5. Nadia
Nadia
The August sun beats down on the yacht. Without the heavy diesel generator running, the air conditioning is dead.
Mikkel and Soren locked the sliding glass doors wide open to catch the ocean cross-breeze.
They also pulled the sheer white curtains across the panoramic windows, blocking the worst of the direct, blinding sunlight.
The moving air brings some relief, keeping the cabin from turning into a stagnant swamp, but the ambient heat still bakes the room.
I sprawl out on the wide sectional sofa in the shade. My black slip dress from last night is a wrinkled, twisted mess. I don't care that my thigh is exposed or that the silk rides up past my hips. Modesty checked out hours ago.
The salty breeze sweeps over my skin, rustling the sheer curtains. It cools the thin layer of sweat on my neck and chest, but the environmental heat isn't the real problem. The fever burning from the inside out is tearing me apart.
My Heat symptoms escalate fast. What started as a dull throb this morning is now a undeniable ache sinking deep into my pelvis.
Every nerve ending in my body feels raw and hypersensitive.
The leather of the sofa burns against my bare skin.
The slick coating my underwear is heavy and demanding, a constant, frustrating reminder of how empty I am.
I twist a throw pillow in my hands, my knuckles turning white, and look through the open doors.
Mikkel and Soren pace the shaded aft deck.
They look like caged animals. They are still bare-chested, wearing just their low-slung sweatpants.
The ocean breeze catches their dark hair, but they don't look relieved.
They grip the teakwood railings, staring out at the endless blue water, and avoid looking in my direction.
Seeing them half-naked doesn't help my fever.
Mikkel is a broad wall of muscle. A striking dusting of silver cuts through his dark hair, giving him this imposing, ruthless authority.
Soren stands a few feet away, just as tall and built with thick muscle but leaner.
His pale blue eyes lock onto the horizon.
Their avoidance stings worse than the physical fever.
Every twenty minutes, one of them breaks.
They walk into the warm lounge, heading straight for the galley to grab something from the solar-powered fridge.
Soren comes in, his broad chest gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, and grabs a bottle of ice water.
He walks over to the sofa. He doesn't look me in the eye.
His jaw is locked tight. A muscle ticks in his cheek.
He hands me the freezing plastic bottle. "Drink it." His voice is rough and clipped.
Our fingers brush for a fraction of a second. A violent spark of heat shoots up my arm, making me gasp. He flinches, snatching his hand back like I burned him.
I clutch the bottle against my chest. "Is this the part where you tell me everything is fine?" My voice sounds wrecked.
Soren stares over my head at the far wall. "We're working on the comms. Drink the water, Nadia. You're burning up."
"Then do something about it." A desperate, horny edge bleeds into the words. I shift my hips on the leather. The scent of toasted coconut and rum rolling off him makes my mouth water.
His jaw clenches. "You're Marcus's daughter. We aren't crossing that line. Drink your water."
He retreats outside, putting as much distance between us as the ninety-foot boat allows.
Ten minutes later, Mikkel does the same thing.
He brings a cold, damp rag from the kitchen.
He steps up to the sofa, keeping his imposing frame rigid.
He presses the icy cloth to my forehead.
The contrast of the freezing fabric against my burning skin feels like heaven, but the contact lasts less than three seconds.
"I'm losing my fucking mind." I lean into his hand before he can pull away.
Mikkel's breathing hitches. He drops his hand to his side, his fingers curling into a tight fist. "Keep the cold compress on your neck. It will help with the Heat."
"It's not going to help." My voice trembles with pure frustration. "It's only going to get worse."
Mikkel steps back. A conflicted look crosses his face. "I'm sorry, Nadia, but we have to try and keep our distance until the Coast Guard can find us. If we cross this line, we can't uncross it. We have to be able to speak to Marcus before we do anything."
He turns on his heel and walks right back out to the deck.
I press the cold bottle to my collarbone and squeeze my eyes shut.
A pathetic, hollow ache settles in my chest. The rejection is loud and clear.
My instincts scream that they're the perfect scent match.
The spiced rum, toasted coconut, and vanilla suffocate me every time they step into the room, but I'm deep in denial.
I refuse to believe men like them want me.
Why would they? They're forty-five. They're billionaires.
They've known me since I was an awkward teenager with braces.
I'm just Marcus's little girl. A liability.
A mess they got stuck babysitting in the middle of the ocean.
They view my slipping control as an inconvenience they have to manage until they can dump me back on shore.
The thought makes my throat tight with unshed tears. I feel lonely despite them standing right outside the door. I'm trapped on a boat with the two men my body craves more than oxygen, and they throw my dad's name in my face to keep me away.
Another cramp rips through my lower belly, sharper this time.
My hips rock up off the cushions. A pathetic whine gets trapped behind my teeth.
The slick floods my core in a hot rush. I shift my legs, trying to find some kind of friction against the leather, but it isn't enough.
The ache is a gaping, demanding void, and the fever pushes me right to the edge of losing my mind.
I open my eyes and stare at their broad backs facing me from the deck. They aren't going to help me. They're going to let me burn up on this sofa. If they won't touch me, I have to take care of it myself. The fever inside my body spikes hard, stealing the breath right out of my lungs.
My fingers dig into the leather sofa. My own hands aren't going to be enough to take the edge off this time. Not with the heavy, intoxicating scent of their rum and vanilla trapped in the humid air all around me.
I need the toy I left on my bed.
Pushing myself up off the sofa takes immense effort. My legs shake, forcing me to grip the wall for balance as I stumble toward the teakwood stairs leading down to the VIP and master suites.
A wall of muscle blocks my path.
Soren steps in front of the stairwell, crossing his thick arms over his bare chest.
