Play Along

His pants tighten beneath me, a hard, undeniable presence pressing against my bottom. And a breath escapes my mouth—embarrassing and airy. It was definitely a sound of pleasure, not fear.

Really, Willa? Moaning? While the plane is falling out of the sky and you’re straddling a self-obsessed jerk?

“Keep your mouth shut, or I won’t be responsible for what I do to you,” he murmurs, his tone deadly serious, a raw promise that made my stomach clench.

What might he do to me? My mind races, conjuring immediate, dangerous images. I can’t breathe. The plane doesn’t have enough oxygen for this level of internal combustion.

“You are so abrasive,” I mutter through clenched teeth, leaning away slightly, trying to find a breath of personal space.

“Abrasive is who I am. And if you’d fastened your seatbelt, you’d be safer than you are with me.” He adjusted himself again, a slight shift of his hips that made my breath hitch. His fingers, still clamped on my waist, brush my thigh, sending a jolt of heat through the thin fabric of my leggings.

“I can smell your arousal from here.”

I squint at him, fury finally overcoming the sheer terror. Who says that? “I don’t like attractive, abrasive men.” I lied, trying to sound aloof, trying to sound like I wasn't currently glued to his lap.

“You find me attractive?”

“I’m not the one shamelessly having a hard-on.”

“Minx,” he retorts, a faint smirk finally touching his lips, his chin resting on my shoulder. The name was a challenge.

Then he inhales me. A slow, deep, deliberate breath that pulled my scent into his lungs.

Actually inhales me.

Heat floods down my body, and my breath catches painfully. This sudden, intimate invasion was the last straw. The turbulence was calming down, but the storm in my head was just starting.

This vacation hasn’t even started, and I already want it to end. I’ve humiliated myself too much. My heart can’t take another blow—not from an ex, not from my sister, and certainly not from this wealthy, beautiful jerk who clearly wanted to use me as a temporary stress relief.

The remaining flight to Bora Bora is pure torture.

It wasn't just the confined space or the stale, recirculated air. It was the presence of the man in the next seat—the one I’d internally dubbed Mr. Suit. He hadn’t bothered me again with conversation, but his silence was worse than any attempt at small talk. His silence was a tangible weight, a heavy, dark cloud pressing against my skin.

His stares did it—those long, slow, deliberate glances that tracked the slight rise and fall of my chest beneath my linen top. He’d tilt his head fractionally, his eyes, the color of a storm-tossed ocean, dropping down my profile, lingering for what felt like endless, humid seconds. It wasn't a casual observation; it was the intense focus of a predator calculating its move. Those looks felt like a violation, like he was stripping away layers of fabric and skin, imagining exactly how I’d taste. The thought sent an unwanted, electric current through my belly every single time. It was a terrifying mix of cold dread and sharp, unwelcome curiosity. I kept my gaze locked on the in-flight movie, my hands gripping the armrests until the plastic dug painfully into my palms. I tried to mentally construct a firewall, but every time I failed, the heat of his gaze seeped through, making my skin crawl.

When the plane finally began its descent, the shift in air pressure felt less like a physical phenomenon and more like a valve releasing inside my chest. I could see the shimmering, impossible blue of the water outside, reflecting the sunlight so brightly it hurt my eyes. It looked like a postcard that had been aggressively photoshopped.

The wheels hit the tarmac with a firm thud, and the usual cascade of polite thank-yous and seatbelt clicks began. But I wasn't waiting for courtesy. The announcement barely finished its flat monotone before I unbuckled and practically launched myself out of the seat. I didn't care about decorum; I needed distance. Now. I needed to breathe air that hadn't been shared with his expensive sin.

I reached for the carry-on bag stowed in the overhead compartment, my fingers closing around the cold metal of the handle. I tried to pull it down, but before I could exert any upward force, a firm, warm hand covered mine.

I froze. My entire body went rigid.

The air around us seemed to thicken, isolating us from the shuffling of the other passengers. He leaned in, his body brushing my shoulder, his voice a low, gravelly vibration right next to my ear. It smelled of expensive cologne, clean linen, and something primal—leather and sea salt. The scent made my head swim.

“I got it, minx. Be careful,” he murmured, the roughness of his voice sending a fresh jolt down my neck.

The endearment—that possessive, outdated term—made my blood spike with irritation and something hotter. Minx. Who did he think he was? I opened my mouth to deliver a cutting dismissal, a sharp, angry refusal of his help, but before the words could form, he’d already moved. He effortlessly hauled the bag down, placed it by my feet, and then, without a single backward glance, turned and walked out of the aisle, disappearing into the jet bridge.

Relief wraps around me like a heavy, insulating blanket. The breath I hadn't realized I’d been holding whooshed out of me. Finally, I can breathe. It wasn't until his broad back was gone that I noticed my hands were shaking slightly, the physical aftermath of too much tension.

