Missladym

But the night it changed - really changed - was later.

He’d been at your/his flat before his return flight to New York, both of you stealing what little hours you could before his taxi came too quickly. Dinner had blurred into a bottle of wine, into him stretched out on your couch, shirt sleeves rolled, shoes kicked off, the kind of domestic sight that made your chest ache with how natural it felt.

Then you’d walked him down to the street when his car finally arrived, the ache in your stomach now sharp and hollow.

You’d meant to keep it light. Smile, wave, maybe send him off with a kiss you could tuck away for the lonely weeks to come. Instead, as the driver closed the taxi door and you lifted your hand, the words had broken loose.

“I want us to be more.”

You hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought it through. The words were out in the air, trembling between you, and your stomach dropped like you’d just stepped into freefall. His head had snapped around, brows drawing tight, and for one horrifying moment you thought you’d made the worst mistake of your life.

More than what? He’d say it, wouldn’t he? More than stolen nights and frantic kisses in stairwells? More than a “fuck colleague” situation? The you he knew - capable, logical you - should have known better than to believe in anything beyond that.

You could see him lean in, to the driver, before the taxi door opened again. He stepped back onto the curb. You couldn’t breathe.

He came closer, stopping just in front of you, rain misting against his hair and the dark lapels of his jacket. “More?” His voice was quiet, but not sharp. Curious. “More than what?”

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth opened but nothing came, only the thud of your heart in your ears.

Then he shook his head, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “What could become more real than this?” His hand came up, cupping your cheek like he was anchoring you in place. The warmth of his palm grounded you in an instant. He leaned down, brushing his mouth against yours with a kiss that carried none of the rush from before. This one was deliberate. Solid.

“Want me to sign some merger papers with you too?” he teased lightly against your lips.

Your laugh was broken, half-drowned in nerves, and he must have felt it because his brow furrowed again. You couldn’t quite smile, not fully, and he saw right through you. Of course he did. He always did.

Before you could retreat, his arms wrapped tight around you, pressing you against him. He kissed you again, longer this time, until you felt the sting in your eyes ease, until the tight knot in your chest finally loosened. When he pulled back, his breath was steady.

His voice too.

“I cannot wait,” he said simply, “to see my girlfriend next time I’m in London, Emily.”

Your heart nearly gave out right there.

You tried for a joke, because that was easier. “Who is she? Can I meet her?”

He kissed you again, soft and silencing. “Oh, she’s a catch. I’m telling you.” Another kiss followed, gentle as the first rain drops fell heavier around you. “And she has nothing to worry about.”

You blinked up at him, your throat too tight to answer.

“You know me,” he said, almost with a shrug, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “As soon as I hold on to something, I don’t intend to let go so easily.”

Your eyes stung again but for different reasons this time. Relief, gratitude, disbelief that this was real.

So you said the only thing you could, the only words you could find that wouldn’t crack your voice wide open. You pulled the corner of your mouth into your familiar inside joke and whispered, “That’s… good to hear.”

His laugh warmed against your lips. He kissed you again, one hand steady at your jaw as though he had no intention of letting go, not now, not ever. The taxi driver honked lightly, impatient. Harry cursed under his breath, nearly turning back as though he’d forget the flight altogether.

You had to shove at his chest, laughing through the mist of tears. “Go, or you’ll miss it!”

“I almost want to,” he admitted, stealing one last kiss before slipping back into the taxi. His eyes caught yours through the window as the car pulled away, a silent promise etched there, sharp enough to carry you through every lonely night that followed.

Now, in December, you could still feel it like it had been yesterday. That was the night everything shifted. The night “more” had stopped being a risk and started being the truth.

And now you were back.

The flight had been long, your body humming with that odd combination of fatigue and adrenaline. Seven hours, a dull blur of recycled air, a neck pillow that did nothing, and a restless eagerness that had you glancing at the little airplane screen every five minutes, as though staring would make the tiny white plane move faster across the map.

But when the wheels hit JFK and the captain’s voice crackled overhead, you felt your chest swell. Home. You were home. Not just for a visit this time, not just a frantic week with a carry-on and a stack of briefing papers.

After 10 months in London, you were finally back. For good.

Dalton & Price had signed off on the New York branch. Junior head. Your name attached. You almost couldn’t believe it. Ten months in London had sharpened you, tested you - but this, this was a chance to stake your place where you belonged.

You would have your own team, your own office overlooking a skyline you’d once only dreamed of working in, the authority to shape things instead of just follow. No more temporary assignments, no more waiting to be sent back. London would still call you for business trips, sure - but you’d always be returning here. To this city. To your city.

And Harry.

He was waiting for you at his place. The thought alone had carried you through customs, through baggage claim, through the sluggish crawl toward Arrivals. You wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, into your promised quiet night together.

Except -

“EMILY!”

The shriek pierced the hum of the terminal. You barely had time to turn before you were tackled by a blur of dark curls and perfume. Amy.

You let out a startled laugh, stumbling under the force of the hug. “Oh my god - Amy!”

“You’re here! You’re actually here!” Amy clutched your face in both hands, eyes bright and watery. “Do you even know how much I’ve missed you? Ten months! That’s like - I don’t know - an entire friendship decade!”

You laughed, hugging her tighter, your chest aching with the sweetness of it. And then you saw them - over Amy’s shoulder - Kazeem, grinning wide, and beside him… Harry.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t rush you, didn’t make a scene. Just stepped forward when Amy finally let you go, and pulled you into the kind of hug that erased airports, months, time zones. His arms wrapped around you so tight you almost squeaked from lack of air, but god, you didn’t care. You buried your face in his neck and inhaled. His scent, his warmth. Home in a different way.

“Careful,” Amy teased, stepping back and nudging Kazeem with her elbow. “Public indecency, right at JFK. Didn’t know the junior head of Dalton & Price’s New York branch was so… scandalous.”

You rolled your eyes, still pressed against Harry. “I literally just landed, can you give me a minute before you roast me?”

“Nope,” Amy said cheerfully, kissing your cheek. “You left me for London, I’ve earned a full year of material. And don’t think you get a free pass just because Mr. Tall, Dark, and Corporate over here looks like he wants to swallow you whole.”

Kazeem barked out a laugh, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Man’s been looking like that for weeks.”

Harry only hummed, lips brushing your hair. “Ignore them,” he muttered, voice low enough for only you to hear. “I’ve got you now.”

