Page 42 of Forbidden Fruit

My hands tighten on her waist involuntarily. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I’ve spent too long doing what I’m supposed to do instead of what I want,” she says, and the new confidence in her voice makes my blood surge.

“What is it that you desire?” I inquire softly.

“I’m still working on figuring that out, I guess.”

Becca

Iwake up at dawn, my body still humming from that kiss with Clive. All night, I've tossed and turned, replaying the moment his lips touched mine—the strength in his hands, the scent of his cologne, the roughness of his beard against my skin.

Sleep-deprived but somehow energized, I slip into my pale pink bikini—the one with the cheeky bottom that Jack once called "too revealing" for someone with "my body type." I smile at my reflection, admiring how the color complements my pale skin.

The villa is silent as I pad barefoot through the halls. Everyone must still be asleep, recovering from last night's cocktails and tension. The marble floor feels cool against my feet as I slide open the terrace door and step into the Mexican morning.

The infinity pool stretches before me, its surface perfectly still, mirroring the pink-orange sky. Beyond it lies the endless blue of the Caribbean. I dip one toe in—the water is perfect, not too cold. I slide in slowly, letting the water envelop me inch by inch until fully submerged.

Breaking the surface, I push my wet hair back and float on my back, eyes closed against the brightening sky. The water cradles me, washing away the confusion of being here with Jack while thinking about Clive.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

His deep voice startles me. I stand in the pool, water cascading down my body, and turn to see Clive standing at the terrace door. He's wearing linen pants and an unbuttoned shirt, his chest partially visible. His eyes seem to take all of me in at once.

"The sunrise was too beautiful to miss," I say, suddenly aware of how little my bikini covers.

He smiles, that crooked smile that makes something flutter in my stomach. "I was thinking of taking the yacht out. The water's perfect this time of morning." He pauses, his blue eyes intent on mine. "Care to join me?"

I should say no. We said we’d take it slow, and I’ve hardly burned through this untapped sexual energy enough to be alone with Clive.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "I'd love to."

Clive nods, satisfied with my answer. "Meet me at the dock in fifteen minutes? Bring a cover-up. The morning breeze can be cool on the water."

I watch him walk away, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the brightening sky. My heart is racing, and it's not from my swim.

Back in my room, I quickly towel off and pull a white crochet cover-up over my bikini. I grab my sunglasses, a hat, and sunscreen, stuffing everything into a beach bag. In the mirror, I notice my cheeks are flushed, and it's not from the sun.

What am I doing? Going sailing alone with my ex-boyfriend's stepfather after we kissed last night?

But I can't stop myself. Something about Clive pulls me toward him like gravity.

The wooden dock creaks under my sandals as I approach the yacht. It's smaller than I expected—intimate rather than ostentatious. Clive is already aboard, checking something on the control panel.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain?" I call out, trying to sound light and playful despite the butterflies in my stomach.

He looks up, and his smile is like the sunrise—warm and full of promise. "Permission granted."

As I step onto the boat, he offers his hand. His palm is rough against mine, and I remember those same hands cradling my face last night.

"Have you ever been sailing before?" he asks, releasing my hand but staying close.

"A few times with my parents on the Hamptons, but I was always just a passenger."

"Would you like to learn how to sail her?" His eyes are bright with excitement.

"I'd love that," I say, meaning it. Jack would never think to teach me anything—he'd just expect me to watch him show off.

Clive is patient as he shows me the basics—the names of the sails, how to read the wind, and when to tack. His body occasionally brushes against mine as he demonstrates, and each touch sends electricity through me. When he stands behind me to help adjust the sail, his chest against my back, I can barely concentrate on his instructions.

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