PART 3

The boat cut through the late afternoon sea like a whispered promise. Fred stood barefoot at the bow, wind tugging at his open linen shirt, the salt air clinging to his skin. Behind him, the hum of the motor faded beneath the low pulse of music and the sound of laughter — female, warm, effortless.

The girls were already aboard when he arrived — sun-kissed, glowing, their energy a magnet. Elena greeted him with a smile that lingered just a moment too long, her eyes saying what her lips didn’t. Savannah, in a crimson wrap, had leaned in close and murmured, “We were about to start without you.” She hadn’t needed to say what.

He sat beside Elena as the boat picked up speed, the cushions warm from their bodies and the sun. Her fingers brushed his thigh, casual but charged. Across from them, Savannah lounged with her legs stretched long, wine glass in hand, watching. Not staring — watching. Like someone who already knew how the evening would end.

They arrived just as the sun began to melt into the horizon — Bamboo Island glowing gold and amber, a smear of paradise. The three stepped into the shallows, the water warm around their ankles. Sand clung to their feet as they made their way toward the low canopy set up under whispering palms. Tiki torches flickered in the softening light, casting shadows that danced like secrets.

Under the canopy was a low table draped in linen, a cooler heavy with bottles, bowls of cut fruit, and plush cushions scattered like the remnants of a dream. Music played softly — something tropical, nostalgic, with a lazy beat that moved like honey.

They ate with their fingers — mango slices, pineapple, papaya — and passed drinks hand to hand. Elena leaned in close, brushing against Fred’s arm, her voice low at his ear. “She’s not done with you,” she said, nodding toward Savannah, who was now walking by — slow, barefoot, dragging a finger across Fred’s chest without stopping.

“Neither are you,” Savannah murmured, catching his eye as she passed.

There was no rush, no awkwardness — only heat and the illusion that time had paused. When the sun dropped fully behind the ocean’s edge, Elena stood and walked to Savannah. No words. Just a look. A moment later, their lips met — soft at first, then deeper, slower. It was not for show. It was real. Intimate. Fred felt his breath catch in his chest.

When they pulled apart, Savannah turned to him. Her voice was smooth, teasing, certain. “Come with us.”

He followed.

The last stretch of sunlight slipped behind the limestone cliffs as they stepped barefoot onto the warm sand, the boat engine quieting behind them. Bamboo Island was nearly deserted, save for the canopy and tiki torches set ahead, flickering to life in the gathering twilight. The air was soft — thick with salt, distant jasmine, and the faint rhythm of a speaker tucked somewhere under the canopy playing an old jazz tune with a lazy, sultry swing.

Fred’s shirt was already open. His skin glowed with salt and heat, a thin line of sweat tracing his sternum. Elena brushed past him first, her sarong knotted loosely at her hip, back bare, hair wild from the wind. Savannah followed, her steps slower, deliberate — each toe sinking into the sand, dress grazing her thighs like a whisper. She met his gaze briefly, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

They settled onto the cushions — a triangle of limbs and wine glasses. Fred poured champagne into low, sweating tumblers. The bubbles caught firelight. He passed one to Savannah, then Elena, their fingers brushing his a moment too long. Conversation blurred — stories half-told, laughter slipping between touches that lingered.

Elena leaned into him, her cheek grazing his shoulder, voice low against his ear. “She hasn’t stopped looking at you since the boat.”

Fred turned just as Savannah sank onto the cushion across from him, knees bent, dress parted. Her thigh brushed his as she reached for her drink. “Neither have you,” he said, quietly.

She smiled and stretched, the fabric slipping farther. The scent of sun-warmed skin and something sweet — coconut oil and her perfume — drifted to him. Then she leaned in, took the bottle, refilled all three glasses. Her fingers brushed his again. Purposefully.

The music changed — slower, thicker, like the air around them. Elena slid closer. Her leg draped over his lap, wine still in her hand. “You’re tense,” she said, running a finger down his neck.
Savannah circled behind him, fingers brushing his shoulders. “Let us help.”