"Move." My voice comes out as a wrecked rasp.
"You aren't going down there." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Without the AC, the hull traps the heat. It's a fucking oven below deck. You will pass out."
"I need something from my room."
"Tell me what it is. I will get it for you."
The Heat fever burns away my last shred of filter. "Fine. Go into the master suite and grab the silicone vibrator on the bed."
Soren freezes. His jaw locks hard. Those pale blue eyes swallow the iris, turning pitch black in a fraction of a second. The muscles in his neck twitch under the strain.
He turns without a word and descends the stairs.
Leaning against the wall, I pant. Heavy footsteps return a minute later. Soren appears at the top of the stairs, holding the sleek, expensive toy in his large, calloused hand. He looks ready to snap it in half.
Stepping closer, he holds it out.
I snatch it from his grip. Our fingers brush, shooting a spark of heat straight up my arm.
Stumbling back to the main lounge sofa, my muscles turn to jelly.
I collapse onto the cushions, angling my body away from the open glass doors.
I let my head fall back against the armrest. Shoving the wrinkled silk of my dress up my thighs, I drag my soaked underwear to the side.
The cold silicone meets my clit right as my thumb hits the power button.
The loud hum of the motor cuts through the quiet rocking of the boat. It echoes off the wood paneling of the lounge.
Neither of them turns around. They keep their broad backs to the room, facing the ocean. Mikkel's shoulders lock tight, the muscles bunching under his skin. Soren grips the teak railing hard enough to make the tendons in his forearms pop.
The vibration hits my clit. A ragged moan slips past my lips.
Both men turn around. They step right to the threshold of the open glass doors, freezing in place. Their eyes lock onto me, dilated and unblinking.
The weight of their focus turns me on way more than the toy. If they want to watch, let them fucking watch.
I shift my weight on the leather. Turning my body, I face them and spread my knees wider. I give them a clear, unobstructed view of my soaked pussy and the vibrating toy grinding against my clit.
Their chests heave. Mikkel grips the doorframe so hard his knuckles turn bone-white. Soren's jaw clenches tight enough to crack.
My gaze drops down their torsos. The thin fabric of their sweatpants leaves nothing to the imagination. Two thick cocks strain hard against the gray cotton. The sight of them getting rock-hard from watching me acts like throwing gasoline on an open fire.
A fresh wave of slick floods my core. My free hand drags up my torso, fingers tangling in my messy hair. Arching my back, I thrust my chest out and let another loud moan echo through the cabin.
The combination of the toy and their burning stares pushes me right to the edge. My hips jerk off the cushions. The orgasm hits hard, ripping through me in a series of violent spasms. Hot liquid bursts from my core, squirting in a heavy rush over my fingers and soaking into the leather sofa.
I hold their gaze while my body shakes through the aftershocks, praying the sight of me desperate and dripping wetness shatters the last of their control. I want them to break.
I need them to break.
The sun dips below the horizon. A cool evening breeze sweeps through the open doors, washing over my overheated skin.
But it doesn't help. None of it helps.
Despite the exhibitionist display and the vibration buzzing against my clit, my body betrays me. Just like this morning, the toy proves useless. The buzzing scrapes against my nerves, grating and irritating, doing nothing for me. The friction doesn't reach the deep ache in my clit.
I'm locked into a true scent-match Heat, and my instincts won't settle for a piece of silicone. My body knows the real thing stands ten feet away. I crave their hot skin, rough hands, teeth scraping over my scent gland, and the thick smell of rum, smoky vanilla, and coconut drowning my senses.
The toy serves as a pathetic joke compared to what I need.
The sheer frustration breaks me. The fever, isolation, and the overwhelming discomfort crash over me. A jagged sob tears out of my throat as tears spill over, cutting hot, wet tracks down my cheeks.
I drop the useless toy. It hits the leather cushions with a dull thud; the motor buzzing next to my hip.
My pride crumbles. I don't care about the corporate fallout or about their ties to my dad. I don't care about anything outside these four walls. I just need them to stop the pain.
I reach a shaking hand out toward the open doors. "Please." My voice cracks under the stress of the fever. "Please. It hurts. I can't. I need you."
Mikkel and Soren step across the threshold together.
The tense, distant, iron-clad business partner personas vanish. Raw, lethal, protective Alpha focus takes over. Their eyes track my every move. A deep, dual rumble vibrates in their chests.
They cross the lounge in three long strides and drop to their knees beside the sofa, moving as a seamless pack.
Soren reaches over, his large hand snatching the vibrator off the cushions. He turns it off with a flick of his thumb and tosses it across the room. It clatters against the far wall.
"We've got you." Mikkel murmurs. His dark, rough gravel of a voice sends a shiver straight down my spine. "We're right here, sweetheart. We're right here."
Their large, calloused hands map my body. Soren cups my face, his thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks. Mikkel's hands land on my waist and my bare thighs. The warmth of their skin sears right through the thin silk of my dress.
Their calming, possessive Alpha scents wash over me in a massive tidal wave. The dark spiced rum, the toasted coconut, and the smoky vanilla wrap around my frantic nervous system, soothing the sharp edges of my fever. The scent acts like a balm on my raw nerves.
Mikkel slips his arms under my back and my knees, hauling me up off the leather cushions and pulling me into his lap.
He crushes me flush against his bare, thick chest. Soren shifts closer, wrapping his arms around us both, pressing his hot chest against my back and burying his face in the crook of my neck.
I'm surrounded by them.
"You're okay." Soren’s teeth graze my pulse point. "Let go, Nadia. We've got you."
I bury my face in Mikkel's neck, inhaling the intoxicating smell of him, and let out a long, ragged exhale. I’m right where I belong.