But he never says a word, just offers his hand again like he’s inviting me into something stupid and sacred all at once, and I take it without hesitation, his fingers curling around mine as I step forward, sand shifting under my bare feet while the sun paints his skin in warm gold.
The hammock sways as I move between his legs, crowding him in, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since we hitthe beach. My hands settle on his thighs and he leans back just enough to balance, one hand braced behind him in the netting, the other still tangled with mine. His knees part wider, an inch at most, just enough to let me step closer, just enough to make it clear this is an ambush disguised as a cuddle.
“Comfy?” I ask.
“Getting there,” he says, the smile curling at the edges of his mouth betraying everything.
I run my hands up his thighs, and his breath catches. The hammock rocks gently, a soft creak in rhythm with the pulse that starts to thrum between us again.
He’s not wearing underwear. I swear this man is trying to kill me.
I press forward until our chests nearly touch, until his legs cage me in and the sway of the hammock brings our mouths a hair’s breadth apart. His lips are parted, his eyes heavy. But he doesn’t kiss me.
He just murmurs, low and teasing, “You gonna rock me to sleep, Cap?”
I grip his thighs tighter. “No, pup,” I say, voice low against his mouth. “I’m gonna make sure you can’t walk back to the villa.”
His mouth is already parted when I lean down, soft and eager and still tasting like fruit and sun. I kiss him slow, my tongue sliding against his, lips molding easily, like I’ve got all the time in the world to kiss him stupid in this swaying excuse for furniture.
And he lets me press him back just enough to angle deeper, lets his fingers curl in the front of my tank top, lets out a soft, hungry sound into my mouth that makes my grip on his thighs tighten.
He’s warm under my hands. Always warm. Always buzzing with too much energy and not enough patience, squirming like he wants more but doesn’t know what kind of more he’s asking for.
Between kisses, his voice comes out in a mumble, light and cheeky. “How about you sit down instead?”
I pull back half an inch, enough to see the glint in his eyes. He’s grinning like he thinks he just flipped the script. Like he’s in control now. Like I’m going to let him top from the hammock in the middle of our private beach and justhand overthe reins because he asked nice with mango breath and that mouth.
I raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough for his smile to twitch, and then I smirk and shove sending him rocking back into the hammock as the netting jerks and sways beneath him, the breath knocked from his lungs in a startled little gasp.
His ass drops through the ropes, one leg still hooked over the side while the other scrabbles uselessly for purchase, and he yelps, sharp and indignant, “Shit!”
I lean over him, hands braced on either side of his head, boxing him in as my voice drops low enough it feels like it could split the sky. “Pup,” I growl, “don’t test me.”
His breath stutters, pupils blowing wide, and just like that the brat drains right out of him, replaced by something soft, pliant, and very aware of exactly who he’s dealing with.
I slide my hands up slowly, dragging my palms along his thighs—fingers spreading, pressing into muscle, slow enough to make him twitch. He gasps, eyes locked on mine like he doesn’t know whether to moan or bolt.
I don’t give him a chance to choose. The second my hands reach the edge of those trunks, I curl my fingers into the waistband andtear. There’s a loudrip—satisfying and sharp—and then fabric gives. The seams split, elastic snapping against his hips, and the swimwear gives up the ghost entirely.
Elias chokes on air. “Damian!”
I shrug, letting the tattered remains flutter to the sand like evidence. “Should’ve worn something less flimsy.”
“You could’ve just pulled them off!”
“I don’t feel like backing up,” I mutter, eyes fixed on him. “And you didn’t need them anyway.”
He’s fully exposed now, cock flushed and already hard, sticky from the afterglow of last night and the friction of the hammock’s ropes against his thighs. And heknowshe looks obscene. Heknowswhat that does to me.
But that doesn’t stop him from glaring. “Those were expensive.”
I run a single finger up his inner thigh—slow and cruel. “You’re on a private beach,” I say. “Naked and begging. And you’re whining aboutswim trunks?”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something smart, then thinks better of it, shuts it again, and finally groans as his head drops back against the ropes with a muttered, wrecked, “Fuck.”
The hammock sways under him, and I lean in, dragging my fingers higher along his body—close enough to graze.
“Cap,” he whispers, breath catching.