So much for your quiet night.

Dinner at Kazeem’s turned into exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d needed: laughter spilling over glasses of wine, the smell of spices and garlic filling the apartment, Amy and Kazeem bickering like a married couple while Harry kept his hand on your knee under the table.

“Don’t even try,” Amy warned, wagging her fork at Harry as he reached for your glass.

“She needs the wine more than you. Emotional jet lag.”

 You groaned. “That’s not even a thing.”

“It is now,” Amy shot back. “Drink.”

You drank, cheeks flushed with wine and warmth and belonging. For the first time in months, maybe longer, you didn’t feel stretched thin, didn’t feel like you had to juggle ten lives at once. You were here. With them. With him.

And Harry barely let go of you all night. Arm slung across the back of your chair, his thumb drawing lazy circles on your shoulder. Later, as the laughter softened and the bottle emptied, you leaned into him, your cheek against his shirt, and felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

By the time you made it to his penthouse, it was late. Too much wine for more frenzy, too much fatigue for games. Instead, it was quiet. Soft.

You dropped your suitcase by the door and let him slide your coat from your shoulders.

“Would you mind me taking a quick shower?” you asked, leaning in to brush your lips against his.

He shook his head, a tired smile playing at his mouth. “Go on. I’ll make you tea. Wait for you in bed.”

You lingered at that. “You look exhausted too.”

“I am,” he admitted, eyes warm. “But happy.”

Your chest tightened. You kissed him again, softer this time, then turned and slipped toward the bathroom.

His flat smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, the kind of understated luxury that still managed to make you feel small sometimes. But the bathroom - oh, he’d thought of you. Your favorite shampoo. A body wash you’d once offhandedly said you loved. Even a new body lotion and a toothbrush.

Steam fogged the mirror almost instantly as the hot water rushed over you. You tilted your head back, letting it sluice away hours of travel, letting your muscles unwind. The fog cocooned you, warmth seeping into every pore.

And then -

The shower door clicked open. A rush of cooler air.

You turned, startled - then smirked when you saw him step into the mist. “Missing me already?”

Harry's arms caged you in an instant, braced against the tile on either side of your head, his body crowding yours. His mouth found yours before you could tease again.

“Always,” he breathed against your lips.

Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, tugging him closer, your smile curving even as your voice softened. “Good thing I won’t leave so soon now.”

His forehead rested against yours, eyes searching. “I wouldn’t let you even if you had to.” He gave himself a pause, as if to craft carefully what to say next. “Stay with me, Emily. Here.”

It wasn’t a joke, wasn’t casual. It was plea and promise all at once. Even with the heat pressing between you, his cock hard against your hip, you could feel the sincerity in his words.

Your chest squeezed. You searched his gaze, finding nothing but truth there. “I’ll stay with you wherever,” you whispered finally. And you meant it.

His smile broke through, tender and relieved. He kissed you like gratitude, like happiness itself.

And then - because you couldn’t help yourself - you murmured against his mouth,

“Would you consider moving into my Williamsburg flat though? Your penthouse intimidates me.”

That made his lips twitch, his smile curving darker. “You and your jokes, Emily. They’ll get you in trouble someday.”

Before you could laugh, he spun you, pressing your chest to the tile, pinning your wrists above your head in one swift, sure motion.

“Lucky me,” you whispered back, breathless, grinning even as anticipation shivered through you.

The city was in that gray, tired stretch of winter where the holidays felt like a distant memory, and the grind had reclaimed everyone. Christmas had passed in a blur of laughter, wine, and stolen mornings in bed.

A few weeks later

New Year’s too - loud and bright, and then suddenly gone. Now, the calendar had rolled well into January, and business carried on as if to make up for all the lazy days before.

Harry leaned back against the cool leather of the Uber, the city blurring by the snow-rain-mix on the glass, while the car stood still, engine ready to set off. Suit immaculate, coat folded neatly beside him, no glasses today. Just him - the same Harry Castillo who, not so many months ago, had stepped out of arrivals in New York for his new job here. Except everything was different now.

He scrolled absently through emails, flicking between reports and rolling docs, his jaw tight with the day’s weight. Dalton & Price had partnered him into another round of high-stakes talks, and tomorrow promised more of the same. Today had been endless - the prep, the calls, the alignment - but at least he wasn’t going through it alone.

The back door swung open in a rush of cold air, jolting him from his screen. You slid inside, cheeks flushed from the wind, bag dropping between your feet with a thud.

“Sorry, fucking key card. Will never get used to it,” you muttered breathlessly, offering a sheepish smile toward the driver before turning back to him.

Harry slipped his phone into his pocket, the weariness on his face easing the moment he saw you. “Ready for a day full of conference talk and pitch decks?” he asked, voice warm with a hint of amusement.

“As ready as can be,” you shot back, your grin sharp. Today’s agenda was brutal: a full-day merger conference uptown, hours of panels and strategy sessions, the two of you in and out of rooms stacked with lawyers, analysts, and executives who thought their time was worth more than anyone else’s. It would be exhausting.

But you’d be in it together.

He let his gaze wander, just for a second. Your blouse sat crisp, pencil skirt hugging you just right, pumps clicking when you’d rushed to the car. Your winter coat framed you like an afterthought, still holding the chill of the street. You looked utterly professional, perfectly polished. And completely his.

You noticed his eyes on you and tilted your head, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a smirk. “Like what you see?”

“Love it even,” he said, the words slipping out easily.

He leaned in before you could quip back, brushing a kiss against your cheek, close enough that his lips hovered just at the edge of your smile. His voice dropped, meant only for you. “Cannot wait to ruin that tonight.”

Your chuckle warmed the space between you. “Is that a promise?”

“Count on it,” he murmured, pulling back only enough to see your grin. He held out his hand, you slipped yours in, fingers interlacing.

Outside, the skyline lit up against the winter dusk, towers glowing like embers. Inside the car, the world shrank to the quiet charge between you - two professionals about to face another long day in conference rooms and board halls, two lovers already planning how they’d unravel each other when it was done.

Masterlist

My lovely corpo-queens. With that we come to a close with Harry and Emily.

And it is such an emotional end for me, also because I am posting this literally from my hotel room in Tokyo while it is my last night on this trip.

