Chapter 15
SWAYZE
Fake dating. Fake boyfriend. Fake feelings.
If I had a dollar for every time Mia reminded me of my place in her life, I could probably retire comfortably, buy a yacht, and sail away from all this bullshit.
I’m well aware of my place.
Painfully so, since I’m now forced to avoid looking at her tanning in the sexiest, tiniest bikini top I’ve ever fucking seen.
Glaring at the back of her head, I yank on my swim shorts. Work on emails, my ass. The only thing she’s working on is obliterating my sanity.
If I make it back home with even a single shred intact, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.
It’s going to be a long two weeks.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. Well shit, that sounds so much worse. Why’d I bother working that out?
How the fuck am I going to survive twenty thousand minutes with her looking like that? I’ll be popping a boner every other second.
Jesus Christ, she’ll break my dick—and not by bouncing on it because I’m not that fucking lucky.
Speaking of dicks, I need to get rid of this situation fast. Adjusting my current, most pressing problem, I grab a towel to cover my indecency and head out to the pool.
While she’s distracted frowning down at her laptop, I walk to the opposite end, toss the towel to the side, and hurl myself into the preferably ice cold water with a splash.
Of course, I’m shit outta luck there too.
Now I’ll have to swim laps to try and lose it, and have you tried swimming with a hard-on?
Uncomfortable is an understatement. It’s like having a swinging pendulum throwing off your balance.
And it fucking hurts.
Stopping to brush my hair out of my face—thank fuck the water's deep enough to avoid my guy saluting—my gaze connects with Mia’s.
She bites her plush bottom lip, and the memory of claiming it in the airport sends a surge of lust straight to my dick.
Goddammit. I spoke too soon. The fucker definitely just bobbed his head out of the water.
Swayze, stop.
I rip my gaze from hers and dive back underwater, focusing on plowing through my laps instead of this insane need to plow her.
It’s going really well.
Or it was, until I hear a splash behind me.
Ignore it.
Head down. Eyes closed. Swim.
Lap twenty.
Lap twenty-one.
Lap—ooof.
Fuck, my head collides with something soft, and I swallow a bunch of water, struggling to my feet while coughing it back up.
Real sexy, you idiot.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Swayze. I thought you heard me jump in.”
She circles to slap my back, which might’ve helped if we weren’t standing right by a jet that sends her body crashing straight into mine like some kind of sexy missile.
Those amazing tits I tried to avoid—well, they’re now pressed against my chest. Her thighs slide along mine under the water, and the boner I almost drowned trying to obliterate is back, harder than ever.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“It’s cool. I’m fine. I didn’t just almost drown or anything.” Still coughing, I scramble away from her before she notices my hard-on or I do something stupid like hump her leg like a dog.
“You sure? You’re looking a little flushed, maybe we should get out? I can go grab you some water.”
Yeah, like I didn't just inhale half the pool because my entire body was screaming for you like a virgin watching his first porno.
“I’m fine.”
I’m anything but fine, but she doesn’t need to know that. Besides, I’m the one who crashed into her.
Raking a hand through my hair, I scan the parts of her I can see above the water. “Are you ok? I smashed into you pretty hard.”
That’s what he said—sorry, I hate myself too.
“Totally fine. My ass cushioned the hit… or your face I guess.” She giggles, grinning mischievously. The sight of that smile makes my heart thump hard in my chest.
Jesus fuck.
There’s no way I’m gonna survive this.
She’ll break my dick or break my heart.
Probably both.
The sound of rushing water jerks me from my nap. Scanning the room, I almost fall off the bed the second my eyes connect with Mia’s naked body in the shower.
Yeah, her naked, wet body.
The fucking shower has a triangular window cut into the wall, which, given the black shower interior, I assumed was decorative.
It’s not.
Because why the hell would it be?
You can shower with a view of the sea—the perfect little detail when you’re staying with someone you love… to get naked.
As much as I’d love to get Mia naked, I, on the other hand, cannot.
And apparently, this place is set up to torture my very soul.
The water cuts off, and I panic-roll onto my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut, only to crush my dick in the process.
Fucking hellfire.
I swallow the undignified yelp dying to escape and try to breathe like a normal, sleeping person.
