The sun was barely cresting over the turquoise horizon when I slipped out of our overwater bungalow, leaving my new husband sprawled across the sheets, snoring off last night’s tequila. Our honeymoon in the Maldives was supposed to be all passionate nights and lazy mornings tangled together, but he’d passed out cold after one too many shots at the resort bar—leaving me aching, untouched, my body humming with frustration.
I needed air. Needed to move. Needed something.
I pulled on the tiniest bikini I’d packed (pale blue, barely there strings) and a loose cover-up that did nothing to hide how ready I was. The beach was empty at this hour, just the soft rush of waves and the occasional cry of a seabird. I walked barefoot along the water’s edge, the warm sand clinging to my soles, the breeze teasing my skin until my nipples tightened against the thin fabric.
He was leaning against the thick trunk of a sea almond tree, shirtless, skin bronzed and glistening with sweat, low-slung board shorts riding dangerously low on his hips. He was watching me approach, dark eyes unreadable, a faint smirk playing at his lips. No ring on his finger. No hesitation in his stare.
I should have kept walking.
Instead, I slowed. Stopped just a few feet away, close enough to smell salt and sun on his skin.
“Morning,” he said, voice low, rough like he hadn’t used it yet today.
“Morning,” I echoed, my own voice embarrassingly breathy.
His gaze traveled down my body and back up, slow and deliberate. I felt it like hands. My thighs pressed together involuntarily.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“My husband could,” I answered before I could stop myself. The words hung heavy between us, reckless and raw.
His smirk deepened. He pushed off the tree and stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head to hold his eyes. “That’s a shame.”
The next thing I knew, his hand was at the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below my hairline. I didn’t pull away. I leaned in.
He kissed me like he already owned me—hard, hungry, no polite introductions. I moaned into his mouth, fingers clutching the waistband of his shorts. He tasted like coffee and salt and danger.
Without breaking the kiss, he backed me up against the rough trunk of the tree. Bark scraped my shoulders as he yanked the cover-up over my head and tossed it aside. His hands were everywhere—palms sliding over my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I whimpered, then lower, tugging the strings of my bikini bottom loose with practiced ease.
I was already soaked. He groaned when his fingers found me, sliding through my wetness like he’d been waiting for this as much as I had.
“Fuck,” he muttered against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse. “You’re dripping.”
I couldn’t answer. Could only gasp as he dropped to his knees in the sand, hooked one of my legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between my thighs.
There was no teasing, no gentle buildup. His tongue was on my clit instantly, firm and relentless, two thick fingers pushing inside me without warning. I cried out, hands fisting in his hair, hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth. The tree held me up as my knees buckled.
He ate me like a starving man—licking, sucking, fucking me with his fingers until I was shaking, until the morning light blurred and the only sounds were my ragged moans and the wet, filthy noises of his mouth on me.
I came hard, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry tearing from my throat as pleasure crashed over me in waves stronger than the ocean behind us.
He didn’t stop. Kept licking me through it, gentler now, drawing out every aftershock until I was trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally stood, his mouth glistened with me. He kissed me again so I could taste myself on his tongue, and I reached for him desperately, palming the thick ridge straining against his shorts.
He spun me around, pressed my chest to the tree, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt heat of him was sliding between my thighs, coating himself in my slickness before he notched at my entrance.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled against my ear.
“Please,” I begged, pushing back against him. “Fuck me.”
He drove into me in one long, punishing thrust.
I saw stars. He was thick, stretching me perfectly, filling the ache that had tormented me all night. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise as he started moving—deep, rough strokes that had my breasts bouncing and my fingers clawing at the bark.
Every thrust pushed a moan from my lips. The slap of skin on skin mixed with the waves. I didn’t care if anyone saw. I only cared that he was finally giving me what I needed.
He reached around to rub my clit again, fingers slippery and sure, and I shattered a second time, clenching around him so tightly he cursed under his breath.
A few more hard thrusts and he followed, burying himself deep and coming with a low, guttural groan against my neck.
We stayed like that for a moment, panting, sweat-slick and trembling. Then he pulled out slowly, fixed his shorts, and pressed one last kiss to my shoulder.
I turned around, legs still shaky, bikini bottom dangling from one ankle. He looked at me—really looked—like he was memorizing the flush on my cheeks, the mess he’d made of me.
Then he smiled, small and wicked, and walked away down the beach without a word.
And as I gathered my things with shaking hands and walked back to the bungalow—thighs sticky, body deliciously used—I realized I didn’t need to.
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