Then came the kiss.

Not one. Not even two. But a slow, shared initiation. Elena’s lips brushed his first — soft, curious. Then Savannah, bolder, mouth open, breath warm. They circled him, trading glances and contact. Fingers traced his spine, lips grazed his jaw, heat pressed in from both sides. His pulse kicked hard beneath his skin.

They weren’t in a rush — and yet, everything about it felt inevitable.

Fred’s breath was unsteady. Elena’s hand found his chest, palm flat over his heart. Savannah knelt beside him now, eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“This,” she whispered, “is just the beginning.”

The boat rocked gently as it pulled away from Bamboo Island, cutting across a sea of molten bronze. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon, leaving behind a wash of lavender and gold that shimmered across the water. Fred sat between them — Elena curled against his right shoulder, her hand resting low on his thigh, and Savannah to his left, one knee drawn up, her chin resting on it, eyes fixed on the darkening sky.

No one spoke much. But the silence wasn’t empty — it pulsed. Fred could still feel the taste of Elena’s lip gloss, the imprint of Savannah’s fingernails in his shoulder. Every breath he drew was thick with salt, with perfume, with possibility.

The wind teased the hem of their dresses, tugging at loose strands of hair. Elena reached for his hand without looking. Savannah pressed her bare foot lightly against his ankle.

By the time the boat nosed into the resort’s jetty, the air was cooler, but the heat between them hadn’t faded. If anything, it had concentrated — simmered low and steady beneath their skin.

The night air clung to their skin, warm and fragrant with sea salt, jasmine, and something almost electric in the stillness. As the longtail boat bumped gently against the shore, they stepped barefoot onto the sand, their footprints trailing behind like secrets. The path to the villa flickered with soft torchlight, each flame dancing in rhythm with the breeze, casting gold across their shoulders.

Fred carried Elena’s sandals, forgotten now, dangling from his fingers. Savannah moved just ahead, her half-loose wrap slipping with every step, hips swaying, skin still glistening from the swim. Their laughter came easily—low, breathless, private—the kind shared only by people who had already crossed the point of no return.

At the villa door, Savannah turned, her smile all mischief and fire. Without pause, she let her bikini top slide from her shoulders. It whispered to the floor, silk kissing tile. She stepped inside, bare-chested, framed in lantern light that glowed honey-gold across the walls and the flowing white netting of the four-poster bed. The sheets were rumpled—inviting, expectant—as though they already knew what was coming.

Fred followed with Elena still in hand. She paused just past the threshold, the air heavier now, charged with unsaid things. Her eyes met his—not shy anymore, but deep with something bolder. A permission. A dare. She dropped her wrap, letting it puddle at her feet, leaving only a pale blue thong clinging to her hips, still damp from the ocean. Her skin gleamed under the golden glow, tasting of salt and sun.

She stepped into him, slowly, purposefully, kissing him with a hunger that startled even her—no longer hesitant, but claiming. Her hands found the buttons of his shirt, undoing each with a patience that belied the fire in her breath. When it fell open, she pressed her palms to his chest, trailing downward, feeling every line of him with reverence and need.

Fred stood still, breath caught in his throat. He was undone by her. And she knew it.

Savannah’s voice came behind them, low and amused. She moved like liquid heat, pressing against Elena’s back, her hands tracing the blonde’s waist with a possessive ease. One practiced flick, and the thong slipped away. Elena exhaled sharply—half gasp, half surrender—as the air kissed her bare skin.

Savannah didn’t stop. She dropped to her knees behind her, pressing her lips to the base of Elena’s spine, then slowly, maddeningly, kissed her way upward. Her tongue, soft and sure, mapped each vertebra with a devotion that made Elena tremble. Her hands gripped Elena’s hips—guiding, grounding—as her breath traced fire up her back.

