Chapter 38
Lance had promised him a day off.
No galas. No parents. No boardrooms, no interviews, no performance.
Just sun.
"Sentosa," Lance had said that morning, pressing a kiss to Brett's bare shoulder as Brett lay sprawled across his chest in the wreckage of white sheets, still naked from the night before, still soft and sleepy and sated. "Private cove. My family's beach house. Just us. No staff, no cameras."
Brett had made a sleepy, happy sound and burrowed closer, his long honey blonde hair a tangled mess across Lance's pecs, his D cup breasts squashed comfortably against Lance's side, his left hand — with the three-carat diamond back on where it belonged — tracing lazy circles on Lance's stomach.
Then Lance had gotten out of bed and tossed something small and pink onto the sheets.
Brett sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, and picked it up with two fingers.
It was a bikini.
Not a one-piece. Not a tankini. Not the modest, high-waisted, tummy-control thing Nico had suggested for "first public swim."
A bikini. A tiny, string, barely-there, bubblegum-pink triangle bikini with gold hardware at the hips.
Brett stared at it, his big blue eyes going wide, his mouth falling open, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs for a completely different reason than last night.
"Lance," Brett whispered, his soft alto still hoarse from the night before, from saying take me to bed over and over. "No."
Lance grinned, that slow, wicked, billionaire-boy grin that made Brett's stomach flip, and leaned against the doorframe in just his low-slung swim trunks, his dark hair wet from his shower, his body all hard muscle and tanned skin.
"Yes," Lance said simply.
Brett held up the tiny triangles like they might bite him. "Lance, I can't wear this. I can't—" He lowered his voice, glancing down at his own body, at the flat, smooth front he'd worked so hard to maintain, at the special tucking thong he'd slept in after they'd made love. "It's going to be hard to tuck and stay tucked in this. There's, like, three strings holding it together."
Lance crossed the room in two strides and knelt on the bed in front of him, his big hands settling on Brett's bare knees, spreading them gently, his blue eyes serious and hot all at once.
"Then we'll make it work," Lance murmured, his thumbs stroking the inside of Brett's thighs, making Brett shiver despite himself. "Nico had it lined. It's got the special pocket. The compression. It's made for you."
Brett bit his lip, his pink nails digging into the pink fabric. "It's not about the suit. It's about..." He gestured helplessly at himself, at his breasts, at his hips, at the place between his legs that was still, always, a source of terror in public. "What if it slips? What if someone sees? What if—"
"What if you look so fucking hot I can't keep my hands off you?" Lance finished for him, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Brett's bare knee, then higher, then higher, his mouth hot on the inside of Brett's thigh. "What if I spend the whole day hard just looking at you?"
Brett gasped, his hands flying to Lance's hair, his body arching before he could stop it, the maximum hormones making him respond instantly, making him ache.
"Lance!" Brett squeaked, pushing at his shoulders, half-laughing, half-panicked, his cheeks flaming pink. "Don't! That's exactly what I'm talking about! Don't turn me on, baby, I'm serious! I'll never stay tucked if you do that!"
Lance laughed against his skin, the vibration making Brett's toes curl, and looked up at him from between his legs, his eyes dark and adoring.
"Baby," Lance said, his voice rough with love and want, "you're in a pink string bikini in my bed at nine a.m. You were made to turn me on."
Brett groaned and flopped back onto the pillows, covering his face with his hands, the tiny bikini still clutched in his fist. "I hate you."
"No you don't," Lance said smugly, crawling up his body and peeling Brett's hands away from his face, kissing him soft and slow and deep until Brett was melting again, until Brett was sighing into his mouth. "You love me. And you're going to wear the bikini for me."
An hour later, the private cove at Sentosa was perfect.
White sand so fine it was like powder, water so clear and turquoise it looked photoshopped, a single white cabana with billowing curtains and a daybed big enough for two, and not another soul for half a mile in either direction.
Brett stood at the edge of the sand, barefoot, his long honey blonde hair in a high ponytail, his skin already glowing with sunscreen, and stared down at himself in the tiny pink bikini.
Nico had been right — the bottoms had a hidden power-mesh lining, a secret pocket that held everything flat and smooth and secure, the strings tied tight at his hips, the gold hardware glinting in the sun. The top was two tiny triangles that barely covered his D cups, tied behind his neck and around his back, pushing his breasts up into a perfect, sun-kissed swell.
He looked... he looked like a girl. Not a trans girl trying. Not Brett in a bikini. Just a beautiful, leggy, 21-year-old blonde in a pink string bikini on a private beach.
He was terrified.
Lance came up behind him, already in his navy swim trunks, his chest bare and broad, and wrapped his arms around Brett's tiny waist from behind, his chin resting on Brett's shoulder, his hands splaying possessive and warm over Brett's flat stomach, just above the top of the bikini bottoms.
"Look at you," Lance murmured in his ear, his voice low and reverent, his eyes on their reflection in Lance's sunglasses which he'd propped on the daybed. "God, Brielle. You're perfect."
Brett leaned back into him, his hands coming up to cover Lance's, his diamond flashing in the sun. "I'm scared it's going to come untucked if I go in the water."
"Then don't go in the water," Lance said simply, turning Brett in his arms, his hands sliding down to cup Brett's ass — barely covered by the tiny pink strings — and pulling him flush against him. "Stay right here and let me look at you."
Brett laughed, shaky and breathless, and swatted at his chest. "You promised beach day, not perv day."
"It's both," Lance growled, and bent and kissed him, deep and slow and tasting like sunscreen and salt, his hands roaming over Brett's back, over his hips, careful to avoid the strings at first, then not careful at all.
Brett melted into it, his arms winding around Lance's neck, his body arching, his breasts pressing into Lance's hard chest, and felt the familiar, terrifying, wonderful tightening low in his belly, felt his body respond despite the tuck, despite the fear, despite everything.
"Lance," Brett gasped against his mouth, pulling back, his blue eyes wide and panicked and turned on all at once, his hands braced on Lance's shoulders. "Baby, stop. I'm serious. Don't turn me on. I'll pop the tuck, I'll—"
Lance cut him off with another kiss, dirtier this time, his tongue sweeping into Brett's mouth, his big hand sliding down the front of Brett's bikini bottoms — not inside, just over, just pressing, just feeling how flat and smooth Nico's magic had made him, how secure he was.
"You're fine," Lance whispered against his lips, his hand still there, possessive and hot, his blue eyes locked on Brett's. "You're perfect. You're tucked, you're safe, and you're mine. And if you get hard, baby, who cares? There's no one here but me."
Brett stared at him, his chest heaving, his whole body trembling with adrenaline and arousal and love so big it felt like drowning, the sun hot on his bare skin, the water lapping at their feet, Lance's hand warm and steady right where Brett was most scared.
And then, slowly, Brett smiled — that real, bright, fearless smile that Lance had fallen in love with in a Montana bedroom eleven months ago.
"Okay," Brett whispered, his voice shaking. "Okay. But if I have a wardrobe malfunction, you're explaining it to Nico."
Lance threw his head back and laughed, loud and free and happy, and scooped Brett up into his arms like he had the night before, like Brett weighed nothing, and carried him straight into the turquoise water, bikini and all.
Brett shrieked and clung to him, his legs wrapping around Lance's waist, his arms around his neck, his ponytail flying, water splashing everywhere, and Lance spun them both around in the shallows, both of them laughing like kids.
The pink bikini held.
The tuck held.
And as Lance set him down in waist-deep water and pulled him in for another slow, salty kiss, Brett thought — maybe, just maybe — he could finally stop being scared of his own body.
Because Lance wasn't.
Lance never had been.…