“I mean, yes—but how? You—”
She didn’t get to finish the sentence. He gently pushed her forward, sliding off the board and into the water, then guided her to the edge of the paddleboard. Her bikini bottoms were gone before she could blink, his movements sure and unrelenting.
The thrill of being exposed, of maybe being seen, sent another wave of heat through her. And then his mouth was on her.
His arms anchored him against the board, his face buried between her legs as she gripped the edge with white-knuckled fingers. His tongue licked up her wetness, teasing her clit before diving deeper, relentless and hungry.
“Look at me,” he growled, biting softly at her thigh. “Look at how I lick your sweet cunt while I’m rising out of the sea like a fucking god.”
She looked. And it was a vision. His tawny skin, the glint of salt water in his curls, the raw, possessive focus in his hazel eyes. His stubble scratched deliciously against her skin, his tongue moving in long, languid strokes as two fingers slid inside her, stretching her just right.
She moaned. Loud. Her entire body tensed, on the edge, her core clenching around his fingers.
“Ilias,” she gasped, her legs shaking.
He sucked her clit harder, his hands steadying her, owning her. And then she came with a cry, her head thrown back, breath ragged, the quiet cove echoing her release.
He grinned up at her, lips wet with her taste. “You’re so fucking sweet and salty. God, I love you.”
She was still panting as he pulled himself back onto the board, straddling it behind her, wrapping his arms tight around her waist.
“We should definitely do this more often,” he murmured, nuzzling into her shoulder.
And right then, with the sea surrounding them and the sun rising higher in the sky, she silently agreed. She was totally okay with his idea.
52
ILIAS
IDGAF – Dua Lipa
Gabriella had suggestedhe record the call. When he’d asked if it was even legal, she’d just shrugged with a knowing look. If it could help frame that obsessive prick down the line, Ilias didn’t care either way.
Sofia had offered to stay nearby, but he preferred to do it alone. Walking into the garden, he sought the illusion of privacy even if everyone was only a few meters away. All of them well aware of what was about to go down.
He dialed the number—one Sofia had reluctantly given him—and after the second ring, Thomas answered.
“Thomas Whitmore, hello.”
“Hi, Thomas. Do you remember me? I’m Ilias Ríos El Idrissi.”
A pause. Just a second too long. “Who gave you my number?”
“I know what you’re doing in Imsouane.”
“Ah, you want to talk business?”
“I think it’s anything but business with you.”
Thomas scoffed. That smug, dismissive sound made Ilias want to punch him through the phone.
“Since when are you interested in Imsouane? In Morocco in general? Aren’t you a marine biologist?” Ilias asked, voice even.
“I was looking into your background,” Thomas replied coolly. “Wanted to make sure Sofia was dating someone who deserved her. Turns out your dad was a pathetic excuse for a businessman with debt wrapped around his neck. You paid it off, I’ll give you that. But then I looked into your little hometown and... it’s charming, very interesting for foreigners in Morocco. And your dream of turning Azul into a surf retreat center? You gave me a great idea.”
“You don’t give a fuck about surf culture or Morocco.”
“I don’t,” Thomas admitted easily. “But I’m a businessman.”