Fred watched. Silenced. Stunned. A mix of reverence and raw ache building under his skin.

Savannah looked up, her lips parted slightly, her eyes locked on Fred’s over Elena’s shoulder.

“She’s ready,” she said, her voice like velvet. “But are you?”

The air tightened. Tension—thick, intimate, electric—pressed against them like a second skin.

Fred stepped forward, closing the space. He cupped Elena’s face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, and kissed her again. Slower. Deeper. The kind of kiss that carried weight and promise. Behind her, Savannah’s hands never left her skin, drawing patterns across her hips, her thighs, featherlight and knowing.

The lanterns swayed in the wind. The nets lifted and fell, brushing cool air across their backs. The scent of the sea mixed with skin and something spiced—vanilla and citrus lingering on the sheets, in their hair, in their mouths.

Their breath became a language. Fingers traced syllables. Bodies learned rhythm.

Fred’s hands began to move—mapping her, worshipping her, memorising every soft swell and curve he’d only imagined. Savannah circled them like smoke, her presence weaving between them, igniting without rushing. She pressed kisses to Elena’s shoulder, then Fred’s collarbone, her mouth trailing between their heat.

Elena tilted her head and whispered something only Fred could hear—half question, half promise. His lips brushed her temple as he nodded. No words needed.

The bed waited, its sheets folded down like an open invitation, nets curling in the breeze.

They moved together—three bodies, one momentum. No more hesitation. Just breath and pulse, want and wonder, ache and awe. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t burn—it blooms.

And outside, the island exhaled around them. Waves broke softly in the distance. The moon hung low, full and quiet, a patient witness to the fire inside.

The mattress gave slightly under Fred’s weight as the girls guided him backward, the white netting billowing above like a slow breath. Lanternlight flickered against their skin — gold on tan, on pale, on flushed. Savannah pressed him into the pillows with a gentle firmness, her knee sliding up between his thighs, Elena moving to the foot of the bed with silent intent.

Fred's chest rose and fell, his breath uneven now. Elena’s fingers skimmed his waist, tracing the edge of his shorts as if they were an idea she was still deciding whether to complete. Savannah leaned over him, her hands warm and commanding, brushing his hair back before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Relax,” she whispered, her voice like honey poured over heat. “Let us do this.”

Elena's lips met the skin just above his waistband — soft, reverent kisses, each one trailing fire. She kissed lower, along his stomach, his hips, the inside of his thighs. Her hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder, the scent of salt and something sweet — coconut, maybe — surrounding him. Savannah straddled him higher up, undoing the button of his shorts with a playful flick, dragging the fabric down slowly, deliberately, like peeling away armor.

The fabric slipped off and was tossed aside, forgotten. Fred’s hands clenched at the sheets, but the girls touched him before he could move — Elena with her mouth, Savannah with her hands, their rhythm unspoken but seamless. Teasing. Exploring. Claiming.

Fred groaned — the sound unguarded, low in his throat. Savannah chuckled darkly.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmured. “We’re just getting started.”

They moved like water, like a tide with no retreat. Fred’s head rolled back against the pillows, his vision narrowing to feeling, to heat, to breath and skin and scent. The air was thick now, layered with sweat and sea breeze and the faint perfume of the sheets — a blend of frangipani and desire.

Then Elena rose.

She slid her body up over his, her legs straddling his hips, eyes locked on his. No hesitation — just heat, just need. Her hands braced against his chest as she sank slowly down, her breath catching halfway through the motion. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a perfect, silent gasp.

Fred reached for her, but she took his wrists and pinned them to the bed, holding him there — not out of dominance, but because she needed to feel in control, just once, of her own release.

She moved — unsure at first, but growing into it. Her rhythm built, hips circling, rising and falling with increasing certainty. Her small breasts bounced with every motion, her cheeks flushed. Savannah came behind her, wrapping arms around her torso, hands spreading across her stomach and ribs, grounding her, anchoring her.

