Anabelle adjusted her silk blouse for the third time, the fabric clinging to her curves beneath the tailored jacket that made TSA agents stare without shame. The moment she saw the ocean from the plane window, she exhaled slowly, finally allowing herself to believe it: forty-eight hours alone with Wade.

She hadn’t seen him in nearly two months. Phone calls, dirty messages, whispered moans over late-night video calls — they’d kept the fire barely contained. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. They needed skin. Heat. Teeth.

And now, by some twist of fate or scheming resort planner, their flights had them seated just three rows apart in the first-class cabin.

Wade was in his usual uniform — black T-shirt stretched over his surfer’s shoulders, hair too long to be proper, sunglasses still perched on his head despite being indoors. He had the calm, cocky stillness of a man who knew exactly how desired he was. When his eyes met hers during boarding, something primal passed between them — not a smile, not a nod, just a look. A promise.

Half an hour in, a drink arrived, chilled champagne, delivered by the stewardess with a note tucked inside.

“You look like you're already wet. Try not to ruin that seat.”

Anabelle’s cheeks flushed, but her legs pressed tighter beneath the tray table. The bubbles weren’t just in the glass.

He was watching her when she looked up. Still no smile. Just that storm in his eyes — the one that always made her want to either run… or beg.

The seaplane skimmed across turquoise water before coasting into the dock like a whispered secret. Heat wrapped around them the moment they stepped out — the kind that softened skin, coaxed out beads of sweat, and slowed time to a heartbeat.

They didn’t speak on the short walk down the wooden pier. Words felt too sharp for the moment. Behind mirrored sunglasses, Wade watched Anabelle’s hips shift with each step in those impossibly high sandals. Her white dress was loose, effortless, and just sheer enough in the light. The outline of her thighs, the delicate curve where her lace bra cut across her back — it was a deliberate kind of carelessness. A trap set with a smirk.

The villa was nothing short of obscene in its perfection: a thatched-roof suite floating above the sea, all soft wood and sheer linen, with a private plunge pool and stairs that led straight into the ocean.

Their luggage vanished, their welcome cocktail went untouched.

When the butler left and the door clicked shut behind him, Anabelle finally turned. She exhaled as if releasing two months of pressure from her lungs.

“It’s really us,” she whispered. “No more phones. No more time zones.”

Wade dropped his bag, then stepped in close — not touching her yet, just letting the heat between them speak first.

“I’ve imagined this moment every night for weeks,” he said.

She tilted her chin up. “Then take it.”

But he didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Just there — the barest brush of lips on flushed skin. A tease. A warning.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered. “Not all at once. But slowly. You’ll forget where you end and I begin.”

She shivered — and smiled. “I need a swim,” she said, already walking toward the glass doors that opened to the sea. “Or I’m going to tear your clothes off and climb you like a tree.”

Wade watched her toss her heels aside, step straight into the plunge pool, and slip under without removing a thing.

White silk clung. Blonde hair fanned in the water. And when she surfaced — slick, shining, eyes dark with hunger — he didn’t hesitate. He followed her in, fully clothed.

The plunge pool water was warm, barely cooler than the air. Wade’s shirt ballooned around him before he peeled it off, tossing it onto the deck. Anabelle’s dress clung wetly to her curves like silk bandages, more scandalous than if she’d worn nothing at all. They moved toward each other through the water without speaking — two months of absence collapsing into heat and hunger. Salt clung to their skin. The ocean lapped below the deck like a drumbeat — steady, low, inevitable.

She wrapped her legs around his waist before he could speak again.

“I can’t wait,” she whispered, breath hot against his ear. “I don’t want gentle. Not now.”

He answered with his hands — one gripping her backside, the other threading through her soaked hair and pulling her head back until her neck arched, exposed. His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the swell of one breast. Teeth scraped skin. She gasped.

Then the world tipped.

