I’m wearing a short sundress that mysteriously appeared in my closet on a rack marked for the weekend.

  It’s going to be hot on this island, allegedly, and so we have to dress appropriately.

  “I am now,” I say in response to his question. “I’m very familiar with the logistics.”

  “Well, it’s the same with the island,” he says. “It belongs to me.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I like to own beautiful things,” he says, and he’s gazing at me with such intensity that my knees go weak and my head spins just a little. I wonder how long this phase will last, if I’ll ever get used to feeling his hands on my skin, the way his palm pushes possessively into the small of my back, the hard muscles of his chest I can feel even through his shirt.

  He kisses me on the lips and then releases me, moves to the passenger side of his car and opens the door for me. We’re taking a private jet to the island, and it’s about a ten-minute drive to the runway.

  I slide into my seat and do my best to ignore the fact that the black car behind us with the tinted windows is filled with the security guards that are going to be accompany us.

  For the next few days, I just want to pretend that we’re a normal couple, that there are no dangers or stresses, that I’m not a viral twitter sensation, that I’m just a girl going to a wedding with her boyfriend.

  On his private jet.

  To his private island.

  “But, I mean, how does it work?” I press, rummaging through the bag that Noah’s assistant packed for me. It has everything I’m supposed to need for the trip, and I pull out a pair of oversized sunglasses and slip them on. “Having an island? Is it like camping?”

  Elijah grins, downshifts the car, and then places his hand on my knee.

  “No, Abigail. It is not like camping. There’s a resort on the island, along with a private residence, and a fulltime staff.”

  “So there will be other people there,” I say, my throat tightening.

  He shakes his head. “No. The resort is closed for Ryan’s wedding, and the only people on the island are staff who have been with me for years. There’s only one runway, and every guest is being flown in by planes owned by me. The runway will be closed to any other traffic. They’ll be checked and ID’d against the guest list that Ryan and Kira provided.”

  “Wow,” I say, feeling some of the tension in my chest dissipate. I know it must have taken an insane level of planning and logistics to set all of that up, and I know that he did it for me, to protect me.

  “And Ryan and Kira and their guests will arrive tomorrow?”

  “Yes. There will be a brunch tomorrow, then a rehearsal dinner at night, with the wedding the following day.”

  “So tonight it will just be us?”

  “Yes. I wanted to make sure everything has been taken care of, and if there are any problems, I can handle them before everyone gets there.”

  I reach for the hand that’s on my knee and his fingers intertwine with mine.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe four hours later, watching through the window of the plane as the island comes into view beneath us.

  The water is the first thing that strikes me – so clear and blue, I’m almost expecting to see all the way to the bottom. It’s a color that up until now I only thought existed in a box of crayons – not in real life.

  Then the seemingly endless beach comes into focus, the crisp green of the palm trees a sharp contrast to the white sand. There are sprawling huts that line the beach in a semi- circle, each of them with their own view of the water.

  And then, in the middle, the resort, bigger than I pictured it, with turrets and balconies that span the entire perimeter, high off the ground, giving 360 degree views of the ocean.

  On the other side of the island is another hut – if you can even call it that. But this one is huge, its expansiveness reaching all the way into the ocean by way of a long dock.

  The plane circles the island and stars to descend to the smooth black runway. I’m a nervous flyer – I always have been, and landings have always been the worst, ever since I read an article about how takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous parts of the flight – but the beauty of what’s going on below me distracts me, and before I even know what’s happening, we’re coasting to a stop.

  When we step off the plane onto the tarmac, a man in a pair of crisp white shorts and an emerald green t-shirt waits for us next to a golf cart. He’s tan and fit, maybe around thirty or so, with blue eyes and an impish smile.

  “Mr. Armstrong,” he says, bowing. And then he turns to me, his smile growing wider. “And you must be Ms. Bennett.”

  “Abigail,” I say, “Please, call me Abigail.” The sun is bright and gorgeous, and the ocean air is already infusing my pores with moisture.

  “Abigail,” he says, glancing at Elijah as if asking permission. “I’m Rosco. I’ll be your personal concierge this weekend.” He reaches into his polo and pulls out a card. “If you need anything, just text this number your location and request, and I will make sure it’s fulfilled.”

  “Thank you,” I say, sliding the crisp white card into my purse.

  “Abigail and I will be staying in the main residence,” Elijah says, his hand snaking around my waist. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I feel the possessiveness in his touch, the way his hand tightens around my waist, as if the thought of any other man being in close proximity to me makes him want to make it clear that I belong to him.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Rosco loads our bags onto his golf cart.

  “Thank you,” Elijah says. “We’ll walk.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  He takes off across the island on his golf cart, and Elijah takes my hand. The sun is beating down on me, the air warm but not uncomfortably so. Even so, I’m glad Elijah insisted on buying me all those sundresses.

  “I figure we can walk and you can see the island.”

  “This is amazing,” I say, as we cut through a gap between two of the huts so that we can walk along the ocean. Each of the huts is painted in a different color, with a thatched roof and long windows that allow views of the water. Hung on the front of each little house is a white ceramic seashell with a rectangular sign underneath in sketched glass that announces the name of each hut. “Starfish” “Sand Dollar” “Coral” “Sea Glass.”