Day Dreams was such a joy ride to draft and write. Don't even know where to go next from here... okay, that's a lie, I already have two new projects in mind :D but again: i want to thank you for your support, kind words and love. This means the world to me. Finally my career in the corpo world was put to good use, i would say :D ✨️🤍✨️🤍✨️🤍✨️

Taglist:

The scent coming from the cartel gets stronger and stronger every day. Javier can feel it. You haven’t told him where your family has moved yet and he doesn’t think you will. Honestly, he doesn’t blame you because it’s for your safety as well; but he also doesn’t know where to find you and that worries him more.

It’s been radio silence from you since your uncle was killed and he’s getting antsy. Work keeps him occupied during the day, but at night when he’s alone in his apartment and the chaos settles, anxiety gets the best of him. He can’t sit still, sending you messages from his pager constantly, only to get no response.

He shouldn’t think about the worst case scenario, but knowing your father, who knows what he could’ve done to you by now.

Raids have become routine at this point, hitting every lab location you gave him and the ones Search Bloc found. The ambassador had the bright idea of setting up a tip hotline to gain more information as well. Sometimes they get lucky, but most of the time, people call in just to fuck with them. Specifically kids that have been given a handgun by your father.

Since the death of Jerónimo’s brother, he’s retaliated by paying more people in the city… and setting off bombs. He can’t get close to anyone of authority, so he hurts innocent citizens instead. 

It makes Javier sick to his stomach.

He keeps a cool facade at work but his thoughts are constantly whirring; causing him to act out of emotion rather than rationality. And tonight, he’s had enough.

The tip they got was useless yet again, leading them to a big empty house on a hill in Cartagena. Javier can feel his anger and frustration beginning to burn in his gut, the wild goose chase getting old and relentless. His gun weighs as heavy as his heart in his hands, searching the house high and low. The only thing they find is a maid with a bullet in her head.

“Logró escapar (He got away),” Carrillo states, referring to Sebastián Botero.

Botero is another drug lord in Colombia. He works out of Cartagena but does a lot of business with your father in Medellín. They’ve been “partners” for the longest time. He isn’t as loud and violent as Jerónimo, making him less of a threat to the government. 

To Javier, they’re all the same.

Steve believes that someone in Sombras de la Cruz is trying to rat him out and get him caught. Truthfully, Javier wouldn’t put it behind them. It would get them out of the spotlight for a little so they can slip away yet again. But apparently Sebastián is smarter than them, seeming to have escaped capture by a hair.

Javier stares at the maid’s lifeless body, his mind briefly picturing it as you instead. The thought shakes him, spreading goosebumps across his skin. It could easily be you if neither of you are careful enough. He might be unsure of where you are but he doesn’t believe that you’re dead.

At least that’s what he keeps telling himself.

“Colonel!” 

Javier’s eyes snap up at the sound of Trujillo’s voice, momentarily taking his focus off of the lifeless body.

“Llamaron de un retén (They called from the road block),” he announces to Carrillo. “Al parecer, detuvieron el coche de un senador. (Apparently, they stopped a senator’s car.)”

“¿Tiene identificación? (Does he have identification?)” Carrillo asks, wondering why this is being brought up in the first place.

When Trujillo says yes, he asks what the problem is. 

“Tiene una ametralladora en el maletero. (He has a machine gun in the trunk.)”

The tone shifts immediately. It’s not abnormal for a politician to carry a weapon, but a machine gun? That is unusual. It’s usually just a handgun, not an automatic weapon.

Javier watches the two men go, eyes landing on the maid once again. He can’t understand the pit in his stomach at the sight, turning around before his emotions get the best of him. Over the balcony’s railing, he can see the man they stopped in front of the house. He’s clad in a dark suit, looking the part of a senator.

Involuntarily, his mind flashes with you again: your voice, your soft hair, your curves, your touch. Being down here in South America, Javier’s learned to turn off his feelings the best he can… until you came along. There’s an invisible string keeping him attached to you and it’s making him avoid using his usual coping mechanisms.

It may not have been said yet, but now that your feelings are out in the open, he’ll be loyal to you. It’s killing him inside to not have that physical release with the shit month he’s had, but he also understands the life you’re stuck living and the need to be alone sometimes.

To say he misses you is an understatement. And to Javier, that is absolutely terrifying. The last time he gave his heart to somebody, it was chewed up and spat at his feet. He doesn’t talk about Lorraine much. Honestly, there’s not a lot to say.

He thought it was love. She wanted to trap him in a marriage by faking her pregnancy. The night before their wedding is when he found out. He hasn’t seen her since.

Of course, you’re nothing like her and he’s grateful for that. But he’d be lying to himself if he ignored his worries of tainting your heart. The life he lives isn’t something he wants to drag you into and possibly put you in life-threatening danger. You’ve already been put in that position one too many times in your life.

He meets everyone outside, being informed that the man’s identification checks out. 

“No conozco a ese tal Botero del que hablas (I don’t know this Botero person that you’re talking about),” he claims, not convincing either Javier or Carrillo.

Horacio’s voice is calm as he asks his next question, though Javier can see right through the facade. “¿Por qué tienes un arma en el maletero? (Why do you have a gun in the trunk?)”

The man chuckles briefly, stunned and perplexed by the inquiry. “¿De verdad estás preguntando por qué un político lleva un arma en este país? (Are you seriously asking why a politician carries a weapon in this country?)” he pauses for a moment, looking back and forth between the two of them, “Es de mi guardaespaldas– (It’s my bodyguard’s–)”

“¿Dónde está tu guardaespaldas? (Where’s your bodyguard?)” Javier cuts him off promptly, feeling his nerves begin to get the best of him. 

His patience is wearing thinner as the situation goes on, everything that has (or hasn’t) been happening lately weighing down on him in full tonight. “Estas solo en el carro verdad? (You’re alone in the car, right?)”

The man steps closer. He has at least two inches on Javier, trying to seem intimidating by looking down at him. Javier doesn’t flinch under his gaze, his jaw set so tight his teeth ache.

“Escúchenme (Listen to me),” he starts, pointing at Javier.

Right there, he nearly snaps his finger like a carrot when he looks down at it. But he holds back for now.

“Te vas a arrepentir si no me dejas ir ahora mismo (You’re going to regret it if you don’t let me go right now.)”

Javier nods slightly, humming in acknowledgement and not scared of the empty threat in the slightest. The man looks him up and down before Carrillo hands him his ID back.

“Danos un momento. (Give us a moment.)”