“You like the way he fills you, baby?” she whispered against Elena’s ear, her voice a shiver. “You look so fucking good taking him.”

Elena moaned, head falling back onto Savannah’s shoulder, mouth open, hands gripping Fred’s chest for balance. Her movements became erratic — needier, more desperate. Savannah’s hand slipped lower, fingers finding the heat between her legs, stroking in tight, slow circles.

The sound Elena made was no longer sweet. It was broken. Raw.

Her body seized, a tremor rolling through her. Then she cried out — no words, just sound — as she came against him, back arched, thighs quivering, skin slick with sweat and sensation. Savannah held her through it, whispering encouragement, praise, filth and devotion all at once.

When Elena collapsed forward, breathless and spent, Savannah kissed her neck, then her shoulder, then her lips. It started gentle, then deepened — slow, wet, unhurried. Fred watched, chest heaving, his own body aching. Still rock hard  and aching having not been allowed to release.

Savannah didn’t stop touching her — fingers sliding lower again, never breaking rhythm.

“You feel how wet she is?” Savannah murmured, looking at Fred as her fingers curled between Elena’s legs. “This is yours. But she’s mine, too.”

Fred could only nod, lost in it.

Savannah’s hand was slick now, her fingers shining as she brought them to her lips and tasted her friend. Then she slid between Fred’s legs, lowering herself onto his thigh — her skin hot, her movements deliberate. She faced Elena, who was still trembling, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes.

With one hand, Savannah reached down and began to touch herself — slow, focused, her breath quickening. Her other hand cupped Elena’s breast, thumb brushing the peak, coaxing more softness from her. They kissed again — this time deeper, hungrier, mouths open, tongues meeting.

Fred’s thigh flexed beneath Savannah, and she gasped, grinding harder, her fingers stroking faster, her moans muffled into Elena’s mouth.

And then she came.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical. It was a slow unraveling — her body shaking, her hand going still, her lips still pressed to Elena’s, breath catching in tiny bursts. She collapsed forward, forehead against Elena’s shoulder, her voice a whisper.

“Fuck... yes…”

The room stilled.

Only breath. Only the soft sway of the netting. The wind brushing against their skin like a blessing. The flicker of candles, low and golden.

Fred reached out — not to claim, but to join.

He pulled Elena gently back toward him, laying her flat across the pillows. Savannah moved beside her, kissing her fingers, her shoulder, her throat. Fred lowered himself between Elena’s thighs, watching her face as he kissed her inner thigh, then closer. Her breath hitched again. She was already trembling.

Savannah rolled onto her back, chest heaving, legs still parted from the wave that had just crashed through her. But Elena wasn’t finished.

She moved with purpose now—shoulders back, hair wild, mouth slick with want. She kissed Savannah once, deep and devouring, then climbed over Fred without even looking at him. She straddled his hips in a single, fluid motion, her knees bracketing his waist, her hands on his chest.

But this time, Savannah wasn’t just watching.

She knelt behind Elena and pulled her back gently, holding her, whispering something into her ear. Then she reached between them, guided Fred’s cock up, and pressed Elena’s body forward—offering him to herself.

But Elena shook her head and slid off to the side.

“No,” she said, breathless. “It’s your turn.”

Before either of them could respond, she pushed Savannah down flat again and climbed over her, swinging a leg across her hips and lowering herself between her thighs. Her mouth met Savannah’s folds with a hunger that was raw and reverent, moaning softly as she tasted everything—the sea salt, the sweat, and unmistakably… him.

Fred’s hands trembled.

Savannah arched beneath Elena’s tongue, her voice catching in her throat. Her legs wrapped around Elena’s shoulders, breath turning sharp. Elena devoured her without restraint, fingers gripping the backs of Savannah’s thighs, pressing her open, holding her still.

Fred couldn’t take it.