  “What’s with the names?” I say as we walk. The sand is cool and white, nothing like the sand that I’m used to on the East Coast. Sugar sand, they call the sand here -- I read it online.

  “They’re used to tell the huts apart,” Elijah reports, deadpan.

  “I know that,” I say, rolling my eyes and not missing the fact that he raises an eyebrow at me. I wonder if he’s making a mental note of the number of times I’ve rolled my eyes at him today, adding it to the list of things that he’ll punish me for later. “I just meant that the names don’t seem to really be your style.”

  “It was my contractor’s idea. These huts were all falling down when I bought the land,” Elijah says. “It was overrun with dead trees. We renovated all of the buildings, built the main house, and then kept the far side of the island intact, with its trees and wildlife.”

  “Wildlife?” My hand involuntary tightens around his.

  “Relax,” he says. “There’s nothing living here that can hurt you.”

  The ocean water slides up and over our feet, and the water is cool, the foam of the waves moving over my skin. And when it washes back out to sea, it seems as if it’s taking all my stress with it.

  The main house is called Barracuda.

  I shoot Elijah a questioning look as I run my fingers over the sign, tracing the etching of the letters.

  “What?” he says, daring me to say something about it.

  “Nothing.” I shrug. “It’s your island, your decision on what you want your residence to be called.”

  Once we’re inside, my breath steals from my lungs. The entire first floor is open and encased in glass, making it feel as if the ocean is almost in the room with us. The floors are light gray and polished, but with a rustic knottiness, the furniture oversized and comfy-looking, in shades of cream and light blue.

  The kitchen is modern and open, with a huge butcher block on the island and a subzero fridge. The cabinets are open, with no doors, and stacked neatly with plates and bowls and cups, also in shades of cream and light blue.

  The whole entire place is incredibly beautiful and soothing. And it’s so not Elijah.

  “You look surprised.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say, walking over to the sliding glass door. I step outside onto the wrap around porch, watching the soft waves roll in and feeling the sun on my skin.

  Elijah follows me, wrapping his arms around me from behind. I lean back into him.

  “You like it?”

  “I love it.”

  He pushes my hair back from my neck and kisses me softly, and we stand there for a while, just watching the sun glint off the waves. And then in the distance, there’s a break in the water, and then another, and another.

  “Is that…”

  “Dolphins,” Elijah confirms. “They’re pretty plentiful around here.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, delighted, as the dolphins jump and play in the water. “They’re amazing.”

  “Yes,” Elijah agrees. “They are.”

  And I close my eyes and let myself believe, just for a moment, that everything can stay like this, just the two of us, happy and content and relaxed, the sun shining down and the ocean waves setting a calming soundtrack in the background.

  Later, a private chef appears with bags of food and supplies. She sets to work preparing us as island dinner – Caesar salad and seafood chowder to start, grilled red snapper with a poblano sauce, jasmine rice, green beans, asparagus, and fire-grilled corn for our main course.

  Elijah and I are served dinner on the porch, on a gray outdoor table with comfy cushions on the chairs.

  “Oh my God,” I moan as I take a bite. “This is amazing.”

  “It’s very good,” he agrees. “I’m glad you like it.”

  He went for a run on the beach a little while ago while I sat outside and read a book I found upstairs, a political thriller that kept me turning pages while the sun tanned my skin. When he got home, he showered, and his hair is still wet. He’s wearing black shorts and a white t-shirt, sunglasses still perched on his head, sandals on his feet.

  He looks relaxed and happy.

  We talk while we eat, about the book I’m reading, about the island, about the wedding. There’s no mention of work or his father, my mother or the security guards that have been ever present since we’ve been on the island.

  We drink white wine and eat slices of fresh pineapple and individual cherry tarts for dessert with scoops of mango gelato on the side.

  When the plates have been cleared away, I join him in his chair, and he pulls me onto his lap and wraps his arms around me.

  “I like this,” I say, running my fingers up and down his arms. “It feels like we’re the only people on the planet.” I know it will be different tomorrow when the guests start arriving, but for now, in this moment, it’s perfect and amazing.

  “That’s how I feel every moment that I’m with you,” he breathes, “but yes, this is special.”

  He kisses my nose, and I lay my head against his chest and listen to the waves.

  Elijah carries me upstairs to the master bedroom. It’s only seven – too early to turn in for the night, but I’m sleepy so I nap for an hour, sinking into the king-sized bed, the sheets silky against my skin.

  “Wake up, sleepy girl.” Elijah wakes me by kissing me on the nose. His skin is already bronzed from the sun, despite me insisting he put on sunscreen before he went running.

  “I’m awake,” I say, stretching my arms over my head.

  “I’m going for a swim. I would love it if you would come.”

  “In the ocean?” I repeat doubtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “What if there are sharks?”

  “Then I guess you better hope you’re a good swimmer.”