He shoos the two of them away, giving them space to talk. Javier keeps him in his peripheral vision, biting the inside of his cheek. “No le creo. (I don’t believe him.)”

“Yo tampoco (Neither do I),” Carrillo states, noticing Javier’s fingers twitching. It’s a tick he’s recognized within his time of knowing him, only coming out when he’s anxious or fighting the urge to pull his gun. Horacio assumes the latter option.

“No puedo correr el riesgo si realmente es quien dice ser. (I can’t take the risk if he actually is who he says he is.)”

Javier shakes his head, “No, you can’t.”

Instead of listening, he pulls his gun out of his waistband, cocking the chamber and firing a shot at the man’s thigh. He doubles over, screaming out in pain as he falls to the ground. Javier’s footsteps are heavy, the built up rage and frustration boiling over.

He wraps his hand around the back of his neck, squatting and pulling him up. He speaks through clenched teeth, his voice seething with anger. “El próximo… lo meto en la cabeza! (The next one… goes in your head!)”

The guy’s “intimidating” persona drops immediately, stuttering and scrambling to give him what he wants. “¡Está bien, está bien! (All right, all right!)”

“¡Habla, malparido! (Talk, bastard!)” Javier spits in his face, shaking him by the neck like a dog.

“¡Hablaré, hablaré! (I’ll talk, I’ll talk!)”

Right now, Javier doesn’t care about the possible repercussions from shooting somebody. Because now, the fool’s admitted to lying about who he is.

The mid-December breeze passes through, rustling the trees. It’s the coldest day this year and it’s also the day of Andrés’ funeral.

None of your family have spoken to you since his death, making you feel more alone than you already felt in your own home. The whispers about you have gotten louder, they don’t hide their disgusted expressions anymore, and one of your younger cousins even went as far as to spit at your feet.

You don’t necessarily blame them, but since then, you’ve realized that his death was not your fault. You didn’t rat him out to Javier or the cops. You didn’t reveal the location of that lab because you didn’t know about it until that day.

They can believe what they want to believe. Soon enough, you’ll be rid of them for good.

Jerónimo stands next to you in the front, his head hanging low as the officiant rambles on about a man he didn’t even know. The dewy grass makes your heels unbearable to be in, poking at your feet and making you feel gross. A big pair of sunglasses sits on the bridge of your nose, hiding half of your face.

A single tear slips – but it’s not from the service, it’s from your Tío Luca and Tía Luciana whispering about you right behind you. You turn your head slightly to the left, making it obvious to them that you can hear them. Immediately, they shut up, focusing on the speech instead.

This is how it’s been since your uncle was buried six feet under.

You’re a stranger in your own home; being shut out by absolutely everybody and not trusted with anything. Sure, you put yourself in this situation but it doesn’t make it any less painful.

You lay in bed at night, trapped inside your mind: thinking of Javier, missing the love from your father that was supposed to be unconditional. The more you think about it, the more you realize that you’ve had to beg him to love you your entire life. Now it means nothing to you.

The trauma you went through with Andrés still lingers, waking you up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. You know Jerónimo can hear you hyperventilating at night. But does he check up on you? No.

That’s all you want. It’s all you’ve ever wanted – to be seen by your father instead of looked at like a liability.

The pager Javier gave you has been buzzing nonstop, and today, you finally build up the courage to go see him. You sit quietly in the back of the SUV as Francisco drives, wearing a black sweat set. Comfortable and expensive.

Every now and then, you can feel his eyes on you in the rearview mirror, checking up on you without saying anything. Also making sure that no one is following the two of you. Your dad isn’t too worried about where you’ve been going anymore since you’ve only left the house on occasion and you’re always with Frankie.

He’s the only one who hasn’t shut you out, and you think it’s about time that he meets the man you’ve risked your life for.

The gravel of the driveway crunches under the tires as he pulls up, putting the car in park and assessing the surrounding area. “¿Estás segura de que esto es? (Are you sure this is it?)”

You’re not. And you’re sure he’s only asking because it doesn’t look like a government-funded house.

“Es una casa franca (It’s a safehouse),” you explain, “No se supone que deba parecer costoso. (It’s not supposed to be expensive looking.)”

“Right,” he murmurs.

You move forward, slipping between the front seats to sit in the passenger’s seat. “Don’t you watch any crime shows?”

Frankie shakes his head, glancing at you sideways. “No, ma’am.”

“That is sad,” you tease lightly, your lips curving slightly for the first time in a while.

He doesn’t respond, senses on high alert. “There’s no one here.”

It’s only then that you take in your surroundings, not seeing Javier’s Jeep anywhere. You hum faintly, pulling out the pager he gave you from your pocket.

“Did you let him know you were coming?” Frankie asks, eyeing the rearview mirror as dirt picks up in the distance.

“I did,” you murmur, checking the last messages that were sent and received. 

The screen stares back at you, the only thing Javier sent you being the letter ‘K’. “Maybe he doesn’t want to see me–”

“Is that him?” he cuts you off, nodding at the car pulling up behind the SUV.

Without being subtle at all, you turn half of your body around to look out the back window, trying to make out the driver. The tinted windows are a blessing and a curse, but you’d recognize Javier anywhere.

The relief you should’ve felt when you saw him last finally washes over you, your hands moving faster than your mind to open the car door. Frankie yells after you, easily moving quicker than you and blocking your way just in case it isn’t Javier.

He turns around when the car’s brakes screech to a stop, protecting you with his body, his hand hovering over his gun. You know better than to say anything when he gets like this, considering the many failed attempts you’ve had before when it came to getting him to move. For now, you keep your place, standing behind him like a little girl.

You tilt your head to see past his brawny frame, watching Javier and Steve get out of the car. Javier’s aviators sit perfectly on his aquiline nose, his lips pursed underneath his mustache. When he sees you, the corner of his mouth twitches, extending out his hand to shake Francisco’s.

Introductions have you yawning before you launch yourself into Javier’s arms, not budging when he almost loses his footing. He wraps an arm around your waist, cradling the back of your head tenderly. 

“I missed you, too, cariño,” he whispers, intended for your ears only.

You run the tip of your nose along his neck, inhaling his scent after what’s felt like forever. Eventually, you pull back, looking up at him. Your reflection in his sunglasses stares back at you, subconsciously fixing your hair.

“They know,” you murmur, watching him nod slowly.

