24. Luka
LUKA
As we descend toward Nassau, all I can see out the window are crystalline turquoise waters, a shoreline edged with pure white sand beaches and luxury hotels, and thick patches of mangrove, pine, and palm trees.
The plane touches down with a thump, the engine roars, and passengers start cheering as we slowly roll down the runway.
“Eff yeah!” Emzee yells in the seat in front of me, pumping her fist. “We’re here!”
A few people sitting around us chuckle at her childlike enthusiasm, and I join in.
My hand subconsciously wraps around Brooklyn’s and gives it a squeeze, and I feel my chest loosening up, my shoulders sagging with the sudden release of tension I didn’t even realize I was holding during the flight.
Despite my annoyance at being virtually trapped into agreeing to take this vacation, Brooklyn did a good thing. I can appreciate the effort she went through to pull this off.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Nassau where the local time is approximately 4:30,” a flight attendant’s voice says over the PA system. “For your safety and the safety of others, we ask that you please keep your seatbelts fastened…”
We make our way off the plane and through the airport in no time, and soon enough we’re spilling out of two taxis outside our hotel, The Island Club Resort.
It looks more like a mansion than a hotel, with its white marble steps, lacy balustrades enclosing each balcony, the entrance flanked by tall white columns.
“This place is gorgeous,” Tori says, swooning beside Stefan. “You nailed it, Brooklyn.”
“Oh, don’t go giving me all the credit,” my wife says. “Emzee picked it out.”
“Thank you very much, and yes I have excellent taste in accommodations,” Emzee says smugly, marching ahead of us all. “Now let’s go check in so we can get some food ASAP!”
Our rooms aren’t just comfortable, they’re extravagant.
We’re given separate bungalows along the beach, with private verandas that lead right onto the beach.
Inside, it’s nothing but crisp white linens, ocean views out of every window, and touches of polished marble and muted gold.
There isn’t much time to appreciate it all, though, as Emzee made us all promise to meet up in the lobby for dinner the second we’ve all changed and put our things away.
That means I also don’t have much time to talk to Brooklyn.
As we head down in the elevator, I turn to her. “Thank you, for all of this,” I say.
“It really wasn’t me. It was your sister’s idea,” she says modestly.
“But you made it happen,” I tell her. “That isn’t nothing. I think we all needed this.”
She smiles and looks away, but I catch the flush of pink in her cheeks.
“Is this your dream destination?” I ask, trying to keep the line of communication open. It’s been so long since we just…talked.
“No,” she says quietly. “Paris was.”
Our eyes meet, and for a moment I don’t know what to say. There’s been so much bad blood between us, but I know I can’t blame it all on her. We’ve both made mistakes.
“Brooklyn, look, I—”
The elevator dings as we stop on the first floor and the doors glide open.
“Save it,” she says, breezing past me.
As I watch her walk away, I can’t help wondering: is there a chance we could fix this?
I’m leaning back in a beach chair, my toes dug into the cool sand, hand wrapped around a frosty mojito as a warm breeze ruffles my hair. Taking a deep breath, I realize I feel…calm.
What the hell is happening to me?
There’s no denying it: I’m actually enjoying myself.
The breathtakingly clean, pale pink beach stretches around me for literal miles, the expanse of water even more brilliant and clear up close than it appeared from above.
I’ve been stretched out in my chair here for several minutes now, sunglasses on, sipping my drink.
Hell, maybe it’s been longer. Time has kind of slipped away and the longer I let myself zone out, the more peaceful I feel inside. How about that.
It’s a relief to be away from the circus, even if it’s just a brief respite.
The stress and constant worry about my work are gone.
I mean, I’m fully aware of how many unanswered emails are sitting in my inbox, how many contracts need vetting, how many meetings I have lined up next week.
But for some reason, it’s easier to hold it all back, push it aside and just breathe.
There’s something about the air here. It’s different.
I just want to keep sitting in this chair with the warm waves intermittently rushing up to splash my ankles and the million-dollar paradise view spanning in every direction.