He moved forward, sliding in behind Savannah, hands running up her sides, then lower—gripping her hips as he knelt between her legs. Savannah’s body opened instinctively, and when Fred pressed into her, she gasped—already full of sensation, now filled entirely.

“Jesus,” Fred groaned, thrusting deep. “You feel… unreal.”

Savannah reached for Elena’s head, fingers tangled in blonde waves, trying to hold onto something as Fred began to move. His rhythm built fast—driven by days of want and the vision of these two goddesses tangled in pleasure beneath him.

He tried to hold back.

Savannah looked over her shoulder, a flush blooming across her skin, and smiled darkly.

“Come inside me,” she said, voice steady. “Now.”

That was all it took.

Fred came with a growl, his hands gripping Savannah's waist, his body locking as pleasure broke over him in heavy, shattering waves. She moaned at the feeling of him filling her, hips pushing back, matching his final thrusts until he stilled.

He collapsed onto his elbows, breathless, spent—completely undone.

But Elena... wasn’t done.

Fred sat up slowly, stunned and spent and hard all over again, watching Elena’s body move — her back arched, hips rising, thighs parted. She looked like worship and war at once, her tongue unrelenting, her fingers digging into Savannah’s hips as if to anchor herself through the storm.

Then Elena lifted her head for just a second, her mouth wet, her voice raw and commanding: “Get behind me, Fred. Fuck me. Don’t wait.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in velvet and steel.

Fred didn’t think. He moved.

Elena stayed bent low over Savannah, ass high and glistening, flushed and open, every line of her trembling with invitation. Fred knelt behind her, hands gripping her hips, breath caught as he guided himself in. He thrust hard.

Elena cried out — sharp, high, primal. Her hands clenched the sheets on either side of Savannah’s thighs. She didn’t stop licking. If anything, she got hungrier, her moans vibrating against Savannah’s core.

Fred’s rhythm was unrelenting now — every thrust deep, deliberate, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing under the soft rustle of netting. Her ass bounced with each motion, glowing pink where he had slapped her before, the imprint of his hand still blooming.

He raised his hand again. Let it fall. Again.

Elena jerked under him, moaning into Savannah.

“You dirty little thing,” Fred growled, his voice ragged. “You wanted this all along.”

“Yes,” Elena gasped, barely able to form the word. “Use me. I’m your slut. Fill me. Spank me again.”

Fred’s hand slipped lower. His fingers teased the tight rim of her ass, wet and slick from the heat of her own arousal. She screamed into Savannah, the sound muffled and broken, her thighs shaking violently as her orgasm crashed over her — a torrent, a pulse, a surrender. She squirted, her whole body shaking as Fred kept moving, kept owning.

Savannah’s hand reached back blindly, finding Elena’s clit, rubbing her through it, moaning into the air, breath catching.

Fred couldn’t hold back.

His rhythm broke, his breath caught, his entire body locking up as he buried himself to the hilt and let go. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat as he came — inside her, deep and complete, every inch of him folding into hers.

Elena clenched around him, shaking, moaning, gasping into Savannah’s skin.

Savannah’s back arched as Elena’s mouth pushed her over the edge again — her thighs locking tight around her friend’s head, her voice raw and real, hands fisting the sheets.

For a moment, time stilled. Then breath returned — ragged, tangled, grateful.

Fred collapsed backward, chest rising like a drumbeat, eyes fluttering closed. The room smelled of sex, of heat, of sweat and salt and candle wax. The air buzzed with something sacred and spent.

Savannah was the first to move.

She crawled over to Fred, straddling him lazily, then bent down and kissed him — slow, open, deep. Her mouth trailed downward, lips brushing his chest, his stomach, then lower. She licked him — slow, deliberate — tasting all of it: him, Elena, the night. Then she kissed her way back up and curled beside him.

Elena joined them, her body still trembling, breath shaky. She tucked herself against Fred’s chest, hair wild, lips parted, the glow of climax still burning in her eyes. Savannah curled behind her, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder, one hand lazily stroking her thigh.