He carried her inside, water dripping onto the polished wood floor, leaving footprints and proof. Her back met the soft edge of the bed. Wade stood over her, pulling the soaked dress up and over her head in a single motion. Her panties were next — lace, drenched, flung aside like an afterthought.

He dropped to his knees, his eyes burning up her body like a fuse.

“You know I’ve thought about this. Every night. My mouth on you. My hands holding you down.”

He spread her thighs and inhaled deeply, like her scent alone might undo him. And then he tasted her — a slow, deliberate lick that made her entire body tighten. His tongue moved with purpose, knowing her rhythms, her breaking points. Her hips bucked once, twice, before his hands clamped them down. Not yet.

When he added a finger, and then two, his movements curved into her with skilled precision. The pads of his fingers pressed against her softest place until her breath stuttered and her thighs trembled around his head. She moaned something unintelligible — half his name, half a cry.

Then it hit — hard, hot, and liquid. She let go with everything in her. It was too much. Too loud. Too honest. She could feel herself gushing, soaking his mouth, the sheets, the silence. But Wade didn’t stop. He only growled into her like he’d won a war.

And when he finally looked up, lips glistening, beard damp with her, he said only:

“We’re just getting started.”

She was still panting when he pulled her up from the edge of the bed — slick thighs trembling, chest rising like waves in a storm. Wade didn’t speak. He just lifted her by the waist, spun her effortlessly, and bent her over the wide teak desk that overlooked the ocean. The moonlight shimmered through the glass walls, painting her body in silver.

Her palms pressed flat against the wood. She arched her back. Offered everything.

He stepped behind her, slower now. Less about control, more about reverence. His hands traced her spine, then her hips, thumbs digging in just enough to ground her.

“You don’t know,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with restraint, “how much I need this.”

She looked back over her shoulder, lips parted. “Then take it.”

And he did. When he entered her, it was a single motion — deep, claiming, a groan torn from both of them. She gasped at the fullness, the stretch, the shock of it all at once. He didn’t retreat. He stayed there, buried, pulsing inside her as her body adjusted, opened, accepted.

She had never felt more owned. Or more free.

He began to move — slow at first, rolling his hips with measured control, then faster. Rougher. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. She pushed back into him, wanting more, wanting all of him. The slap of his hips, the heat of his breath on her shoulder, his fingers tightening on her wrists — she surrendered to every sensation.

And when he reached around to touch her again — that same pressure, that maddening precision — she nearly screamed. Her legs buckled. Her body spasmed around him. Her orgasm came like a tidal wave, dragging her under.

But Wade wasn’t done.

He pulled her upright, still inside her, and wrapped his arm around her throat — not tight, just enough to make her tremble. His other hand slipped between her legs again, coaxing her higher, teasing her limits. She moaned, helpless and high, melting against his chest.

Then he whispered, “One more.”

And she obeyed — not because he told her to, but because her body wanted nothing else.

She shattered again, softer this time — a cry choked in her throat, her body shaking, overflowing, undone.

And when he finally came — a deep, growled release against her neck — she felt it echo in her own chest like the breaking of a dam.

They stood there, tangled, slick, breathing each other in. Not a word between them. Just salt. And skin.

Dawn crept into the villa like a soft confession, golden light spilling across the sheets tangled around their bodies. Outside, the sea stretched to the horizon, calm and endless. Inside, silence held — thick with what they’d shared, with what still lingered beneath the surface.

Wade lay on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, chest rising slowly. Muscles spent. Mind quiet. Until he felt her.

Anabelle’s mouth was at his collarbone, then his throat — her kisses slow, deliberate, not asking permission. She moved with the confidence of someone who’d already won the case, closing arguments still echoing in the judge’s mind. She straddled his hips, bare and glistening in the morning light, hair spilling like fire over her shoulders.

“Don’t move,” she said softly, almost sweetly.

Wade opened his eyes. Her hands pinned his wrists to the mattress.

“You took last night. This morning, I take.” Her voice held no room for debate.

