Chapter 39
The water was perfect.
Warm as a bath, clear as glass, lapping soft around Brett's waist as he stood chest-deep in the private cove at Sentosa, his long honey blonde ponytail dripping down his back, his skin sun-kissed and glittering with droplets.
Lance was right in front of him, close enough that Brett could see the water beading on his dark eyelashes, close enough that Brett could feel the heat coming off his bare chest despite the cool sea.
They were supposed to be swimming.
They weren't swimming.
Lance's big hands were on Brett's hips under the water, his thumbs stroking slow circles over the gold hardware at the sides of the tiny pink bikini bottoms, his blue eyes dark and locked on Brett's mouth.
"You were saying something about not turning you on?" Lance murmured, his voice low and teasing and absolutely filthy, leaning in until his forehead rested against Brett's, until their noses brushed.
Brett laughed, breathless and shaky, his hands braced on Lance's shoulders, his D cup breasts — barely contained by the wet pink triangles — brushing Lance's chest with every breath.
"I was serious," Brett whispered back, trying to sound stern and failing miserably, his soft alto going all wobbly. "I told you, baby, it's hard to stay tucked in this thing. You can't— ah!"
Lance had slid his hands lower, cupping Brett's ass under the water, pulling him flush against him, and Brett felt it instantly — felt Lance, hard and hot and thick against his stomach through his swim trunks, felt the answering, terrifying, wonderful pulse low in his own body.
"No," Brett gasped, his blue eyes flying wide, his cheeks flaming pink under his sunscreen. "Lance, no, stop—"
"Stop what?" Lance purred, innocent as a shark, rolling his hips just slightly, just enough to grind against Brett, to drag that hard length right across the front of Brett's bikini bottoms, right where Brett was most vulnerable, most carefully taped and tucked and hidden.
Brett made a strangled sound in his throat and clutched at Lance's shoulders, his nails digging in, his whole body going tight and hot.
He felt it happen in real time — the betrayal of his own body, the rush of blood, the sudden, insistent pressure building behind the thin power-mesh lining Nico had sworn would hold, the delicate tuck he'd spent twenty minutes perfecting in the bathroom that morning.
The pink fabric, already stretched tight over his flat front, suddenly had nowhere to go.
"Oh god," Brett whimpered, his head falling forward onto Lance's shoulder, his ponytail dripping down Lance's back, his voice small and mortified and turned on all at once. "Oh my god, Lance, I'm— I'm tenting."
Lance froze for half a second, then groaned, low and wrecked, his hands tightening on Brett's hips, his forehead dropping to Brett's shoulder.
"Baby," he breathed, his voice shaking with want and with laughter. "Are you serious?"
"Yes!" Brett hissed, lifting his head, his face crimson, his eyes wet with embarrassment and arousal, glancing frantically around the empty cove like someone might appear out of the palm trees. "I'm straining against the tuck, Lance! I can feel it pulling! The lining's— it's— no fair!"
Lance looked down, through the crystal water, at the front of Brett's tiny pink bikini bottoms, at the way the fabric was suddenly, visibly, straining, at the unmistakable outline pressing against the wet material, and his whole body shuddered.
"Fuck, Brielle," Lance growled, his control snapping, his hands sliding around to the front, his palms spanning Brett's flat stomach, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edge of the bikini, to the place where Brett was fighting a losing battle with physics and hormones. "You have no idea what you do to me."
Brett squirmed in his grip, trying to get away and trying to get closer all at once, the water sloshing around them, his breasts heaving in the wet triangles.
"It's your fault!" Brett accused, his voice cracking, his hands fisted in Lance's wet hair. "You promised beach day! You promised no turning me on! You said— you said you'd be good!"
"I lied," Lance said simply, and kissed him — hard and deep and claiming, his tongue sweeping into Brett's mouth, swallowing Brett's gasp, his hips rolling again, deliberately, cruelly, pressing right against that straining, tenting, desperate pressure.
Brett cried out into the kiss, his body arching, his legs wrapping instinctively around Lance's waist under the water, which only made it worse, only pressed them tighter together, only made the thin pink fabric pull even tighter.
The tuck held — barely — Nico's magic and the maximum estrogen and a truly heroic amount of tape keeping Brett smooth and flat and hidden, but Brett could feel every millimeter of the strain, could feel the heat, the ache, the humiliating, wonderful fullness trapped behind the fabric.
"Lance," Brett sobbed, breaking the kiss, his forehead pressed to Lance's, his breathing ragged, tears of frustration and arousal pricking at his eyes. "Please. It hurts. It's pulling. I can't— I can't stay like this, baby, please—"
Lance's expression shifted instantly from teasing to tender, from heat to something devastatingly soft. He cradled Brett's face in both his big hands, his thumbs wiping at the tears on Brett's cheeks, his blue eyes fierce with love.
"Hey," Lance whispered, his voice rough. "Hey, look at me. I've got you. You're okay. You're perfect."
"I'm tenting in a pink bikini in the middle of the ocean," Brett choked out, a watery laugh bubbling up through the tears. "I'm not perfect, I'm a mess."
"You're my mess," Lance corrected, and kissed him again, softer this time, slower, his hands leaving Brett's hips to wrap all the way around him, holding him tight and safe and hidden against his chest, shielding him from the sun, from the world, from everything. "And you're beautiful. Even when you're straining against that little bikini. Especially then."
Brett buried his face in Lance's neck, his arms tight around him, his body still trembling, still aching, still painfully, obviously aroused under the water where no one could see but both of them could feel.
"You're so mean," Brett mumbled into his skin, his voice muffled and pouty.
"I'm so in love with you," Lance murmured back, his hand stroking up and down Brett's bare back, soothing. "And I'm going to take you back to that cabana right now and fix this for you."
Brett lifted his head, his blue eyes wide and hopeful and still a little teary. "Fix it how?"
Lance grinned, that wicked billionaire grin, and started walking them both toward the shore, Brett still wrapped around him like a koala, the water streaming off them.
"By taking that bikini off," Lance said simply, "and reminding you exactly why it's so hard to stay tucked around me."
Brett gasped, then smacked his shoulder, then dissolved into helpless, breathless laughter, his ponytail swinging, his pink bikini dripping, his tuck still straining and tenting and absolutely, wonderfully, no longer his biggest problem.
"No fair," Brett whispered again, but he was smiling, his arms tight around Lance's neck, his heart hammering with love instead of fear.
Lance just kissed the tip of his sunburned nose.
"All's fair," he said, "in love and bikinis."…