2. Emzee
EMZEE
At 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.