Chapter 45
STEAM ME UP, SCOTTY
RORIE
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be willingly participating in a competitive game of drunk flamingo yoga on a paddleboard—I’d have laughed, possibly cried, and definitely asked for an early ticket back to New York.
But here I am. Three days in, sun-kissed and sore in muscles I didn’t know existed, surviving what has officially become the most unique and also unhinged team-building resort experience known to all humans.
There was the salsa dance-off that spun wildly off course when Jeremy tried to dip Laurel and accidentally flung his shoe into the air… where it smacked the CEO from Taylor and Blythe in the head and launched his toupee into a server’s champagne tray.
Then there was the mixology competition, where Nolan decided he absolutely had to outshine my Mirage and Titan by flirting his way behind the bar.
Five minutes and an unnecessarily cocky wink later, he debuted a drink called Rhodes Rage—a concoction of tequila, bitters, sin, and a vengeance shot so potent it may have burned through the stomach lining of at least two fellow guests.
The whole night turned into a disaster. One guy kept crying, another proposed to a potted plant, and Rishi tried to legally adopt the bartender, who was clearly twenty plus years older than him.
Shelby led a conga line through the cigar lounge wearing someone’s yacht club blazer, chanting, “Shots before strategy!” like it was a corporate mantra.
And Laurel was caught doing the walk of shame from Thatcher’s suite at sunrise, barefoot, bed-headed, and clutching her heels like they’d personally betrayed her.
Oh, it doesn’t end there.
They have an escape room built into an old cabana, where I discovered that Nolan is terrifyingly good at solving riddles under pressure… and also prone to gloating. Loudly. Complete with a celebratory moonwalk and a grin that nearly cracked a mirror.
Yesterday, we had an underwater scavenger hunt. I may or may not have screamed into my snorkel when a fish kissed my mask, only to realize later, it was actually a shark.
And, of course, the burlesque night.
Oh, burlesque night.
I don’t know who allowed Jeremy in the prop room, but let’s just say I’ve seen enough feather boas and rhinestone nipple tassels to last a lifetime.
He managed to “accidentally” sign us up as the opening act for the talent portion of the evening.
I played the “classy distraction” with a fan.
Jeremy wore leather pants and lip-synced Lady Marmalade with more conviction than any performer ever.
I’m eighty-seven percent sure someone from another firm invited him to perform at their upcoming wedding.
And through every ridiculous, wild, beautiful moment, there’s been him.
Nolan.
The connecting door between our rooms has stayed open since our confession night and I wake up to the sound of his voice when he’s dreaming, uttering nonsense about spreadsheets and coffee. We drift to sleep with our limbs tangled together, like our bodies forgot they ever existed separately.
He devours me in so many delicious ways.
And God, does he take his time.
Nolan’s mouth is…
Well.
I’m convinced that whatever God built into my pleasure centers, Nolan Rhodes has discovered the cheat code
He kisses me like he’s trying to etch me into his bones. Tastes me like I’m his favorite flavor. His mouth is a slow build and focused worship—tongue teasing, fingers pumping, rooting me in place as he draws out every stuttering gasp and broken plea as though he wants to own them.
And he never rushes.
He’ll whisper filthy promises against my thigh one minute, then make good on every single one the next.
Every time he brings me to the edge, he looks up at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole damn life.
It’s… addicting.
Because somewhere between burlesque boas, stolen glances, and whispered laughs under moonlight, we’ve blurred the line between rival and lover.
And we’re okay with that.
Right now, Nolan’s in a final prep meeting for their pitch. I’d offered to head back to my room, give him space, but he just smirked, kissed my forehead, and said, “Absolutely not.”
So now I’m here, lounging on his bed, wearing one of his soft T-shirts that smells like cedar and heat and that warm spice that is so Nolan Rhodes, half-listening to the ocean outside.
Eventually, I pad toward his bathroom, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The air is still tinged with the last traces of his body wash. I twist the shower knob, steam filling the glass enclosure in seconds.
The hot water cascades down my back, easing the tension in my shoulders. I grab his body wash and lather it into my skin, slow and indulgent. The scent is rich, woodsy, masculine, and it only makes the ache between my thighs more persistent.
Eyes closed, I lean into the spray, hand drifting lower as a naughty idea strikes and I yank the other shower head out of its resting position, turn it on, and switch the setting.
The pressure sharpens. And when I move it between my legs, a gasp escapes my lips as my head falls back against the tile.
