My white bikini clings to me—the triangles tiny, the strings thin. Every jump, twist, or deep breath threatens to reveal more than it already does. I know it’s drawing eyes… especially one pair in particular.
Milo’s on the opposite side with Ethan, a handful of groomsmen, old college buddies, and some of Ethan’s cousins. We’re volleying the ball over the net while Milo pretends he’s not watching me.
He’s shirtless—obviously—with navy board shorts riding low on his hips, water beading along the ridges of his abs that I want to trace with my tongue. His chest is broad, his shoulders strong and defined, and that thick trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband makes my mouth go dry every time I let myself look.
He’s staring. Not as obvious as the other guys who keep “accidentally” glancing as they adjust their sunglasses. No, Milo’s stares are quick, surgical. A flick to my chest, back to the ball, another stolen glance when he thinks I’m not looking, then back to the ball.
But I’malwayspaying attention.
He’s obsessed. He’s trying hard not to be—but he is. God help me, I fucking love it.
I love the way his throat works when he swallows hard and the way his fingers tighten around the ball like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for something else.
Aria smacks the ball over the net, and Milo tries to catch it one-handed while still watching me. It bounces off his hand and hits the net. Water sluices down his chest in rivulets as he steps forward to retrieve it. I push through the water to meet him at the net.
“Nice… form,” he murmurs, eyes drifting down my body before meeting my gaze. “Really committing to the volleyball strategy.”
I shift my weight so the bikini top pulls even tighter. “My form is impeccable. And you’re drooling.”
“I’m not drooling.”
“You’re literally swallowing.” My gaze drops to his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob again, right on cue. “See? Told you.”
He lets out a rough breath through his nose, the sound almost a growl. “You’ve been taunting me since you stepped into this pool.”
“And you’ve been watching me since then.” I lean in a fraction, close enough that my breath ghosts across his collarbone. His chest expands slowly, like he forgot how to breathe.
His hand twitches toward the net, veins standing out along his forearm. Before he can respond, Ryan—one of their college buddies, already three drinks in and wearing ridiculous neon-orange trunks—splashes Milo’s head.
“Hey! Ball! Play or forfeit!” He calls, sending another splash toward Milo.
With eyes still locked on Milo, I grab the ball, jump, and spike it hard over the net. It smacks the water with a satisfying splash, spraying Ethan and two groomsmen.
Another point for the girls.
Aria whoops from my left and high-fives me so hard my palm stings. “That’s my sister! Take that, boys!”
The game keeps going—splashing, shouting, laughter, and the occasional creative curse when someone misses. I’m everywhere: jumping for blocks, diving for saves, and cheering way too loudly every time we score.
Every movement sends water cascading down my skin. Every leap strains the bikini top dangerously. Every time I lean forward to set the ball, I feel Milo’s gaze like a physical touch.
One long rally ends with me spiking straight at his face. He blocks it instinctively, arms raised, body braced. The ball ricochets back over the net, giving them the point.
I gasp, half-laughing. “Did you just block my hit?”
“I did.”
“With your face?”
“With my arms,” he corrects, but a smirk tugs at his mouth as water drips from his lashes.
I stare at him for a beat, then burst out laughing. After that, the rallies blur together. At one point, I “accidentally” lean into the net during a block, pressing my breasts against the mesh for half a second. Milo’s eyes darken instantly, even behind the sunglasses he shoved on.
“You’re staring again...” I sing-song, swiping wet hair from my face.
“I’m observing.”
“Same difference.” I lean in, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “They’re real, by the way. And theylovebeing looked at.”