She’s entirely unaware, humming to herself, while I’m over here unraveling in the midst of a total mental breakdown.
As a cop, I plan for every eventuality, but the shower window's gonna be a whole-ass problem I haven’t planned for, so that’s a big, fucking fail.
We already had very little privacy, now we have none.
And forgive me for being crude, but I told myself I’d get through this trip with the occasional shower jerk off to break the fucking tension.
So now what?
My balls are so blue from today alone, James Cameron could probably write a whole-ass script about them—Avatar 4, The Load Unleashed.
The shrill ring of the phone on the bedside table rips through the room. My outstanding plan of faking—oh look, there’s that word again—sleep flies straight out the window.
Who the fuck uses hotel phones anymore? Can’t we just text? Are we still in the year 2000?
I’ve got a split second to decide what to do. Rolling onto my back, I stretch across the surprisingly spacious bed. Of course, Mia chooses that second to round the corner in what can only be described as a hand towel—yep, it’s that small—and grabs the phone, so my fingers graze her hand instead.
Ignoring the zing that runs up my arm, I sit up and obsessively study the ocean to avoid staring at the tempting little water drops traveling into her cleavage.
“Okay, we’ll be there in thirty.” She hangs up, and stops in front of me to riffle through her suitcase, full moon on display.
Jesus, I’ve seen this woman more naked today than ever before, and I’ve fucked her twice.
I need to get out of this room.
I’m sacrificing brain cells to my dick with the temptation that is Mia Georgiou this close.
She turns back to face me, her towel now only just covering her nipples.
Look at her eyes, not her tits.
Honest, Your Honor, I’m not this much of a horndog. Never have been.
I’m under the influence of a dumbass sex ban. No one warned me what deprivation does to a man.
Really, Your Honor… how many single, thirty-one-year-old men do you know who’ve locked down their main man for the better part of a year?
Not many, right? Didn’t think so.
And before you say anything, yes, I had options. I just didn’t want any of them.
Don’t look at me like that. Honest. I’m under oath here, remember.
I want her.
Only her.
What the actual fuck am I doing? When this trip's over, so is this goddamn ban.
I can’t do this shit anymore. It’s turning me fucking weird.
“Hey, you might want to grab a shower. We’re meeting everyone by the pool for dinner before the sunset.” She smiles down at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It lacks the brilliance her real one has. That absence hits like a gut punch. A real smile from her steals the air right out of my lungs.
Those are the ones I live for, though they’ve been few and far between for a while now.
This smile, well, I hate it.
“Hey, you okay, Angel?” I push off the bed to close the gap between us, a grave error in judgment because now, all I see is her. All I smell is her. She’s assaulting my every sense, and all I want is to pull her in and kiss the fake smile off her face.
Her eyes widen, and I swear, it’s fear I see in them, before she doubles down and smiles wider, bending over her suitcase again.
“Totally fine, just need to hustle to get ready. Can’t be late for the first family dinner, can we?”
I’m pretty sure she’s just shifting clothes from right to left, but who am I to judge? She doesn’t want to talk about it, and I know what that’s like. I’m not exactly forthcoming in what I’m thinking right now either.
If I tell her how I really feel, I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’ll send her screaming right off this cliff. Or she’ll fling me off it first.
Fifty-fifty split.
I crouch down beside her and catch her wrist, stopping her from rummaging through her clothes again, and run my thumb over her erratic pulse.
“Hey, you know we got this right? And whatever your reasons are for needing me here like this, just remember you can talk to me, ok? I’m here.”
I watch her, willing her to look at me, or say something, but she does neither. Her gaze stays fixed on my hand wrapped around her wrist, and she jerks a nod. The move so quick, I almost miss it.
There’s something there she’s not telling me. Something she’s suffering alone, but I know her. Pushing her will only make her retreat. So I’ll do what the cop in me knows to do. Look for the clues. And when I have enough, I’ll put the puzzle together and figure out what she can’t say out loud.
Dropping her hand, because the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable—despite that being my perpetual state on this godforsaken island—I stand, and with one last glance at her, I head into the bathroom.
Guess it’s my turn to give her a show.