She kissed her way down his chest, her tongue tracing each line of muscle, each faded scar. She dragged her nails lightly down his ribs — a shiver rippled through him. When she reached his hips, she paused, looked up, and smiled—not with softness, but with intent.

Her mouth closed over him, slow and deep. She didn’t tease. She devoured. Controlled. Drove him to the edge, then stopped — just before it broke. He grunted, trying to lift his hips, but her hands held him still.

“No,” she whispered. “You wait.”

When she slid up again, she kissed him hard — lips parted, breathless — then reached to the nightstand and drew out the silk sash from her robe.

Wade’s eyes darkened. “You planned this?”

“I always plan,” she said, tying his wrists to the headboard. “I’m a lawyer, remember?”

She mounted him then, slowly, deliberately lowering herself until he filled her. Her nails raked down his chest. Her pace was slow, grinding, merciless — not seeking permission, not chasing sweetness.

She leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “You think I don’t break, Wade? I just break you instead.”

She rode him harder — head thrown back, breasts rising, eyes fierce and glowing. There was no insecurity in her. No hesitation. Just raw, feminine power uncoiled and unleashed. She used his body with the kind of grace and savagery only a woman in full command could wield.

And when she came, it was a wave crashing over a cliff — loud, trembling, unstoppable. She bit his shoulder as her climax tore through her, then reached down between them and made sure he followed, bound and broken beneath her, groaning like a man set free and undone all at once.

She held him there, deep inside, rocking once more — slower now, purposeful. Her hand on his cheek, her lips at his jawline. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered. “I want you to finish in me. I want to feel it.”

And he did — with a growl, with a flood of heat and release. His entire body jerked beneath her as he erupted inside her, helpless to anything but the power of her body, her voice, her command. She kept him buried, clutching him with her body, savouring the stretch, the fullness, the raw truth of being claimed from the inside out. Not by force, but because she let him.

She collapsed onto his chest, hair clinging to sweat-slick skin, heart pounding against his. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

The ceiling fan turned lazily above them, its rhythm barely audible over the hush of the sea beyond the glass. The room smelled of sex: skin, salt, sweat, and surrender. Light filtered through the linen curtains, soft and forgiving, painting their bodies in hues of cream and gold.

Anabelle lay across his chest, her cheek pressed to the warm skin above his heart. Her legs were tangled with his. Her body was spent — aching in places she hadn’t known could ache. She felt him inside her still, the slow leak of his release between her thighs, the slick memory of everything they’d done clinging to her skin like heat.

Wade hadn’t moved. His wrists were still bound to the headboard, loose now, but held in place by silk and something quieter, deeper — the part of him he never gave anyone. Not even the ocean.

He stared at the ceiling, chest rising beneath her in a steady rhythm. He could still taste her in his mouth. Still feel her clenched around him. Still smell her perfume tangled with the raw scent of sweat and climax.

And yet, the question had arrived — soft, unwelcome, inevitable. What now?

She stirred, slowly lifting her head. Her hair fell across his chest in waves. One of her hands reached up, brushing his arm, fingers grazing the knot she’d tied hours before. Her eyes met his.

Not a word passed between them. Because they both knew.

He was a man made for movement, for waves and wind and freedom. But now, lying here, still restrained, muscles sore and spirit quiet, he wondered if being bound to her might be its own kind of release. She’d taken him. Not just his body, but the part of him no investor pitch, no surfboard, no startup high had ever reached.

And she… she was used to power. Commanding rooms, controlling outcomes, staying three steps ahead. But here, her body humming with satisfaction and softness, her thighs sticky with the gift she’d let him give her, she wondered if letting go had been the most powerful act of all.

Neither of them moved. Because movement would mean something had ended. That the moment had passed. And neither wanted to risk finding out what was real and what had only been possible in paradise.

The fan turned. The ocean whispered. And two thoughts echoed silently between them, loud as the tide:

Could this exist out there, in the world that waits?

Or only here — in this villa, in this moment, surrounded by water, heat, and everything they’d finally dared to feel?