Not to mention the sight of my wife.
Brooklyn has just emerged from the water and is heading toward me, flipping her wet hair back like a Bond girl.
Except her string bikini is so scant that her nipples are barely covered by the little triangles of fabric, the globes of her breasts perfectly on display.
Her bikini bottom is just as skimpy, with little bows tied at her hips just begging to be tugged loose.
And while there are a variety of other women wearing similar suits, my gaze is drawn repeatedly to my wife.
That lithe, toned body appearing out of the ocean like a lost goddess of Atlantis, practically glowing in the sunlight, impossible to look away from. She’s flawless.
“Look at you being all happy for once,” Emzee says sassily as she steps from the water alongside Brooklyn in a vintage polka dot one-piece. “I didn’t recognize you for a second.”
“Ha ha.” I playfully toss an ice cube in my sister’s direction while turning to Brooklyn, who just smiles and keeps walking.
We still haven’t spoken much since our arrival last night.
My family has been keeping us so busy with drinks (and a never-ending supply of food) that we haven’t gotten much alone time, and on top of that it seems like the Zoric women are all treating this vacation like a girls’ trip with all their gossip and giggling.
For my part, I stayed up so late talking to Stefan over a bottle of bourbon that by the time I got back to the room, Brooklyn was already asleep.
Then this morning started with Tori and Emzee barging in to pull my wife out of bed so they could all go watch the sun rise.
But finally, here we all are, taking a dip in these picture-perfect tropical waters.
Well, the rest of them are. I haven’t actually gotten in yet.
I track my eyes to see where my wife is now.
She’s ducking under the shade of Emzee’s huge umbrella, patting herself dry and throwing on a sheer beach coverup.
“Where are you headed?” I call out. We don’t have any group plans until later.
Brooklyn grins. “I made a self-care appointment. Sugar scrub. Massage. Hot stones. The works. See ya later.”
She slides her sunglasses down, flips me a little wave, and then she’s gone, long legs striding across the sand until she disappears around the privacy fence at the back of our resort.
Watching her go, an idea pops into my head.
I wander to the beach-side bar and get another mojito, then head back to the bungalow. Brooklyn is already gone by the time I get there, but it only takes a call to the front desk to find out where her reservation is. I slip on a fresh tee shirt, sipping my drink as I head to the spa.
Maybe it’s all the sunshine and the alcohol, or maybe I’m just drunk on paradise, but I want to be with my wife. I want to put my hands on her in a way that reminds me how things used to be between us. I want to feel something for her other than anger.
The hurt over her betrayal is still with me, but it feels distant, as if it’s faded with time.
It crosses my mind much less these days.
I hang on to it, I suppose, as a form of self-defense.
I’ve been hurt and betrayed so much in my life that staying angry and guarded with people who’ve hurt me in the past is my default.
But when Brooklyn and I first entered into his fake marriage and things started to progress, I saw that things could be different.
That opening up didn’t have to mean inevitable emotional destruction.
Too bad I was wrong about that.
Or was I?
I enter the upscale spa and tell the hostess behind the counter who I am. Then I slip her a hundred to tell me which room my wife is in, and she happily leads me down the hall, catching the female masseuse before she can go in and work on Brooklyn.
“Just give me twenty minutes,” I tell them with a wink. “It’s an early anniversary surprise.”
The women exchange sly looks, grinning and nodding. Pulling out another hundred for the masseuse, I am left without a single protest.
Money talks. I learned that early, and it’s never let me down.
Inside the room, Brooklyn is lying facedown with a towel draped over her perfect ass. Her hair is twisted into a bun on top of her head. Her torso, arms, and legs are beautifully bare. My cock twitches, but I keep it under control as I approach the massage table, drinking her in.
I notice a tray table nearby, set up with an assortment of oils, lotions, and a tub of what looks like wet brown sugar. I recall her mentioning a sugar scrub, so I decide to start with that.
Nothing like getting my hands a little sticky.