The three of them lay in a tangle of skin and breath and bliss and bodily fluids.

Candles flickered. The white netting swayed softly. The sea whispered beyond the villa walls.

Fred exhaled, finally finding his voice. “That… was impossible.”

But even as the afterglow settled around them, something flickered in the back of Fred’s mind — a quiet whisper of reality trying to reassert itself. What happened tonight wasn’t just wild. It wasn’t just lust. It had weight. And weight had a way of pulling things — feelings, consequences, people — into places you couldn’t always control. He pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, just behind the edge of pleasure.

Savannah chuckled, her fingers drawing lazy circles on Elena’s hip. “No, lover. That was just night one.”

They lay in a breathless heap — skin against skin, sweat cooling under the netting, the candles flickering low. Fred rolled to the side, dazed, every nerve still humming. And as the moon hung still and low above the island, Elena pressed a kiss to Fred’s shoulder, her voice a hush against his skin.

“Now you know who we really are.”

Fred blinked. Her words landed heavier than he expected. He’d been caught in the swirl of pleasure and chaos, but she had been watching the moments that mattered. “I didn’t realise,” he said, voice low.

She nodded. “I know.” Her hand slipped onto his chest, fingers splayed like she was checking if his heart was really there. “But I did.”

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and salt and something softer—like jasmine and skin and sunlight. Morning had come gently, folding over the villa in waves of golden light, pouring through the gauzy white curtains that stirred in the ocean breeze. The room was a canvas of aftermath: sheets tangled, pillows scattered, footprints still faintly pressed into the wood of the terrace.

Fred stirred first.

His head turned toward the soft sigh beside him. Elena’s leg was thrown over his, her cheek nestled against his shoulder, golden hair tousled across his chest. She breathed slow and deep, lips slightly parted, her body warm and bare against his. On the other side, Savannah lay half on her stomach, arm flung across the bed, one knee bent, her back rising and falling like a calm tide.

The night still clung to them.

He could taste it—Savannah’s kiss in the corner of his mouth, Elena’s skin still sweet against his neck. Every muscle ached in the best possible way.

A gull cried distantly. The sea whispered beyond the trees. Somewhere a chime rang, the breeze catching it just enough to make it sing.

Savannah moved first. She shifted, stretched like a cat, and looked over her shoulder with a lazy smile that held no questions. She climbed over him without a word. Her hips lowered, guiding herself onto him slowly, smoothly, her eyes never leaving his. Fred gasped—half in surprise, half in wonder. She pressed a finger to his lips.

“No talking,” she murmured, rolling her hips once. “Feel.”

Elena stirred, blinked, and smiled like she was waking into a dream. She crawled forward, kissing Fred’s chest, then Savannah’s shoulder, trailing her lips to her neck. The three of them moved as one, bodies overlapping, breath syncing, heat rising again—not sharp like before, but steady. Inevitable.

They shifted out to the terrace, still naked, still weightless. The wooden deck was warm beneath their feet, the sheer curtains lifting around them like wings. Just beyond, the sea shimmered in early light. They were visible, just barely—if anyone looked, if anyone dared.

Fred leaned back against the cushioned lounger. Savannah straddled him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, her movements slow now, sensual, controlled. Elena knelt behind her, fingers trailing down her spine, then between her legs, teasing her tight little rosebud as Fred filled her pussy. Her mouth followed, kissing the dip of her back, the edge of her waist.

Elena’s fingers moved with purpose — not inside, but pressed firmly against Savannah’s clit, and rosebud drawing smooth circles while her mouth kissed lower. Fred filled her from below, each thrust driving Savannah further into Elena’s waiting hands and lips. The pressure built between them — Fred’s fullness, Elena’s rhythm, Savannah’s breath catching between sighs.

Savannah moaned—soft and real—as Elena’s fingers slipped inside her tight rosebud, tongue teasing her clit while Fred filled her from below, completely. It was wordless.

