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Even with his perfectly groomed and shaped beard, I can make out the tightness in his face, the ticking of his jaw.
Without taking his narrowed eyes off me, he dismisses Steffen.
“Very good, sir,” Steffen says, “The chef will have your breakfast delivered to the cabana momentarily.”
I tear my gaze from my husband to Steffen. “Thank you for looking after me, Steffen.”
He smiles and waves good-naturedly as he fires up the golf cart. “Text me if you need anything!”
I wave back and smile, ignoring whatever is wrong with Etienne. “I will!”
Late last night, after check-in, the hotel messaged both of our smartphones, providing an easy method for contacting the concierge for any needs—food, towels, booking water sports. I’d informed the annoyed chief of security that we would not need an intermediary between ourselves and the staff. The whole idea is pretentious and ridiculous to me.
Etienne must not have figured that out because he’s now even more grumpy.
“That won’t be necessary,” he grumbles, bent over, massaging the mineral sunscreen into my calves.
Despite my shifting emotions—delight at knowing my husband decided to join me on the beach, switching to irritation at his shortness with Steffen—my body likes the touch of my husband’s hands on my legs.
My stupid libido awakens again. Even after a brisk run, this man’s presence still can tease my lady parts.
Damn.
“To what do I owe this appearance, Your Highness? I’d thought you were taking a nap,” I say.
He grunts, massaging the stuff into the backs of my knees. It tickles, and I bite back a laugh.
“Sleeping at 7 a.m. is not napping, Princess. It’s called sleeping. Getting the full eight hours. But that was next to impossible with the way we left things. And then I find you prancing on the beach with Steffen, which didn’t sit well with me.”
Didn’t sit well? “What do you mean, prancing? What’s wrong with Steffen?”
Etienne moves around to my front and levels me with a stern gaze. He doesn’t answer at first but squirts more sunscreen into the palm of his hand. The farting noise of the bottle makes me stifle a giggle. What can I say? As a child, I was never permitted to laugh at farts around my stepmother. Bottle farts or bodily farts.
He rubs the lotion between his hands and then lowers his coated fingers to the exposed skin on my breastbone. He pauses before touching me, asking the question with his eyes.
I gaze into those gorgeous grays and feel my pulse quicken. With a little nod from me, he proceeds. I don’t want to tell him that I already covered that spot.
“Steffen is a little too attentive to my bride.” He emphasizes “bride” while a lotion-covered thumb works up and down my breastbone.
My heart races just under his smooth touch.
Is Etienne…jealous?
“That’s his job,” I say with a weak laugh, even as my nipples tighten again. Thank the gods for decent sports bras that smash everything in place and hide any evidence of heaving bosoms and taut nipples.
If only the humorous bottle farting lessened the desire building in my body the more Etienne touches me.
His hands massage the lotion over the visible skin of my chest, and some of the not-so-exposed skin. His fingers slide under the fabric at the vee-shaped neckline of my body-hugging spandex top. My hidden muscles flex with desire as my arousal spikes.
Oh my.
“His job is to make dinner reservations. Not to put his hands on my wife.”
He grits out the last word between clenched teeth.
Oh god.
Etienne is indeed jealous and called me wife without a hint of sarcasm.