“I’m so relaxed already that I might just fall asleep during this.” Her voice is sleepy and thick. I take the declaration as a personal challenge. I have no intention of letting her fall asleep while my hands are roaming her perfect body.
Scooping some of the grainy scrub onto my fingertips, I contemplate what I’m supposed to do with it.
I hesitate, then put it between her shoulder blades and start making little circles.
She moans and gives a little shiver. Encouraged, I add more and work it all over her back, moving my hands in widening circles.
The stuff is aromatic and surrounds us with a sweet scent.
I repeat the process down her shoulders and the backs of her arms, all the way to her wrists.
I have no idea if this is a total body thing, but I move to her legs next.
God, her thighs are firm. I imagine her skin glowing and soft once this stuff is rinsed off.
Her muscles taut and supple beneath my hands as I work them up and down her calves, squeezing and stroking as she sighs heavily.
The sheet covering her ass is thin and just wide enough to do the job.
I could pull it away easily, yet I don’t have the desire to, which is a surprise.
Sex is my go-to, the one thing I use to drown out my emotions.
But being here with Brooklyn right now isn’t sexual.
It’s sensual.
I never understood the difference before, but I do now.
I think I like pampering my wife. I like the soft sounds that come from her mouth, and the way her breath catches in her throat when I massage a tight muscle.
I get to her ankles, my palms covered in sticky sugar.
Just as I’m debating whether to move onto her feet, her voice calls out, “Aren’t you going to rinse it off now? ”
“Yes,” I offer quietly, getting started with a soft washcloth and a bowl of steaming water.
When I’m done, she begins to turn over. My pulse beats hard. I imagine how wide her eyes will go to see me standing over her instead of the professional she booked.
She doesn’t look my way as she covers her breasts with the towel she’s laying on and turns. The white sheet covering the table crinkles and bunches a little, and she’s so busy trying to smooth it beneath her that she still doesn’t notice I’m not who she’s expecting.
“Okay, I’m ready now,” she says, her eyes drifting closed again.
“I bet you are.” I don’t hide my voice this time, and I can’t stop from grinning as she sits up in shock.
“Luka!”
“Surprise,” I murmur.
“What are you doing here?”
“Shh.” I motion for her to lie back down. “Now you know how I felt when you barged into my meeting and surprised me with this trip.”
She suppresses a little smile. “Look how good it turned out, though.”
“It did. And I wanted to thank you. So just close your eyes and let me work my magic.”
“You make me nervous,” she says.
Leaning down, slowly dragging the towel off her breasts, I pause to watch her nipples pebble, goosebumps racing down her arm. “When have I ever not taken care of you, Brooklyn?”
She arches a brow, but doesn’t say anything.
I spread some scrub over her chest and work it around, tiny circles and then larger ones, my strokes gentle but firm.
As I get into it, I find myself enjoying it more and more.
I’m aroused, fuck yes, but I’m also…content.
This is making me feel good. Maybe the Bahamas are magical.
Despite the twinges of pain I still feel deep down over her betrayal, I have to admit that no one has ever cared for me the way she has. Through all the ups and downs, she’s been more devoted to me than anyone else in my life. That has to be worth something.
I begin to rinse her off, squeezing the cloth between my hands so the hot water runs down the curves of her body, cooling as the air touches it.
She’s breathing faster now, harder, the beautiful pink flush in her cheeks spreading along her skin. She’s aroused, too. Her thighs tense as I stroke them clean with the washcloth, and she presses them tighter together as if to keep from spreading them for me.
I plan to take full advantage of this sexual tension later tonight. But for now, I’m going to let it build nicely while I pay her back for everything she’s done for me.
When I finally finish cleaning her off, I grab a towel and wipe my hands.
“So, now what?” she asks.
“Now I leave, and your real masseuse comes in here to give you what you paid for.”
Brooklyn cocks her head. “Leaving so soon?”
“Only for a little while,” I tell her softly, tipping her chin with one finger and looking down at her.
She smiles up at me, and my chest swells with a warmth I can’t quite name.