“Mrs. Raleigh!” I whoop.

“Jesus Christ.”

“And now I’m Mrs. Tapas?”

He looks at my shirt. “Not yet.”

Even I have to laugh at that.

He doesn’t smile, the smoldering look enough to make me reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head, a warm breeze tickling my bare skin at the perfect moment.

“I love watching your skin react in real time,” he says, just observing me. I feel vulnerable, but not awkward. He’s my husband. If you can’t be naked and fully seen in every possible way with your soul mate, then when do you become real? This is it. The big time. He walks toward me, and I step into his space, expecting more.

Yet he holds back.

“You’re so beautiful.”

I stroke a slash of chocolate on my belly. “Minty fresh, too.”

He doesn’t smile, eyes narrowing into green slivers, his thick, dark brow full of authority and contemplation.

“Shannon, I—”

Tap tap tap.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he groans, deflating and expanding at the same time. “Who is it?”

“Bottle service, sir. And fine cheeses.”

My stomach rumbles. Sounds exactly like the sound Declan makes right now.

He looks at the door.

Looks at my bare breasts.

Door.

Breasts.

My stomach votes. It’s like Brexit; does he tell the guy to remain or leave?

“Come in,” he says with a sigh, waving me into the bathroom, where I wiggle into my filthy purple shirt.

A beaming staff member rolls in a room service tray with enough cheese for a fromagerie.

“Mr. and Mrs. McCormick! Allow me to—”

Dec grabs the bottle of Gewürztraminer. “Thank you. We’re good.”

The man panics. “But I have strict orders to air the wine and—”

Shove.

Click.

Pressing his back against the door, Declan closes his eyes, weary. “I’m so glad we’re not being interrupted by the paparazzi,” he drones on.

I chuckle, moving across the room, finding a piece of sheep’s milk manchego and a delicious slice of what looks like overripe cantaloupe. I shove both in my mouth, juice pouring out of the corner of my mouth.

“Mmmm. What is this?” I point to the orange fruit. “Not cantaloupe.”

He opens his eyes and follows my finger. “Papaya. Fresh.”

“They make it fresh? I’ve only ever had it dried.”

“That kind of papaya comes from a different tree, grown pre-dehydrated.”

I toss a grape at his head. It pings off his forehead and back at me.

He charges.

“You’re going to pay for that.” Hot hands cup my breasts, the fruity taste of papaya mingling with his lips on mine.

Tap tap tap.

“GO AWAY!” we shout in unison.

“Your couple’s massage appointment, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick? We are here with tables ready for your pleasure.”

“My pleasure is under me, more than ready,” Declan says, banging his forehead gently on the tile floor.

I’m torn.

On the one hand, hot sex with Declan.

On the other hand, a nice massage.

No reason we can’t have both, right?

“Let’s get the massage, and then we’ll be all oiled up and ready for slick sex,” I whisper, biting his earlobe. “So smooth, so slippery, like oily eels finding new ways to make everything fit.”

He perks up, sitting on his knees like a prairie dog poking his head out of a hole. “I like how you think.”

“I hope so. You’re stuck with my way of thinking for the next sixty years.”

Declan kisses my cheek and strides across the room, opening the door to find two workers carrying massage tables, dressed in scrubs.

“Come in,” he says, damn grumpy for a guy who’s about to get a luxury massage on the beach in Hawaii at night, under a beautiful star-filled sky. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter 6

A shard of bright glass pierces my eye. Turns out sunlight can feel like a weapon if used in the right quantity and at just the right time. I roll over on my back, my neck cosseted by fine silk, goose feathers making my pillow perfectly lumpy. I’m naked, and smooth.

So smooth.

Why am I so smooth?

And alone.

“Dec?”

Silence.

“Declan?” Next to the bed, there is a tray with coffee in an insulated pitcher, cream, sparkling water, papaya and pineapple, and chunks of peeled coconut.

Someone’s attended to my needs.

Well, most of them.

I do a mental check. Then a halfway physical one, reaching down, correlating what my mind knows with how my body feels.

Nope. We did not have sex last night.

So where’s my husband?

“Declan?” I sit up, plump pillows behind me, and pour some coffee and cream. The aroma arouses me before I even take a sip, the rich, resonant tones of Kona coffee playing across my tongue like I’m royalty.

I’m suddenly way more interested in that Kona coffee plantation visit.

I look on Declan’s mussed side of the bed. The sheets are stained with little oil streaks. Given how slippery I am, I imagine my half of the bed is the same.

I remember the massages we had, next to each other.

And then—nothing.

Did I fall asleep? How did I get in bed? I tent the covers. Huh. Panties. All I’m wearing is panties.

Which is what I wore when I crawled onto the massage table.

“Declan?”

Nothing.

It’s not as if I’m suffering. Might as well make the best of it. I start picking up pieces of fruit in twos and threes, alternating bites between thick swallows of this delightful coffee. A strong breeze whips through the open wall, bringing a few flower blossoms, a palm frond dancing on the wind. The sun isn’t in my eyes now, but it’s illuminating everything, giving the powerful surf a strong glow.

By now, I assumed I’d be sore from so much sex I’d be begging for a break. Instead, I’m drinking coffee and chewing my way through breakfast with a part of my body throbbing so hard it might as well have a beeping alarm attached to it whenever I step backwards.

“Where the hell is my husband?” I mutter.

A white and blue bird with a red head hops to the edge of our villa, making eye contact with me. I stare. It stares back. I sip my coffee.