He removes his glasses, hooking them in the front of his button down. “I figured that when I didn’t hear from you.”

The crease between his brows deepens, brown eyes roaming across your face like he’s memorizing your features for the last time. You know his mind is running a million miles a minute, trying to figure out a way to get you out of this.

You cup his cheeks, feeling the rough stubble beneath your palms. “No intentes ser un héroe (Don’t try to be a hero),” you murmur softly.

Your love for Javier hasn’t been the thing ruining you.

It was hope.

It’s not what you want – you want to be with Javier. But it’s not worth it if he tries to sacrifice himself for you and both of you end up dead. The two of you were never going to end up together and it was foolish of you to believe so.

You wish things were simpler, you do. But it was never meant to work out. He had one mission coming here to Colombia: to get Jerónimo and move on. That was before you came along and made things ten times more difficult. 

“What?” he whispers, his hands tightening on your waist, keeping you from moving. “What are you talking about?”

Silence washes over the two of you, your eyes discreetly falling on Steve and your bodyguard. Javier understands easily, taking you by the hand and dragging you inside the house. The feeling of your hand in his feels perfect: gun-calloused but always so soft with you.

His boots are heavy on the hardwood floor, leading you towards the back of the house. He pushes you inside the bedroom, closing the door behind himself. It takes him a minute to turn around and face you, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Mimi?”

You have to make it hurt. Make him hate you so he doesn’t get himself killed over you.

“My dad wants you dead, Javier,” you admit, already feeling your tears prick your eyes. “I cannot be the reason that you die.”

He shakes his head, averting your gaze and putting his hands on his hips. “You should’ve thought of that before you made me fall for you.”

You’re taken aback by that, “I didn’t make you do anything.”

“All those things you told me,” he starts, taking a slow step closer to you but stopping when you take one back. “Your dreams, the life you’d rather live–”

“Yeah, and you were lying to me the entire time,” you bite back, starting an argument that neither of you want to have right now. “You have all the information you could ever need about my father. Why do you still need me?”

“You know why,” his voice rises, patience finally snapping. “I know what I did wrong, you don’t have to keep throwing it back in my face!”

“How can I not when our whole relationship is built on a lie?” you match his tone.

“I’ve already apologized for that shit,” he spits, “I’m not doing it again just because you’re afraid of how this will end.”

A scoff leaves you at his words, running your hands through your hair. “You said it yourself, it’s too dangerous for us to be together. I didn’t want to believe it but now I have to.”

“Why?” he asks, clenching his jaw twice. 

“They’re blaming me for my uncle’s death–”

“That wasn’t your fault,” he cuts you off, telling you what you’ve already concluded.

You take a quiet deep breath, “It doesn’t matter. To them, I’m a rat that got her own flesh and blood killed. It’s only a matter of time before they…”

“Before they what?” he asks when you trail off, though he knows exactly what you mean.

It means that you’ll be killed by your family. “An eye for an eye,” is what they call it. In this world, it’s normal for people like them to ‘take care’ of the threats that come their way. Unfortunately, you’re now viewed as one and Javier refuses to let anything happen to you. Regardless of if he can lose his life in the process.

You’re too precious for this world. You’re too precious to him.

You clasp your hands together, holding them in front of your mouth. “We can’t be together, Javier.”

“You don’t think I know that?” he queries, taking a cautious step forward. It’s more obvious than it should be to him that your resolve is crumbling the longer you stand in front of him. “I’ve been fighting with myself for months. I know I’m no good for you, I know this can end badly. But I can’t stay away from you.”

The tear finally falls and Javier wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close. He rests his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

You can deny it all you want, but you know he means more than he should to you. A shuddering exhale escapes through your lips, your hands gripping his biceps. “We should’ve never gotten involved with each other,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “That would make this a whole lot easier.”

He doesn’t answer, pressing his lips to your temple instead and letting you fall apart in the safety of his arms.

For the third time this week, you’re out on the balcony smoking. The city twinkles, mocking you and your lack of freedom. Seeing Javier was nice but you couldn’t stay long.

The sliding door behind you opens slowly, not even needing to turn around to know who it is. This will be the first time he’s even acknowledged you since that night, and you almost consider walking right past him and into the house.

Almost.

Jerónimo plants his forearms on the railing, leaning against it and watching a shooting star in the sky. “Sé que no he sido un padre perfecto (I know I haven’t been a perfect father),” he starts, clearing his throat, “Tu madre se sentiría decepcionada por cómo te he tratado toda la vida. (Your mother would be disappointed at how I’ve treated you your whole life.)”

You shake your head slowly, taking a drag of your cancer stick until your lungs burn. “Dejaste que todos creyeran que su muerte fue culpa mía (You let everyone believe that his death was my fault),” you meet his gaze head on, keeping your cool, “Andrés was an idiot that got himself caught, but all of you have been too airheaded to realize that. I didn’t even know about the lab.”

He doesn’t entertain that with a response, looking out at the view. “Hice todo lo que pude (I did my best),” he claims, “Lo hice. Lo intenté. (I did. I tried.)”

You stay quiet, unsure of where he could possibly be going with this. To you, he’s lying through his teeth. He never tried to be a father to you. He threw money at you and expected you to obey his every command like a well trained puppy. The one time that you don’t, he drops you like you’ve never meant anything to him at all.

Jerónimo sighs, almost dramatically, before he continues. “Puedes salir por tu cuenta, tal como quieres. (You can go out on your own like you want to.)”

That gets your attention but you don’t look at him, realizing that he’s trying to get a reaction out of you to see if you’ll admit to playing both sides.

“¿Crees que el mundo es tan terrible conmigo en él? (You think the world is so terrible with me in it?)” he asks, taunting you, shifting closer to you. “Wait until you see what it is like without me.”

He almost walks away to leave it at that but you open your mouth to say something. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

When he doesn’t say anything, you stand up straight, deciding to speak about everything that’s been bothering you. “You’ve trapped me here. You were never a fucking father to me and it baffles me that you even think that you gave any effort at all.”

“I did–”

“I’m not done,” you cut him off, stubbing out your cigarette. “I have always been a disappointment to you. It doesn’t matter what I do.”

“You didn’t want me in the first place and it’s been obvious my entire life,” your voice wavers, making you take a deep breath to keep your emotions from spilling over. You refuse to cry in front of him because he doesn’t deserve your tears. He’s not worth the emotional toll to cry over.

