Chapter 41
Brett was still floating.
He lay tangled in the white sheets of the cabana daybed, boneless and warm and completely wrecked, his head pillowed on Lance's bare chest, his long honey blonde hair a damp, tangled mess across Lance's shoulder, his pink bikini top untied and hanging loose around his neck, the bottoms somewhere on the floor with the gold ties.
Lance's big hand was drawing slow, lazy circles on Brett's bare back, his other arm wrapped tight around Brett's waist, holding him like he was afraid Brett might disappear if he let go.
The curtains were still drawn, the world outside reduced to soft turquoise light and the hush of waves, and Brett felt safe in a way he never had before — not just tucked and taped and perfect, but freed, seen, loved exactly as he was.
"You okay?" Lance murmured into his hair, his voice low and sleepy and smug in that way men get after they've just completely ruined their lover.
Brett made a soft, happy sound and nodded, his cheek rubbing against Lance's chest, his left hand — with the three-carat diamond flashing — tracing idle patterns over Lance's heart.
"Mm-hmm," Brett whispered, his soft alto still hoarse from crying out Lance's name. "You... you really freed the tent."
Lance laughed, his chest rumbling under Brett's ear. "I freed you. Big difference."
Brett was about to answer — about to tell Lance that he loved him, that he'd never felt this safe, that he wanted to stay in this cabana forever — when he heard it.
Footsteps on the wooden deck outside. Heavy. Unhurried. Expensive leather loafers on teak.
Lance froze instantly, his whole body going rigid under Brett, his hand stopping mid-circle on Brett's back.
Brett's heart, which had just finally slowed, slammed back into a panicked gallop.
"Brielle?" A voice called from outside the curtains — deep, smooth, familiar in the worst possible way. Richard Sullivan. Lance's father. "Lance? You in there, son?"
Oh my god.
Brett's eyes flew wide, his blood turning to ice water in his veins. He scrambled upright, clutching the white sheet to his bare chest, his D cup breasts heaving, his hair falling in his face, his entire body suddenly shaking with pure, animal terror.
He was naked. He was untucked. He was lying in a daybed with Lance's father's son, twenty minutes after Lance had —
"Lance," Brett mouthed silently, his blue eyes huge and panicked, tears springing up instantly. "Lance, I'm— I'm not—"
Lance was already moving. In one fluid motion he sat up, pulling Brett behind him, shielding Brett's nearly naked body with his own, yanking the sheet up to Brett's shoulders, tucking it tight around him like armor.
"It's okay," Lance mouthed back, his own face pale but his blue eyes fierce and steady. "I've got you."
The curtain rustled.
Richard Sullivan poked his head in.
He was in a crisp linen shirt and sunglasses, his silver hair perfect despite the heat, his smile the same practiced, billionaire smile he'd worn at the gala, at the office, at the interrogation.
His eyes swept the cabana — the discarded pink bikini on the floor, the two glasses of melted ice, the rumpled daybed — and landed on his son, shirtless, with a very obviously naked blonde clutched behind him, only her wide, terrified blue eyes and a flash of honey blonde hair visible over Lance's shoulder.
"Well," Richard said slowly, his smile widening just a fraction, his gaze lingering just a second too long on the sheet clutched around Brett, on the bare shoulder peeking out, on the diamond flashing on Brett's left hand. "This is cozy."
Brett wanted to die. He wanted the white sand to open up and swallow him whole. He could feel every inch of his exposed skin burning with shame, could feel the phantom pull of the tape he'd just had removed, could feel the terrifying vulnerability of being untucked in front of Lance's father — the man who had already looked at him like meat in his office.
He pressed his face into Lance's back, his body trembling so hard his teeth chattered, his pink nails digging into Lance's sides.
Lance didn't flinch. His arm tightened around Brett, his hand splayed possessive and protective over Brett's hip under the sheet.
"Dad," Lance said, his voice cold and flat and absolutely lethal — the boardroom voice, the voice that moved billions. "We're busy."
Richard chuckled, completely unbothered, and pushed the curtain aside another inch, stepping halfway into the cabana like he owned it. Which, Brett realized with a fresh wave of nausea, he probably did.
"I can see that," Richard said, his eyes flicking again to Brett, to the curve of his bare back under the sheet, to the way he was hiding. "I just came down to check on the property. Didn't expect to find... this. Your mother will be disappointed you didn't bring Brielle up to the house for lunch."
Brett made a tiny, strangled sound against Lance's back.
Lance's jaw clenched so hard Brett could feel it.
"She's right here," Lance bit out, his hand tightening on Brett. "And she's not feeling well. Sun. We're staying down here."
"Mm," Richard hummed, his gaze dropping deliberately to the pink bikini top still tied loosely around Brett's neck, to the swell of his breasts just visible above the sheet Brett was clutching for dear life. "She looks... flushed."
It wasn't a question. It was an assessment. It was the same look he'd given Brett in the office when he'd asked if Brett was "naturally" this pretty.
Brett felt sick.
Lance stood up suddenly, taking the sheet — and Brett — with him, keeping Brett completely shielded behind his body, his broad back a wall between Brett and his father.
"Get out," Lance said quietly, his voice shaking with rage. "Now."
For a long, terrible second, Richard just stared at his son, at the naked girl trembling behind him, at the scene he'd so clearly interrupted. Then he smiled — that thin, dangerous smile — and held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Of course," Richard said smoothly, backing out of the cabana, his eyes never leaving Brett's. "Don't let me interrupt. Enjoy the... privacy."
The curtain fell shut.
They heard his loafers retreat down the deck, slow and unhurried.
Brett collapsed.
The second Richard was gone, Brett's knees gave out and he sank onto the daybed, the sheet pooling around his waist, his hands covering his face, his whole body wracked with silent, hysterical sobs.
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Brett chanted, rocking back and forth, his honey blonde hair sticking to his wet cheeks, his D cup breasts heaving with each sob, completely forgetting to be modest, completely forgetting to be anything but terrified. "He saw me, Lance, he saw me, I'm naked, I'm untucked, he—"
Lance was on his knees in front of him instantly, his big hands cupping Brett's face, forcing Brett to look at him, his own blue eyes blazing.
"Hey. Hey, look at me," Lance commanded, his voice shaking. "He didn't see anything. I didn't let him see anything. You're safe. You're covered. You're mine."
Brett threw himself forward into Lance's arms, clinging to him like a lifeline, his face buried in Lance's neck, his body still trembling violently.
"He knows," Brett sobbed. "He knows what we were doing, he knows I'm—"
"I don't care what he knows," Lance growled, holding him so tight Brett could barely breathe, his hands stroking Brett's bare back, his mouth pressed to Brett's temple. "Let him know. Let the whole fucking world know. You're my fiancée. You're the woman I love. And if my father ever walks in on us again, I'll buy this entire island and burn the cabana down."
Brett laughed — a wet, broken, hysterical laugh — and clutched Lance tighter, his tears soaking Lance's shoulder.
Outside, the waves kept whispering against the white sand, indifferent and perfect, but inside the cabana, Brett's heart was hammering like he'd just run a marathon, his body still naked and freed and vulnerable, his fear slowly, slowly turning back into something else under Lance's hands.
Something fierce. Something possessive. Something that looked a lot like love.
"Don't ever let go," Brett whispered into Lance's skin, his voice raw.
Lance pressed a hard kiss to the top of his head.
"Never," he promised.…