Fred’s hands held Savannah’s hips; one slid forward, into Elena’s hair, guiding her gently. Their bodies pulsed in time, each movement shared, each sensation echoed through all three of them. Savannah trembled first.

Fred felt it—her breath catching, her body tightening around him as she came, her hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in hard, her head falling back. Elena pressed her mouth harder, tasting every twitch, her own breath ragged.

Fred groaned, barely holding on. He buried his face in Savannah’s neck as he came inside her, arms tightening around her waist, everything in him pouring into the moment, into her.

And Elena— Elena came last.

Not from touch, not even from pressure, but from being there—between them, inside them, part of them. Her moan was quieter, but full. Her thighs clenched, her head resting against Savannah’s back, hands gripping both of them as if she couldn’t hold the moment in.

They collapsed together—sweaty, smiling, tangled limbs on the lounger, the ocean breeze cooling their skin. Savannah laughed first, low and wicked. “Now that’s how you start a fucking Sunday.”

Elena giggled — the sound light, crystalline — and kissed Fred’s chest. He smiled without opening his eyes.

The sun had climbed a little higher now, casting amber ribbons across the lounger where the three of them lay tangled in the afterglow. Their bodies were sticky with salt and sweat, skin flushed and glowing. Savannah lay draped across Fred’s chest, one leg over his, a lazy smile curving her lips. Elena was nestled along his side, fingers tracing idle circles over his ribcage, her head resting in the dip of his shoulder.

They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t need to. The world was warm and slow. The ocean murmured beyond the trees. Somewhere, a cicada buzzed lazily in the heat.

Eventually, they rose, reluctant but unhurried. The outdoor shower misted them clean, the water soft and cool as it slid down flushed skin. They took turns shampooing salt from each other’s hair, laughing when the wind blew the curtain aside. No shame. No tension. Just skin, soap, and smiles.

Elena slipped into a soft sundress afterward, pale peach and barely clinging to her hips. She didn’t bother with a bra. Her hair was still damp, curling gently at the ends. Savannah wore a bikini beneath a loose cotton shirt, the bottom buttons left open, her legs long and golden. Fred pulled on linen shorts and an unbuttoned shirt, towel slung around his neck, chest still warm from where they’d slept.

Breakfast was waiting on the deck — fresh pineapple, still chilled from the fridge, scrambled eggs with herbs, a carafe of iced coffee sweating on the tray. Glasses of juice caught the light like melted gemstones.

They sat cross-legged on cushions, sharing bites from each other’s plates. Elena fed Fred a piece of pineapple, sticky juice running down her wrist. Savannah dipped her toast in his coffee just to see his face when she ate it. They kissed between sips. Laughed between mouthfuls. Every now and then, one of them would just lean in and rest their forehead against the other, still a little drunk on closeness.

It wasn’t a morning-after. It was a morning still inside the dream. The villa was quieter now.

Their bags were packed, the bed made. The scent of skin and night and heat still lingered faintly in the air, but the energy had shifted — not cold, not gone, just… settled. Like a flame had burned bright and now flickered with contentment.

Fred walked them down the path to the pier. The water shimmered silver-blue, the longtail boat rocking gently against the dock. The same boat that had brought them in. Only now, something was different. Something in him.

Savannah turned to him first. She grabbed his shirt, pulled him close, and kissed him like it still mattered — deep, hot, tasting of goodbye and triumph. When she pulled back, her eyes were gleaming.

Elena stepped in next, softer, slower. She cupped his cheek with both hands and kissed him as though sealing something — not the end, but the memory. When she pulled back, she smiled. “Don’t overthink it,” she said. “It was perfect.”

Savannah grinned as she stepped onto the boat. “We’ll see you again. Or we won’t. But either way, we’ll remember you… every time we crave more than just good sex.”

Fred stayed at the edge of the pier as the boat drifted away.