“I have had to beg you to love me constantly, and for a long time, I thought that was okay. I took whatever you gave me because I thought that was your way of showing that you care. But I’ve been wrong. Again and again, you’ve proved me wrong.”

The lack of emotion on his face makes you want to slap him, but you keep your calm. “A parent’s love is supposed to be unconditional. I shouldn’t have to beg to even get you to look at me. I didn’t want all the expensive things your blood money could buy, I wanted my father to see me and appreciate me and love me.”

You shrug, shaking your head. “You never did any of that because you never saw me as yours.”

“¿Y crees que esos estadounidenses pueden? (And you think those Americans can?)” he opens his big mouth again, making your anger boil over.

You scoff, shaking your head. “God, you really can’t see the issue here, can you?”

“What I can see is that you’re willing to destroy everything that I’ve built for you over an American,” disappointment drips from his words, trying to make you feel bad. “I am building an empire for you.”

You shrug faintly, pressing your lips into a thin line. “It’s not for me. It’s always been about your legacy.”

Jerónimo clenches his jaw, towering over your frame. “Eres una mocosa malcriada y desagradecida (You are an ungrateful, spoiled little brat),” he spits, voice seething with fury. “Y quiero que te vayas de esta casa. (And I want you out of this house.)”

You don’t flinch under his gaze, looking up at him with a defiant glint in your eyes. “No.”

“No?” he raises his brows, a disbelieving chuckle leaving him. “Puede que tu madre haya aguantado tus pendejadas hasta que murió, pero yo no lo haré. (Your mother may have put up with your bullshit until she died, but I’m not.)” 

He steps closer, leaning down to be eye level with you. His lips twitch underneath his thick mustache, “You are no longer my daughter, and I will not protect you.”

“All because you believe them and not the person you had a hand in reproducing?” your voice is low, tired of the circles all of you keep running around. “You can believe what you want but I’m not going anywhere.”

Not until he’s dead.

part 7 - series masterlist - main masterlist

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You wake to the insistent trill of your phone on the nightstand, its old-school ringtone disrupting the hush of the luxurious bedroom.

You’re cocooned in Harry’s strong arms, his broad chest a solid, heated wall against your back, his breath slow and steady in your hair.

The temptation to ignore everything and melt deeper into him is overwhelming—but after the third ring, you sigh softly and slip free, reaching for the device.

The screen shows your husband’s number. A grimace twists your lips as you silence the intrusion and return into the safety of Harry’s embrace. You nestle your cheek against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart.

One of the many intimate discoveries you’ve made about Harry Castillo: he’s a gloriously heavy sleeper.

Just as sleep begins to pull you under again, the phone rings once more. Your eyes shoot open and you roll over to decline it. Why is he so persistent? What time is it even in Texas? You glare at the offending device, daring it to ring again.

As if on cue: it does.

With an irritated huff, you flip it over and pop out the battery, tossing the piece aside.

You’re barely settled against Harry’s side again when his alarm blares—jarring you both. You flinch and let out a dramatic groan as he finally stirs awake beneath you.

“Why on Earth do you have your alarm set so early?” you mutter, pressing your body flush to his.

“I’ve got a call with Peter in an hour,” he replies, voice deliciously raspy with sleep. “He’s in Australia this week—that’s about an eight hour time difference from us.” He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head.

You pout, the hazy memories from yesterday flooding back: candlelit dinner on the terrace, sweet wine staining your lips, flirtation dissolving into desperate kisses, clothes torn away in a haste, and the two of you fucking like animals in heat until exhaustion claimed you.

Heat blooms across your body at the recollection. Ever since your first time in Lagos, you two have been insatiable, getting it on whenever you find pockets of privacy during your exploration of Ibiza.

After years in a marriage where passion had quietly withered, Harry reawakens the horny woman that was locked away inside you this entire time. 

Joel was never a bad lover—rough when you craved it, tender when you needed softness—you’ve just been without sex for so long. You don’t want to come down from this cloud just yet.

Gently, you push him onto his back and climb astride him, your thighs bracketing his hips, pinning him beneath you with playful intent.

The pale morning light filtering through the gauzy curtains worships his features: his dark curls tousled from your fingers last night when he buried his face between your legs and devoured you until you were breathless, those kind brown eyes now darkening with lust as your warm, slick pussy presses against his hardening length. 

“What are you up to?” he asks, a knowing smile curving his lips. His large hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive dip there as his gaze devours the sight of your breasts, nipples peaked in the cool breeze.

“Trying to convince you to stay in bed with me just a little longer,” you answer sweetly, rolling your hips in a lazy, teasing glide. A breathy sigh escapes you as his cock parts your swollen folds, the velvety head dragging deliciously against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

Harry grunts, fingers tightening on your hips in warning. “We both know I’ll never leave this bed with you on top of me like this.”

You smirk, leaning down to capture his mouth in a soft kiss, arching your back to increase the pressure. 

He tries to resist—for all of two seconds—then surrenders completely. With effortless strength, he grips your waist and lifts you slightly. “Put me in,” he orders in that deep, gravelly morning voice that sends a fresh rush of desire straight to your core.

You melt, biting your lip as you reach between your bodies. Your fingers wrap around his heavy shaft, giving it a teasing squeeze and it earns you a sharp pinch to your hip that draws a surprised giggle from you.

You run his leaking tip up and down your slit, coating him thoroughly, before notching him at your entrance and sinking down slowly.

The stretch is exquisite—a burning fullness that pulls a shared moan from you both. You settle fully (still a little sore from last night), hands planted on his broad chest, and begin to ride him with his guiding hands on your hips. Each drag is pure bliss.

“Oh, Harry…” you whine, the sound breathy and desperate.

His brows knit in concentration, savoring how perfectly your walls tense around him as the pace quickly turns frantic and needy.

Overwhelmed, you slump forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, panting hot against his skin as your orgasm coils tight, ass clapping down against his muscular thighs.

“Poor baby,” he teases. “Initiated this and can’t even handle it.” Harry plants his feet on the mattress, using the leverage to fuck up into you harder, deeper, the head of his cock kissing that perfect spot until you shatter—crying out his name, your pussy gushing around him in pulsing waves.

He follows moments later, pulling out to spill across the soft curve of your ass.

You feel exhaustion tugging you back toward the pillows. Harry senses it, catching his own breath before he slips out from under you, leaving you sprawled on your stomach, and retrieves the cloth from last night.

