**Lily**
I don’t even remember how I made it up the stairs. Like, I know my legs moved, because I’m physically standing here on the upper deck with Bella, and the sun is shining, and the wind is doing that sexy little ocean whip thing to her hair – but my brain? Still stuck back on the dock. Still watching Connor’s mouth move when he said my name.
Still screaming that I just called him Connor and didn’t immediately die.
Still short-circuiting from the fact that he looked at me like I was a whole damn snack he wanted to eat standing up, one leg over his shoulder, dress bunched at my waist, knot swelling inside me while I sob through it like a ruined little virgin.
So yeah. I might be walking. I might be nodding and smiling and trying to listen to Bella rant about her boyfriend’s tight swim trunks and how she’s already planning to lose her bikini top “accidentally” at the first stop in France. But mentally?
I’m on my knees.
In his room.
Begging to be claimed.
I keep glancing over my shoulder like a little freak, hoping he’ll follow us. Just to look. Just to see my ass sway in this stupid sundress that’s riding a little too high because I wanted it to.
Just to breathe me in. Just to notice me again. But when I look back, he’s gone. Still on the dock. Talking to the captain or giving orders or whatever powerful Alpha dads do when they’re not busy starring in their daughter’s best friend’s wettest dreams.
And then suddenly.
Click. Click. Click.
Heels.
Fast, sharp, confident heels across the deck.
Bella and I both turn at the same time, and there she is – Rose.
The stewardess.
And when I say stewardess, I don’t mean flight attendant vibes. I mean ex-Victoria’s Secret model in all white linen with cheekbones carved by the Goddess herself and a clipboard that looks like it holds the secrets of everyone who’s ever sinned aboard this yacht.
“Ladies,” she says in this gorgeous, clipped, vaguely French voice. “Cabin assignments are ready. Follow me.”
Bella grins like she’s about to be escorted to her bridal suite. I follow her because I physically have no other option.
My legs move, my brain lags, and my p***y is already anticipating the walls. Like, literally. I’m walking down this gold-detailed hallway wondering how soundproof the walls are, whether I’ll be able to hear him grunting in his sleep, and what I’ll do when I catch the scent of his skin on the sheets. Because I know I will. I know his room will smell like power and danger and the cologne that ruined my life last summer.
Rose taps her clipboard and starts assigning the couples first. “Daphne and Elia – Lower Deck, Room One.”
They shuffle off like they’re already ready to f**k.
“Courtney and Chase – Lower Deck, Room Two.”
Bella leans over and whispers, “They break up twice a day but they f**k like porn stars. Just wait. You’ll hear them.”
I nod. I smile. I try to laugh like I’m not already soaking through my underwear.
“Tyler and Bella – Lower Deck, Room Three.”
Bella claps her hands. “Oh my God, I’m gonna get laid on Italian silk. Bless this boat.”
And then Rose looks up at me.
And I swear, her eyes glint. Just a little.
“Lily Vale,” she says, with that smooth, neutral voice that makes me feel like I’m about to be sacrificed to something expensive and sinful. “You’re in the Upper Deck Twin Suite. Second cabin on the right. You’ll have that half of the level to yourself.”
My heart skips.
Wait.
What?
That can’t be right.
Everyone else is on the lower deck.
Why would I-?
Then she adds, “Except for the Master Suite. That’s occupied by Mr. Blackwood.”
Mr. Blackwood.
Connor.
Connor.
Her words hit me like a goddamn bullet to the c**t.
I’m on the upper deck. With him. The two of us. Alone. Sharing air. Sharing proximity. Sharing a hallway. Sharing a f*****g wall.
I can’t breathe.
I actually can’t breathe.
Bella doesn’t say a word. She’s too busy texting her boyfriend about room service lube or whatever. Everyone else is already dragging bags and making plans for drinks. But me?
I am having a full-blown s****l identity crisis on this yacht because I just got assigned the room next to the man I have literally m*********d to in three different positions in my dreams this week.
Rose doesn’t wait for a reaction. She simply turns and walks.
So I follow.
And every step I take toward that suite feels like I’m marching into my own personal dungeon. My n*****s are hard.
My throat is dry. I swear I can already smell him through the walls. That intoxicating blend of woods, leather, and that low masculine scent that just clings to him like he was born to leave women wet and trembling in his wake.
Rose opens the door. My door.
It’s perfect. Clean. White sheets. A mirror. A window view of the ocean. Luxurious without being too try-hard. The kind of room where you either sleep like royalty or get f****d like a dirty little slut who should’ve stayed home.
“I’ll give you a moment to unpack,” she says. “Drinks will be served shortly.”
I nod. I say thank you. I barely remember closing the door.
And then I turn to face the wall.
The wall.
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