching me? Again?” Her indignation was weak, worn down by repetition.
“I have screens in my office. The view of the pool is… inspiring.”
He unlocked the bottle’s dispenser. The sound was a sharp click.
“Turn around. Lie face down. Now.”
There was no anger in his voice, only inevitability. It was like arguing with the tide.
Maya hesitated. If she lay down, she would be vulnerable. If she refused, he might force her—or worse, leave her alone with the sun and her frustration. And, God help her, a part of her—the part that had danced for the camera the night before—wanted to know what his hands felt like.
Slowly—defiantly slow—she unfolded her body and lay face down again. She turned her face away from him, hiding her expression, and gripped the edge of the towel tightly.
She heard the sound of oil being pumped. Squirt. Squirt.
Then the wet, slippery sound of him rubbing his hands together, warming the oil. The scent invaded the hot air—coconut, vanilla, and something earthier, like amber. It wasn’t the sweet smell of drugstore sunscreen; it was expensive, complex, intoxicating.
“Relax,” Ethan said.
Before she could process the command, he touched her.
His hands landed on her shoulder blades.
The shock was thermal. Maya had expected cold hands, a contrast to the sun. But Ethan’s hands were warm. Warm from friction, warm from blood, warm from the oil. They were large, heavy, and incredibly firm.
Maya let out an involuntary sigh, the air leaving her lungs as if he’d pushed it out.
“Tense,” he murmured. It wasn’t a criticism—it was a tactile observation.
He began to move his hands.
It wasn’t a therapeutic massage. There was none of the clinical gentleness of a spa.
It was a possessive application. His thumbs dug into her trapezius muscles, finding the knots of accumulated tension and working them out with merciless pressure.
The oil eased the movement, letting his hands glide over her skin with hypnotic fluidity.
“Your skin is dry,” he commented, his voice low, rumbling just above her. “The desert sucks the moisture out. You need to be sealed.”
He spread the oil across her shoulders, covering every inch of exposed skin. His fingers were long and strong. He traced the line of her spine with his thumbs, descending vertebra by vertebra.