Gently, he wipes his spend from your skin then leans in to kiss your bare shoulder. 

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers against your ear. “I’ll bring you breakfast after my meeting.”

You manage to weakly nod, drifting off with a contented smile, the disassembled phone on the nightstand forgotten. 

Harry’s gaze lingers there a moment, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face about who had called so insistently in the early hours. 

You lie sprawled luxuriously atop Harry as you enjoy the afternoon lounging on the sandy coastline of the beautiful city of Ibiza. 

The light sea breeze carries the scent of distant wildflowers that brings a sense of tranquility you don’t think you’ll tire of.

Below you, Harry’s body serves as your personal chaise—broad, sun-warmed, and utterly relaxed. A portable radio you picked up in town hums softly with upbeat Spanish pop, the melody blending seamlessly with the distant crash of waves and the occasional cry of seabirds.

Your book rests open against his shoulder blades, a riveting tale unfolding in your hands. You’re lost in a particularly charged paragraph when your phone’s ringtone disrupts the idyll.

Reaching down into your woven tote bag, you fish out the device and decline the call—just as you have done repeatedly all day. You only keep the battery in as a precaution, in case a true emergency arises with family or friends, not because you want to entertain your husband’s persistent attempts to tug you back to reality.

Harry hasn’t commented on the calls until now. His voice rumbles low and lazy from beneath you, warm as the sun on your back. “Shouldn’t you get that?”

You sigh, not from his question but from the frustration of Joel inserting himself like a persistent thorn even from across countries. “It’s nothing,” you mutter, shifting slightly to settle more comfortably against the firm planes of his back, your bare thighs brushing his sides.

“What if it’s an emergency?” he reasons gently. He lies on his stomach with his arms crossed, head pillowed on his hands, eyes closed behind expensive sunglasses in blissful repose. The sunlight plays across the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, highlighting every ridge and dip.

“It’s not. Trust me.” Your fingers trace idle patterns along his tanned skin, hoping to distract him back to the moment.

“Then why do they keep calling?”

“Because my friends don’t seem to understand that I’m on vacation and not really in the mood to gossip,” you reply smoothly, the lie slipping out a little too easily. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck, tasting the faint salt of his skin mixed with sunscreen.

Harry falls quiet. He’s noticed how skillfully you dodge anything too personal, how little you reveal about your life beyond the surface level.

Yet he doesn’t press. For a man who has spent decades as the perfect son, the driven boss, the polished socialite in New York’s affluent circles, this summer with you is a rare gift—a chance to turn his mind off completely. 

He chooses the joy of the present, letting the questions drift away on the breeze like forgotten sails.

The afternoon stretches lazily onward. Eventually, as the sun dips lower and paints the horizon, you set your book aside and prop your chin on his shoulder. “We should go clubbing tonight,” you murmur against his ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. “It’s what the island is famous for—partying until dawn.”

Harry lets out a dramatic groan, though a smile tugs at his lips. “You’re trying to kill an old man. I’m fifty, Sol. My idea of a wild night these days involves good wine and an early bedtime.”

You roll your eyes, laughing as you shift to straddle his lower back more fully, your hands sliding up to massage his shoulders with teasing affection. “Oh, please. You have more stamina than men half your age, Mr. Castillo. I should know.” You lean in closer, voice dropping to a honeyed, coaxing purr.

“Come on… it’ll be fun. I’m dying to see you out of your element.”

He turns his head, sunglasses long gone, catching your gaze with those brown eyes that always seem to put you in a trance. For a moment, something deeper flickers there—affection so intense it borders on love—but he banks it, choosing lightness instead.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he says, a chuckle rumbling through his chest as he turns beneath you so that you’re straddling his front, very reminiscent of your position from earlier this morning.

You shrug with faux coyness. 

“Fine. You win. But if I pull a muscle on the dance floor, you’re nursing me back to health on the yacht.”

“Deal,” you answer giddily, leaning forward and sealing it with a sweet kiss.

You tumble from one exclusive club to the next, the island’s legendary energy coursing through your veins as if it were liquid starlight.

With him by your side, doors that require months on a list swing open instantly. Harry Castillo’s name is currency it seems—wealthy, respected, so effortlessly commanding. Velvet ropes part like magic and you’re ushered into VIP sections dripping with opulence: crystal chandeliers, plush velvet booths, and terraces overlooking the moonlit sea.

The night blurs into a vibrant haze of music and laughter. At the first club, deep house throbs through the floor, bass vibrating up your legs. Harry starts off endearingly stiff on the dance floor, more boardroom than party. You can’t help but tease him, dancing with a playful grin.

“Come on, old man!” you giggle, grabbing his hands and pulling him closer. “Loosen those hips! I know you can move better than this.”

He rolls his eyes, a sheepish smile breaking across his handsome face, but the drinks keep flowing—colorful cocktails garnished with fresh fruit, shots that burn sweetly down your throat—and he gradually loosens up.

By the third club, where sultry techno gives way to Latin rhythms, both of you have released your inhibitions.

His hands find your waist with growing confidence, sliding over the silky fabric of your dress as he pulls you flush against him. The heat of his body radiates through your clothes, strong fingers gripping your hips as you move together.

It feels intoxicating. His broad palms roaming your curves, tracing the dip of your waist, squeezing the swell of your ass while the music shifts from pounding beats to sensual melodies.

You dance beneath swirling lights that paint his curly hair in shades of neon blue and magenta, losing yourself in the way his thigh presses between yours, the pressure sending sparks of desire dancing across your skin.

The world tilts in the most delightful way, every touch amplified as hours slip away in a whirlwind of bass drops, sweaty bodies, and stolen kisses on crowded dance floors. You’ve both drunk more tonight than at any point on this voyage. Any worries about the future drowned in rum and happiness.

In one of the venues, the sexual tension snaps.

Harry has you pressed against the door of a private restroom, the thump of music vibrating through the wood at your back. His larger body cages you in, the scent of his cologne dizzying you.

His mouth crashes down on yours in a breathless, hungry kiss, tongue tasting of sweet liquor and tropical fruit as it tangles with yours. You moan into him, your fingers threading through his damp curls.

Your hips grind shamelessly against the growing bulge straining in his pants, seeking friction.

You don’t care about the crowd outside or the luxury surrounding you—only the lust he stokes in your body, the way his touch slides up your thighs, bunching your dress higher, fingers digging into soft flesh with urgency.

