anding somewhere between winded and wrecked.

“Only when the brush is with you.”

Heat crashes through me, a slow, aching pulse that I can’t ignore. My thighs clench like I can contain the sudden, sharp air-stealing want.

“Say the word, Gemma,” he murmurs, his voice thick and slow and toe-curlingly confident, “and I’ll drop anchor and have you on your back before your next breath.”

My pulse stutters. My mouth goes dry. I bite my lip—hard.

“And if I want to stay upright?” I whisper, barely trusting myself to speak.

“Then I’ll make you beg for it while you’re sitting pretty.”

A choked sound escapes me. It might be a laugh. Might be a moan. Who even knows anymore?

His thumb strokes the inside of my thigh again, and I swear, my bones melt. My body is seconds away from surrendering. From throwing me at him like some desperate groupie.

The island is right there, close now. Forest green and sun-dappled against the endless blue, a whole new mystery waiting. But I barely see it.

Right now, all I see is him. The wind in his hair, the salt on his skin, the fire in his eyes blown wide and dark with want.

And God help me, I want to burn.

Thud.

The boat jerks violently as it hits the rocky shallows, grinding over the shore with a teeth-rattling scrape. I shout and lurch sideways, catching myself on the edge of the bench just before I go sprawling. Sand grates the hull, halting our momentum like nature itself has called a time-out on our foreplay.

Alder curses, scrambling to grab the tiller as I push myself upright and try to regain my composure and what’s left of my dignity.

He hops into the knee-deep water and drags the boat closer to shore with obnoxiously flexed arm muscles.

I climb out with as much grace as I can fake while my legs are still trembling and my libido is screaming, What the hell just happened?

As soon as my feet hit the sand, I blow out a breath and brush the hair from my face. The breeze off the water hits my skin like a slap, and I silently thank the universe for that crash because I was two seconds away from committing a very stupid, very public sex mistake.

But Alder is no easier to ignore now than he was in the boat

The way his shirt clings to his chest, damp with sea spray and sweat, the fabric molding to every lean, sculpted line like it was tailor-made to ruin me. Those breeches—tight, sinful, displaying the kind of ass that should come with a warning label.

God, he’s fucking sexy.

Heat washes down my spine as he kneels beside me in the sand with the picnic basket he retrieved from the boat. He unties the woven lid and unpacks its contents with deliberate care—an aged wheel of cheese, fresh baked bread still dusted with flour, glistening strawberries, a bottle of wine. And then, nestled among the linens, he lifts out a small jar of golden syrup, sprigs of lavender suspended within like tiny blossoms trapped in amber.

He uncorks the wine first, pouring deep red liquid into two delicate glasses. Without a word, he hands one to me, his fingers brushing over mine as I take it. I hesitate, studying the glass.

“I don’t think we should drink,” I say finally, my voice softer than I intend. “I want to be clearheaded. If we’re going to talk—if we’re going to make decisions about whatever this is—” I gesture vaguely between us. “I want to use my brain. Not my other…parts.”

His eyes darken, showing his amusement. “Your other parts?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I absolutely do.” His voice drops, velvet-soft and dangerous. “And I’m not interested in clouding your judgment.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he tips his glass and pours the wine into the sand. The red liquid soaks into the earth like blood. He takes mine and does the same.

“I don’t need wine to want you,” he says. His voice is low, husky, threaded with a heat that makes my stomach do something unholy. “And I’d rather you remember every second.”

The air between us thickens—charged, electric, impossibly heavy.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “You are entirely too good at this.”

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says, leaning closer, his eyes on my mouth. “You want a list?”

“I want a perimeter,” I mumble, but my voice is shaking.

He grins. “Gemma, if you wanted distance, you shouldn’t have gotten in my boat.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, trying to get my bearings. “This is exactly what I mean. I’m trying to be smart, and you’re making it impossible.”

“If you want to make decisions with your head, do so, but what about your heart?”

The question lands hard.

I glance away, trying to breathe past it. Trying to remember why I can’t just fall into this man like I always do—headfirst, heart open, consequences be damned.

I reach for a strawberry, desperate to shift the focus. Anything to ground me, to pull the moment back from the edge of whatever it’s becoming.

But before my fingers can close around it, his hand finds mine, fingers wrapping gently around my wrist.

“Let me.”