The sun caught the water in dancing sparks. The two women sat on the bow, laughing, hair whipping in the breeze, already slipping back into their own world — but carrying him with them in some secret way.

They didn’t look back. They didn’t need to.

The boat was nearly gone now — a streak of motion against the gilded ocean, shrinking toward the horizon. Fred stood barefoot at the edge of the pier, hands loose, wind threading through the open buttons of his linen shirt. The sun, already past its mid-day point, beginning its descent, gilded the waves with light so soft it felt like memory. Behind him, silence had returned to the island, but their laughter still echoed in his mind — Savannah’s bright and wild, Elena’s velvet-soft and unguarded.

Then only the hush remained — the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything. He walked back slowly, the sand warm and grainy beneath his feet, clinging to his damp ankles. The path curved gently through sea grass and flowering torch lilies, leading him up the slope toward his own villa — a private cocoon perched just above the treeline, its wooden deck wrapped in trailing bougainvillea. The carved teak door was closed now, but not locked. Inside, the stillness was thick with memory. The air carried the remnants of salt, heat, and something more intimate — the mingled scent of jasmine, candle wax, and warm skin still woven into the netting that hung above the bed like a veil.

He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to replay it all. His body already was. He picked up the in-room phone. “A bottle of Glenmorangie Signet,” he said. “One large bucket of ice. And a crystal tumbler. Heavy.”

There was the briefest pause on the other end. “Of course, Mr. Brandt. Delivered shortly.”

The knock came soft — precise, almost respectful. Fred opened the door shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder, the sea still drying in the creases of his skin. The staff member entered without comment, placing the silver tray on the teak table with reverent efficiency.

Cut-glass tumbler. Three-inch cubes. The Signet’s dark amber catching the last light like molten gold.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “No questions?”

The man smiled faintly. “Not my place, sir.”

Fred nodded, shutting the door behind him.

He stepped onto the deck, where the air had cooled just enough to lift the sweat from his skin. The sea stretched out in liquid silver. Far below, the sounds of life drifted up — a scooter rattling somewhere inland, a child laughing near the docks, the faint thump of bass from a beach bar already warming up for night.

He dropped into the lounger with a sigh — not of exhaustion, but of release. Three cubes clinked into the glass. Sharp. Clean. Final.

He poured generously. Not rushed. Not stingy. The kind of pour that required no company and no apology.

He didn’t drink immediately. Just held the glass — felt the chill against his palm, watched the beads of condensation form and slide. The scent rose to meet him: oak, burnt orange, a curl of chocolate and smoke. The moment asked for nothing but presence. And so he gave it.

The book sat untouched beside him — The Billionaire Career: How Power Shapes Men Who Shape the World. He let its pages flutter in the wind. It belonged to another version of him — the version that thought strategy and silence were the same thing.

Instead, he reached for the sketchpad.

He flipped past blueprints and facades, mechanical arcs, neat lines. Then found the first clean page and let his pencil hover. Not from indecision — but from reverence. Something inside him had shifted. Opened.

He began to draw.

The inward curve of a woman’s spine. The hollow just above the hips. The slope of a thigh barely intersecting. A second silhouette, not complete — more suggestion than structure. Loose strands of hair. A bent knee. A kiss half-given.

It wasn’t graphic. It didn’t need to be. It was presence. Memory. Reverence. The kind of touch that lingers longer in the mind than it ever could in flesh.

He kept drawing, one line at a time — not chasing perfection, but capturing the echoes.

When the light shifted, long and golden and low, Fred finally took a sip. The whiskey bloomed across his tongue — rich and rounded, smoky at the edge, with a sweetness that surprised him. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

Not because he needed to forget. But because he’d finally remembered something about himself. He smiled — the kind that came from deep inside, quiet and honest.

He didn’t need to keep them. That had never been the point. But they had kept something of him — and left something in return. Something messy and warm and entirely real.

And that, he thought, was more than enough.

END.