“You’re so beautiful like this. I can’t get enough of you.” He growls against your lips, hips rolling forward to meet your desperate movements. 

The world narrows to the intoxicating pull between you. Nothing else exists but the aching need to have him inside of you.

His fingers hook into the lace of your panties and yank them aside. Two thick fingers drag through your slit, spreading your arousal before he circles your swollen clit and it makes you whine.

“So wet already,” he mutters against your ear. “Dripping down your thighs, baby. You need me that badly?”

You nod frantically, whimpering as he sinks two fingers deep inside you. The wet squelch of him fingering you fills the small space, barely drowned out by the music.

“Please, Harry—” you beg, grinding down on his hand.

He withdraws his fingers, making you pout at the loss. He frees his cock, just as desperate to feel you, hooking one of your legs high around his waist, spreading you better. He lines himself up against your opening.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, swaying slightly from the drinks—from you.

Your eyes lock with his as he thrusts forward in one powerful stroke, all eight delicious inches burying fully inside your body. A broken moan tears from your throat as your walls flutter and clench around the intrusion, mouth falling agape.

You’re so warm and tight and utterly perfect. It makes Harry feel crazy for how much he craves you all the time. “That’s it, sweet girl… taking me so well. You feel incredible.”

He starts to move, rolling thrusts that press you harder against the door. Each stroke is deliberate, savoring the way your body sucks him in. One hand grips your thigh firmly as he fucks you, the other braced beside your head, his taut forearm flexing.

“You’re so perfect,” he praises, voice strained with pleasure when your pussy tenses around him. “So soft… so wet… you make me lose my mind. I’ve never felt anything like this.”

He angles his hips, hitting that overwhelming spot inside you with every press. Your cries of his name grow louder, sweeter, and Harry drinks them in like fine wine. 

He wants to give you everything. Money, security, a house to call a home. Is he delusional for falling so fast? He thought love was supposed to be the most difficult thing in the world. 

How come it feels so easy to love you?

The pleasure builds intensely. Harry’s pace quickens, but his touch remains devout, eyes locked on your face as if he’s memorizing every expression of your ecstasy.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” The hand at your thigh slips between you to circle your clit with enough pressure to make tears well in your eyes. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel my beautiful girl come all over me.”

Your orgasm washes over you in powerful waves. You sob out his name, digging your freshly manicured nails into his back, clenching wetly around his shaft. 

Harry follows right behind you with a heavy sigh, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes. Thick, hot ropes of his release fill you completely. 

You both tremble through the aftershocks, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat from all the dancing and fucking. Harry presses kisses along your jaw and neck, murmuring sweet praises while the distant party continues to thrive beyond the door.

Neither of you speaks about the fact that he just finished inside you—the warm, slick evidence of it already beginning to trickle down where you connect. 

He pulls out, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, helping you clean up and straighten your dress with gentle hands, a soft smile playing on his lips. 

“Don’t look so proud of yourself,” you scold playfully.

“I just enjoy having sex with you baby, that’s all.”

After a quick refresh, he calls for the driver, then tucks you against his side. Your legs feel like jelly beneath you, the combination of mind-blowing sex and endless cocktails, leaving you unsteady.

You cling to him, arm wrapped tightly around his waist, face pressed into his chest as the scent of his cologne fills your senses.

Harry keeps you upright, that competency of his kicking in as he sobers up enough to weave through the bustling crowd and out into the summer night air. The breeze caresses your flushed skin while you wait for the car. He presses occasional kisses to your temple, murmuring words that make your heart flutter.

The driver arrives quickly and the ride back to The Daydreamer passes in a warm, drunken blur of city lights reflecting off the dark sea. Once aboard the yacht, Harry disappears briefly to get the shower running and preparing the bed, giving you a moment alone in the softly lit cabin.

You bend to slip off your heels, peeling your ruined underwear off too. Suddenly, your phone—left charging earlier—lights up and rings. Fueled by alcohol and frustration, you snatch it up and answer.

“What the hell, Joel?” you snap. “I told you to stop calling. I’m on vacation. Leave. Me. Alone.”

He can hear it immediately—the slur in your words, how inebriated you are. “Are you drunk?” he demands, anger sharpening his voice. “Christ, where are you? Why haven’t you been answerin’ any of my calls?”

“Because I don’t owe you anything—not after all you’ve put me through.”

“So ignorin’ me and pretendin’ like we aren’t still married is how you decide to deal with it?”

“That’s none of your business!”

His frustration boils over when you fire back.

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course it’s my business. You’re my wife.” 

You let out a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t get to suddenly act like you give a shit about this marriage. Not after you prioritized everything else above it. I became an afterthought to you. Even at fucking work!”

Silence. Of course. That’s his go to.

“The way you’ve been acting…” he trails off, not acknowledging your truth, which further proves the point of the whole reason why you two have failed as a couple. “This isn’t you—”

You hear Harry’s footsteps returning. Without another word, you hang up and toss the phone aside. You’re not going to deal with his bullshit tonight.

Harry had lingered just outside the room, fighting the urge to eavesdrop. It took everything in him not to listen—he respects your boundaries too much. If you don’t want to share who keeps calling and frustrating you, then so be it.

He steps back in just as you hang up. “Everything okay, sweetheart?” he asks, concern softening his brown eyes.

You nod, the motion making you sway on drunk legs. Closing the distance, you reach for him, pulling him into a wet, needy kiss. Your hands push the straps of your dress down until the fabric pools at your feet, leaving you beautifully, completely naked before him.

Harry’s breath catches. Tipsy as he is, he can’t resist. His hands roam hungrily over your bare skin, worshipping every curve as he devours you with deep, open-mouthed kisses. “You’re stunning,” he murmurs between kisses, voice husky with renewed desire. “My beautiful girl.”

He walks you backward toward the luxurious bathroom where steam curls invitingly from the large shower.

This time the sex is slower. He fucks you against the wall again, your wet chest pressed against the tile as he thrusts into you from behind, his lips at your ear continuing to say all the right things.

The argument with Joel fades into nothing. The longer you spend wrapped up in this fantasy with Harry, the more you’re beginning to dread what’ll happen when the summer ends.

Will you come clean about your husband? Stay and try to make things work with the billionaire? Or will you see this as the summer fling that it is all the way until the end, disappearing from Harry’s life as easily as you had entered it?

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