My hips roll gently, breath catching as sensation pulses through me. It’s not enough, but it’s something to take the edge off.
I hear the door creak.
Footsteps.
Suddenly the steam shifts behind me.
“What is my naughty girl doing without me?” Nolan’s voice is laced with desire.
He steps into the shower, still dressed, t-shirt soaked, eyes dark, and wolfish. “I’ve been fantasizing about that shower head since we got here.”
“I’m sure you have.” My gaze slides down his dripping body. He’s so beautiful, some days I can barely stand it.
Nolan undoes his pants, hooks his thumbs into the waistband, eyes locked on mine, daring me to blink.
I don’t. I lick my lips, hungry with anticipation.
He shoves his pants down, and his thick cock springs free, flushed deep with need. The sight of it makes my mouth water.
God, he’s huge.
I drag my eyes back up to his, smirking as heat coils low and tight in my belly.
“Get over here,” I whisper. “I want you in my mouth.”
The look in his eyes shifts from amused to absolutely animalistic. He yanks his shirt over his head, baring inch after inch of slick, warm muscle. He discards the soaked garment in the corner.
Steam wraps around us, water cascading off his chest as I run my hands up his thighs.
“Don’t move,” I warn, tone soaked in intent.
He doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
I press a kiss to the base of his abdomen, then another, my lips trailing along the taut line of his abs as he stands there, barely breathing.
Nolan stares down at me like I might be the one thing he’ll never recover from. And I fucking love that.
My hands glide up the backs of his thighs before clamping myself there as I look up at him—dripping wet, waiting.
The spray pounds at my back, steam cocooning us in something hot and intimate.
“You were saying something about wanting me in your mouth.” His lips quirk.
Snarky bastard.
Wrapping a hand around his slick, firm length, he’s hot and pulsing, straining with need. My thumb circles the tip, teasing, testing.
“Fuck,” a groan rumbles through him, echoing off the tile. One hand flies to the wall for balance, the other fists in my wet hair.
Lowering my mouth, I kiss the head gently, then drag my tongue along the underside deliberately slow.
He swears under his breath. It’s killing him. Another thing I fucking love.
Water trails down his toned stomach. I take him deeper, letting the weight of him fill my mouth. The steam blurs everything but the feel of him, the taste of him, the raw heat pulsing between us.
His fingers tighten in my hair. He’s breathing hard, hips twitching like he’s seconds from losing it.
I circle my tongue around him while he’s inside me, and he lets out a strangled sound, part moan, part prayer.
My head bobs as I suck him hard. He’s holding back. But I don’t want him restrained.
I want him undone.
My mouth moves faster, rhythm measured, tongue swirling, lips slick and greedy. Every sound he makes punches straight through me, and I am so wet.
His legs tremble. His stomach clenches. I don’t let up. This moment is mine.
He is mine.
Glancing up, my lips curve. “Will you fuck my mouth?”
One side of his lips quirk back. “Rorie, I’d let you ruin my credit score if you asked me.”
I smirk.
“Now open.” His tone drops when he makes the order.
I do. A little too eagerly.
His hand comes to the back of my head, not rough, but firm—guiding, reverent. His cock slides between my lips, thick on my tongue, and for a second, neither of us moves until his hips roll forward with a controlled thrust.
Then another.
And another.
He watches every movement, loving how my mouth stretches around him, the way my throat flexes as I take him deeper.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word torn from his chest.
His free hand joins his other and fingers clutch my head, holding me steady.
Nolan starts pounding, racing, giving himself to me. One deep, devastating thrust at a time.
And I take it.
All of him.
With greedy, aching want.
I choke on him and it’s the most delicious thing. I want more.
Nolan grunts, low and desperate. “Fuck, Rorie—I’m—”
I don’t let him pull out. I hold him tighter and take him deeper, allowing him to pump hard between my lips, until he spills into my mouth with a full-body shudder, a groan so guttural it echoes to my soul.
I swallow every last drop. And when I look up through my lashes, he’s staring down at me.
“You are so beautiful.” His chest heaves. His hands fall to his sides.
Rising, I kiss up his torso, tasting water and him. He catches my waist as I reach his face, and when I kiss the corner of his mouth, he exhales as though it’s the only breath he has left.
Dazed and grinning, he leans back against the tile. I brush my thumb across his lower lip, cocky and content.
“Here I was thinking we were just going to have a little fun. Not get spiritually baptized in my own shower.”
“You’re welcome.”