My lips part on instinct. The air hums with possibility. Every nerve ending is screaming danger. The smart thing would be to pull away, to say something witty, something sharp and self-protective, something that builds a wall between us. But I don’t move, don’t speak.

Because the heat of his skin against mine is a tether. Because in this moment—on this beach, in this realm, with him—there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

He plucks a strawberry, red and gleaming and still kissed with dew, from the bowl, cradling it between his thumb and forefinger. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he dips it into the jar of honey. The thick amber clings to the fruit, dripping in lazy ribbons down his fingers.

His eyes lift to mine and hold.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

The sincerity in his voice. The gentleness. It scrapes against every raw, aching place inside me, places I didn’t know were still bleeding.

“I will,” I whisper.

He drags the strawberry across my bottom lip, smearing the honey, letting it linger. The moment stretches, unbearably slow, unbearably tender.

The fruit touches my tongue, and I bite down.

Sweetness bursts against my lips, ripe and sun warmed, tangled with the floral depth of honey. The syrup coats my teeth, my tongue, melting through me like golden sunlight spilling over bare skin. It sinks deep and leaves me flushed, restless, hungry for more.

He watches every second.

Watches the way I lick a bead of juice from the corner of my mouth.

Watches the way my breath catches when his knuckles graze my cheek.

“You are the most dangerous thing I’ve ever wanted,” he says, barely louder than the wind.

My heart squeezes.

I swallow, the flavor of strawberry thick on my tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the taste of that sentence. Nothing compared to the way he’s looking at me like I’ve already ruined him, and he wants me to do it again.

I reach for the stem still in his fingers, but he doesn’t let go. Our hands stay tangled. Our eyes stay locked. And that ridiculous, terrifying hope starts to rise again.

Maybe this is more than lust and loathing.

Maybe this is something real.

Something that could finally be ours—if we don’t ruin it first.

“I want to tell you a story,” he says, his voice low, smoky.

I blink up at him.

“A story about a king who was cursed,” he continues, “starved of every pleasure. Would you like to hear it?”

I nod, the movement small, my breath caught somewhere between my ribs.

There’s this feeling I get—right before I open a book I know is going to ruin me—a kind of electric stillness, like the moment before a storm. That’s what this feels like. Like I’m about to be undone, and I’m turning the page anyway.

“One day, the cursed king was saved.” Alder drags the honey-drenched strawberry in a slow circle around the rim of the jar. “Washed clean in a golden light.”

He lifts the fruit to my lips, his voice low, coaxing. “Open for me.”

A soft, involuntary sound slips from my throat as I do.

“And when the king awoke from his curse”—he leans in, his breath warm on my cheek—“he was hungry.”

The strawberry grazes my bottom lip—sticky, sweet, slow.

“Ravenous,” he breathes, his voice a raw ache now, something that lives between want and worship. “Desperate for sugar and spice…for what he had been denied.”

He brushes a stray drop of honey from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, the barest graze of his skin sending a pulse of heat straight through me.

His story is only half tale. It’s a parable wrapped in something older, something deeper.

Or maybe it’s not a story at all.

Maybe it’s a confession.

He presses the fruit to my lips again, and I part them without hesitating, anticipation coiling tight inside me. The syrup spills, warm and decadent, trickling down my chin in a slow trail.

I don’t have time to wipe it away before his fingers follow. The rough pad of his thumb traces the sticky path down my skin, collecting the honey with unbearable slowness.

My breath stutters as he brings that honey-slicked finger to my bottom lip, dragging it across the sensitive skin, smearing the syrup in teasing glides. The warmth of it—of him—seeps into me, and I press my thighs together, desperate for relief, for friction, for anything.

Then, before I can prepare, before I can even breathe, he pushes his finger into my mouth.

My lips part, and I close around him, the taste of honey and salt thick on my tongue. A slow, involuntary hum vibrates in my throat.

Alder inhales, and the sound that rumbles from his chest is deep, dark, possessive, and so raw it makes me ache. His pupils dilate, his lips parting like he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t.

He only continues watching.

Watching the way my lips close around his finger. The way I swallow. The way the honey disappears, leaving only the heat of him behind.

“Tell me, Gemma.” His voice is low, barely more than a whisper, but it slides over me like silk, like temptation itself. “Do you think the king ever got his fill?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because his finger is still resting heavy on my tongue. Because his body is so close, his warmth pouring into me, making my head spin, making my heart trip over itself.

Because I already know the answer.

No, the king never got his fill.

The king is still starving.