Outside the tiny airport terminal, the world exploded into vibrant, unfiltered color. This wasn't a picture postcard; it was real life turned up to the max. Jagged, dark green mountains rose like sleeping giants, their slopes velvety with jungle foliage, contrasting sharply against the glittering blue seas that stretched out to the horizon. The air was thick and humid, carrying the heavy scent of tropical flowers and salt. For a second, the world feels unreal, every stressor, every memory of the last awful year, dissolving in the blinding light.

The resort transfer was a quick, exhilarating speedboat ride across the lagoon. The hotel itself, a collection of thatched-roof bungalows perched impossibly over the crystalline water, is just as breathtaking. The turquoise under the structures was so clear I could see schools of small, darting fish.

“Wow,” I whisper, leaning against the polished wood railing of the reception area, soaking in the once-in-a-lifetime sight. This was it. Two weeks of zero responsibility. Zero expectations. Zero arrogant men in expensive suits.

My overwater bungalow was a study in airy, expensive minimalism. I dropped my luggage, kicked off my sandals, and collapsed onto the crisp, white sheets. The combination of the long flight, the emotional tension, and the sudden quiet was overwhelming. I settled in, nap longer than planned, and wake up to the deep, golden hue of the setting sun casting long shadows through the glass floor panel in my room. My stomach immediately staged a loud, grumbling protest. I wake up starving.

First night of vacation. First taste of freedom. My pulse actually dances, a lively rhythm replacing the dull thud of exhaustion. I threw on a simple black dress, ran a brush through my hair, and felt a dangerous spark of anticipation. I was ready for something good to finally happen.

The hotel bar, named The Siren, is gorgeous—a masterpiece of subdued lighting. Tiny embedded lights in the ceiling mimicked a clear night sky, creating a sparkling ceiling above plush, deep velvet chairs arranged around low, dark wood tables. Everything screams luxury and discreet wealth. I found a small, empty stool by the corner of the bar, ordered a chilled glass of white wine, and sighed contentedly.

My moment of peace lasted exactly three sips.

A shadow fell over my wine glass. I looked up. A sweaty man blocked my path. He was wearing a shirt two sizes too tight that strained across his midsection, and his face was too flushed. His smile was loose, showing a little too much gum. Great. A walking red flag.

“Hey, gorgeous. Why are you sitting all alone?” he slurred, leaning too close. His breath was sour with cheap liquor.

I didn't even bother with civility. I took another sip of my wine and tilted my head back to look at him, my expression one of utter disdain.

“Do you mind?” I snap, not asking a question but issuing a firm order. I felt his fingers brush my forearm as he tried to steady himself. I yank my arm away as if he’d been holding a wet fish.

“Not at all,” he slurs, misinterpreting my annoyance for playful coyness.

Fantastic. A persistent walking red flag.

“I mean it, baby. Let’s dance. It’s too pretty a night to waste it on wine.” He gestured clumsily toward the small dance floor.

The initial annoyance was quickly curdling into pure, sharp fury. I wasn't here to be harassed; I was here for peace. My patience snaps. I put my glass down with a definite clink. I’m two seconds away from rearranging his teeth. I met his gaze with a look that should have melted his cheap polyester shirt.

“I’m waiting for someone,” I lie, my voice flat and cold. “A very large, very jealous someone who is extremely handy with a fist. So you should probably run along.”

“Who?” he pushes, because of course he does. Red flags don't take hints. They need a brick wall.

I mentally scrolled through my contacts, trying to invent a fake boyfriend with enough menace in his name. Thanos? Brock Lesnar?

Before I can invent a fake boyfriend, a presence materialized at my side. The air temperature seemed to drop, the loud chatter of the bar suddenly fading slightly around us. A silhouette that was achingly familiar—tall, sharp-jawed, too handsome for my sanity. Mr. Suit.

Perfect timing. My stomach flipped over and my pulse leaps, not with fear, but with a sudden, reckless surge of adrenaline.

I didn't think. I acted. Pure survival instinct took over. I grab his arm without thinking, my fingers digging into the hard, warm muscle of his bicep.

His head snapped toward me. He frowns, a flash of annoyance crossing his sharp features, then recognition hits his ocean-midnight eyes. The frown softened, replaced by a deep, challenging interest.

“This guy,” I say sweetly, tilting my head toward him, my voice dripping with honeyed satisfaction as I pointedly ignored Creep Guy.

Creep Guy looks him over, assessing his expensive clothes and the sheer, intimidating height difference. Under the bar lights, Mr. Suit is even more devastating. His cheekbones were impossibly high, his hair thick and dark, and his mouth… that mouth was currently curved into an almost imperceptible smirk.

He raises an eyebrow, glancing between Creep Guy's slack-jawed expression and my own defiant face. He was waiting. He was giving me enough rope to hang myself.

“This is my husband.” I link our arms tightly, pressing my side against his, radiating a possessiveness I was definitely faking. I didn’t just pray he’d play along; I willed it.

Please Mr. Suit, help me once again.