That has to be it. There’s no other explanation. Maybe it’s karma. I spent the first two days on this island seeking her out, watching her. And now?
Every time I turn a corner, she’s there—adjusting linen placement, nodding along with the florals team, rerouting vendors like she’s single-handedly running the show. She is, technically. But that’s not the point.
The point is I haven’t touched her in thirty-two hours, and I’m coming apart.
It shouldn’t be this hard. I’ve gone longer without sex. Much longer. I’ve never been ruled by it. I don’t need it the way some men do. I like control. Clean lines. Things that don’t get messy. And women, in my world, usually fall into two categories—temporary, or handled.
Genevieve doesn’t belong in either.
And now she’s everywhere.
Her voice on the earpiece. Her clipboard on the bar. Her citrusy vanilla scent in the corridor outside my suite. I can’t escape it.
I should be focused on the event. The networking. The feedback. The follow-up. The investors. Instead, I’m in my suite, drinking bourbon I don’t want and cataloging every breath I took the night I almost touched her the way I wanted to.
And then didn’t.
Because she’s a virgin.
And because I’m not just older. I’m decades older. I lost my virginity the year she was born. I was already making six figures before she finished middle school. She still blushes when she swears. And she wantsme.
That’s the part I can’t make sense of.
I want her. God, do I. I still feel the shape of her under my hands. Still taste her when I close my eyes. I jerked off in the shower like a goddamn teenager just to try and stave off the hunger.
It didn’t help. Nothing helps. Because even when I shut the door, cut the lights, tell myself she’s just some girl I’ll soon forget, my mind goes right back to her. The way she trembled when I touched her. The soft, desperate sound she made when I kissed her. The look in her eyes—unguarded, open, like I wasn’t just the first man to touch her that way but the only one she wanted to.
Fuck.
And maybe that’s what’s undoing me now. Not just the want, but the weight of it. I’ve been desired before, of course. I’ve had women come apart under my hands, wrap themselves around me like they thought it would tether them to something real. But this feels different. Because sheisdifferent. She’s not trying to manipulate me or please me or prove anything. She’s just...wanting.
Me.
And I have no business taking her.
I’m older. Sharper. More ruthless than she even knows. She still thinks the world can be managed with color-coded spreadsheets and scented candles. She hasn’t been in the game long enough to learn what it takes to survive it. She’s not jaded. She’s not guarded. She’snot ready.
Which is why I stopped.
And why I’ve spent the last day and a half regretting it with every goddamn breath I take.
The knock comes just after midnight.
I ignore it at first. I tell myself it’s a staff issue. Or one of the assistants with another pointless update. Security with a guest complaint. It could be anything. I don’t care. I don’t want company.
But the knock comes again—quieter this time. Hesitant.
I set the glass down and cross the suite to answer the door. It could be anyone. But I already know who it is.
Genevieve.
She’s less put together than I’ve seen her to date. Her hair is down, her face completely bare. She’s wearing the same dress she had on earlier tonight, now wrinkled and slipping off one shoulder. She’s wringing her hands, but her eyes are steady.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then she says, “I don’t want to be careful anymore.”