  I swat at him playfully, and he grabs my arm, raising my knuckles to his mouth and brushing them with his lips. “You don’t have to worry about sharks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I would never let anything happen to you.”

  “And?” I prompt.

  “And because there haven’t been any shark sightings here.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” I murmur, but I’m already getting out of bed, pawing through the dresser for a bathing suit.

  All of our things were unpacked while we were eating dinner. As with all of Elijah’s staff, whoever’s responsible seemed to work under the radar, slipping in and out silently without any sign of their presence except for the things they’ve done.

  The only bathing suites I see are bikinis, which makes me slightly uncomfortable – I don’t think I’ve ever worn a bikini in my life, opting instead for one pieces. But of course Elijah would only pack bikinis for me.

  “I’ll meet you on the beach,” he says, giving me a kiss on the mouth before disappearing.

  I dress quickly in the bathroom, choosing a black bikini which seems like the most modest of the choices, which isn’t saying much. The bottom is cut high on the sides, and I swear Elijah must have ordered the top in a size too small on purpose.

  But overall, I actually like the way I look, and I grab a gauzy white cover-up and a readjust my ponytail. I swipe some lip gloss over my lips and study myself in the mirror. My face is starting to get tan too, my cheeks slightly pink, the rest of my skin bronzed. I look happy and relaxed.

  When I get down to the beach, Elijah’s standing by the water in a pair of swim trunks and nothing else. Heat rises on my cheeks as I take in his body, the curve of his hips, the strong, corded muscles of his shoulders, the tightness of his ass.

  When he sees what I’m wearing, his eyes darken in disapproval.

  “No cover-ups.”

  I shake my head, throwing a glance over my shoulder at the security guard who’s lingering a little ways down the beach.

  “Chase,” Elijah calls. “Please secure the house from the front and sides. Miss Bennett and I will be taking a swim.”

  Chase nods and murmurs something into the walkie-talkie he’s holding, alerting the rest of the security detail to the fact that Elijah and I want some privacy. Once he’s disappeared around the side of the house, Elijah’s gaze returns to me, waiting.

  I sigh and take off the cover-up.

  I don’t know why I hesitate. He’s seen me completely naked – there’s nothing a cover-up is hiding that Elijah hadn’t already seen.

  But somehow, when he demands things of me like this, it makes me self-conscious.

  I drop the cover-up onto the sand, and he sucks a breath in through his teeth.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, his eyes traveling over my body. “Now your top.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” he volleys back, a soft, teasing tone in his voice.

  “It’s too cold.”

  “I’ll warm you up.”

  “Then you take off your clothes, too,” I challenge.

  He doesn’t hesitate, pulling off his swim trunks in one fluid movement.

  I can’t take my eyes off him, my gaze traveling over the soft line of hair that starts at his stomach and moves down until it ends in a thatch around his massive cock.

  Speaking off his cock, it’s already semi-hard, and as I reach behind my back and unhook my bikini top, it becomes even harder.

  I pull off my bottoms without having to be asked, and he gives me a nod of approval.

  But if he thinks it’s going to be that easy, then he’s wrong.

  I take off running toward the ocean. The cool water laps at my ankles, causing my breath to hitch in my chest, the temperature urging me to turn back. But I push forward into the gentle waves, forcing myself to dive down into them swimming with soft, strong strokes.

  I taste the salt against my lips and when I dip under the water, my hands brush against the soft sand that’s the floor of the ocean.

  When I surface, I turn around and Elijah is there.

  “How…” I trail off, not finishing my question about of how he could have possibly gotten to me so quickly. I should know better. He’s always one step ahead of me.

  “I’ll always be right with you,” he breathes. “I love you, Abigail.”

  I throw my arms around his neck, and he slips his arms under my knees, twirling me around in the water. We mess around for a while, splashing and dunking each other, until the sun finally dips down behind the horizon.

  The light filters over the water, muted and warm, casting golden shadows over his skin. And this time, when he pulls me close and tells me he loves me, his voice is low and husky.

  His erection pushes against my stomach, and I shiver and wrap my legs around him.

  His hands grab for my ass, holding me against him as he pushes against my opening.

  Our eyes are locked as he slowly, slowly, slowly pushes inside of me, his pace agonizing.

  My nails dig into his shoulders, and when he’s finally all the way inside of me, he kisses me, his tongue tangling with mine. He kisses me forever, until I’m breathless, until I feel his cock pulsing inside of me.

  The whole time, he hasn’t even moved me, just kept me still on him. There’s nothing except the two of us, joined together, and when he finally starts to guide me slowly up and down on him, I shatter almost immediately, my orgasm causing my pussy to spasm and clench around him, drawing out his own climax until both of us have nothing left.

  Afterwards, he pulls his swim trunks back on and I throw on my cover-up while we sit on the beach, his arm around me, my body tucked snugly against his.

  Then we lie back on the sand on our backs, watching as the sky turns from light purple to eggplant to black, and the stars come out one by one.

  “Oh my God,” I say, pointing. “A shooting star!”

  Across the sky, a star has shot across the vast expanse of space, its tail leaving light in its wake.

 

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