Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
But now we’re on vacation, and it’s utter heaven. The cabana itself is barely a structure—just four whitewashed beams, a roof of woven fronds, and a tangle of navy linen cushions pillowed across two sunken loungers and a low, sand-dusted table. The ocean starts maybe thirty feet away, the tide line an always-moving zipper, slow and unrushed. The sound is constant, like God’s own white noise machine, only more expensive. It’s hot, but not Minnesota hot, which is always a flavor of punishment. Here, the air strokes your skin, makes you want to stretch and sleep and then stretch again.
Hunter is in full animal mode, which means linen shorts and nothing else. His hair is a little too long now, curling damp at the neck, and there’s a stripe of pink on his chest where he missed a spot with the spray-on sunscreen. His tan is unfair because the man is a bronzed god, complete with broad shoulders and rippling muscle. He sits beside me on the lounger, left ankle slung across his right knee, a hand on my bare thigh. Not just touching—owning. The bottle of champagne between us sweats in the heat, and every now and then he drags a single, cold drop from the glass and lets it fall on my skin, just to watch me shiver.
Lachlan, across from us, is the mirror of every sun god myth ever written. I don’t know how a body can be so solid and yet look like it’s never done a single thing in anger. His torso is gold, his trunks a faded blue, and his hair sun-bleached and almost white-gold at this point. He holds his glass with his thumb and two fingers, turning it slow, like he’s remembering how it got there. When he looks at me, which is often, it’s with this combination of hunger and awe that still, after all these months, has the power to make me blush.
I’m sprawled across the lounger in what amounts to an afterthought of a bikini: black, with silver rings at each hip and between the breasts, nothing but enough fabric to make the argument that I bothered. My skin has gone from winter-pale to something much more daring, all thanks to a layer of oil that both men reapply, hourly, with the sort of care normally reserved for delicate flowers. My hair is wild and a little crunchy at the ends, the color brighter than ever, and the only jewelry I’m wearing are the rings gifted me by my men—Hunter’s on the right, Lachlan’s on the left, and the third, in its usual secret place. My thighs clench with pleasure because I love having my secret ring where it belongs. It’s a special bit of pleasure that I carry with me whenever I can.
We’ve been reading, mostly. Or I’ve been reading, and the men have been pretending to read while actually watching me. Every now and then Hunter makes a remark about the plot, just to prove he’s not as distracted as he looks, but he always gets the characters’ names wrong.
Right now, though, the books are face down and the conversation is one of those lazy, circling things, like a cat in a patch of sun.
“I’m not saying I miss work,” I start, “but I have this weird, low-level urge to do something. Like, I might start volunteering for a local animal shelter, just so I have something to do.” I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles climb. “Or maybe I’ll go back to school. Just for fun.”
Lachlan sets his glass down, folding his hands across his stomach. “In what subject?” His accent has softened, these days, but sometimes the vowels get rounder when he’s not thinking.
“Probably something totally useless,” I say. “Philosophy. Or quantum physics. Or...I don’t know, underwater basket-weaving. Just so I can tell people I did.”
Hunter grins, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on my inner thigh. “You hate academia, star girl. You’d get yourself kicked out in a week for sleeping with your advisor.”
Lachlan laughs, soft, and shakes his head. “That’s assuming she doesn’t seduce the entire department first.”
I sigh, mock-dramatic. “You’re both such anarchists, and besides, you know I’m married to you!”
They grin. “You know it,” growls Lachlan. “You’re ours, Stella.”
After a second, I look up, then take a big breath. “Actually, I was meaning to talk to you guys about something.” I set the glass down and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Something more serious.”
Both men straighten. The hand on my thigh stops moving, but the heat of it gets more intense.
Hunter’s tone is mock-formal. “You have the floor, darling.”
Lachlan just leans forward, elbows to knees, his blue eyes steady.
I take a breath. “Okay, so, um. The two of you have been great about always—” I drop my voice and mouth the word “pulling out,” then grin, “—but I was thinking maybe I’m ready. Or I want to be ready.”