sun with Alberto’s fat slug of an arm pinning me to the bed like an anchor. His stale whiskey breath tickles the curve of my neck in sickly, rhythmic waves. Every bone in my body cringes. He always insists on going to bed holding me, whispering dirty thoughts and desires in my ear as his belly and bulge press uncomfortably against my lower back. I always lie there, still and silent, until he falls asleep, and then I slip out from underneath him and curl up on the corner of the bed, making myself as small as possible. Somehow in the night, he’s managed to find me again and drag my body flush with his.
Nausea hits me, and I know it’s not just because I went too heavy on the gin and tonics last night. As I shuffle out from under Alberto’s heavy limbs, I glance at the watch on his wrist. It’s barely five-am, and yet I’m wide awake, unease and uncertainty buzzing through my veins.
Stopping in the doorway to throw a cautious glance at Alberto, I slip out of the room and pad down to the kitchen. Then, I pour myself a cold glass of water from the fridge and lean against the sink, watching the first rays of light make an appearance over the ocean through the kitchen window.
I’m anxious I won’t get to see my father today. Hell, I’m anxious about everything. About Alberto meeting with his lawyer, again, and the fact that I still don’t know what he’s planning. I was on a mission to find out last night, but I happened to get…distracted.
Drawing in a slow, deep breath, I roll my neck around my shoulders but it does nothing to loosen the knots in my back. I need release. Yet, the only outlet I have comes in the form of Sinners Anonymous.
And obviously, that’s out of bounds now.
Taking another gulp of water, I look over the rim of the glass to the ocean. Lazy waves lap against the shore and recoil just as slowly. It looks calm and cool, while I’m disturbed and hot.
With an obscene thought racing through my brain, I pour the rest of the water down the sink and dart back up the stairs. Instead of turning right into Alberto’s wing, I head left, into my dressing room, and make a beeline for the closet. Less than three minutes later, I’m bounding down the stairs in sweatpants, my bikini on underneath and a towel tucked under my arm.
Snaking through the house, I marvel in the silence of it. Usually, there’s always someone lurking around. Always noise floating through the halls—the low murmur of ever-present guards, the maids vacuuming non-existent dust. Alberto himself, barking demands at skittish servers. But this morning, the tranquility is like a breath of fresh air.
I almost regret my impulsive decision the moment I step out of the patio doors and my bare feet sink into the sand. It’s freezing. An icy chill whips my cheeks, working its way up my sleeves and down my collar. But I force myself to ignore my teeth chattering and the little voice in my head telling me to crawl back to the warmth of the house.
There’s no comfort for me there.
Instead, I rip off my sweats like a band aid and trudge toward the waves. As I get closer to the shoreline I break into a run, because I know if I slow down, I’ll stop, and if I stop, I’ll never extinguish the heat blistering through my veins.
I gasp when the water breaks at my ankles. Damn-near choke when it sloshes against my chest, forming an icy claw around my lungs and stopping me from taking anything but short, labored breaths. It burns my skin like frostbite, but I keep going, until I’m fully submerged and fighting against the current with long, strong strokes.
It was my mom who taught me to swim. Years later, she said it was because she was so bitter that my father got to teach me everything else—riding a bike, how to start a fire, how to build shelter from discarded wood—and she wanted to pass a skill onto me, too. She took me to the lake by our cabin, bundled me into our boat and rowed us out into the middle of the water. Jump, she’d said, before folding her arms and staring at me, expectantly.
I’d laughed. Mom was known for her sense of humor. But when she didn’t crack a smile I realized she wasn’t joking, and the panic started to seep in around my edges, I reached for the oars to row back to shore, but she pushed me back down on the boat bench with a firm hand.
Jump, she repeated. Because when you jump, you’ll find your wings as you fall.
I glanced up at my father, who was hovering nervously on the bank, clutching a life buoy. I swallowed the fear rising up my throat, balled my fists, and I jumped. Not because I thought I’d miraculously be able to fly, but because I knew that if I fell and couldn’t get back up my parents would always be there to save me.
I owe them the same. And while I couldn’t save my mom from the cancer, I sure as hell will save my father from Alberto Visconti.
When my lungs start to ache, I stop swimming and flip onto my back, letting the waves carry my body. The sky is starting to pale, morphing from a dark gray to a light blue, and I wonder how long it’ll last before the day’s storm rolls in.
Breathing low and slow, I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the squawking of the cranes circling the cliffs for early morning prey. I realize I’m smiling. This feels good. I feel free. Although I can’t escape the Coast like I’ve always wanted to, at least my mind can, even just for a few minutes.
The serenity lasts for a while, my mind as clear as the sky above me, my conscious as weightless as my body in the ocean.
But as the dark clouds roll in over the Cove, dark thoughts come with them. One dark thought in particular—Angelo Visconti.
No, no, no.
But it’s too late. The image of him appears, fully formed, behind my eyelids. I can feel the heat of his body against mine; feel the weight of his loaded question between my thighs.
So, who would you rather kiss?
I groan, submerging myself under the surface again, but this time, the shock of cold water does nothing to extinguish the heat. It comes from deep within, a burn that starts low in my stomach and spreads south to a place it shouldn’t. And then I remember the way he raked his teeth over his bottom lip, how his heavy gaze dropped to my mouth. The burn spreads up, back over my stomach and tightening my breasts. Absentmindedly, my fingers slide along my collarbone and under the fabric of my bikini top, then graze over my nipple. It’s hard and sensitive, and I shudder with excitement as I roll it between my thumb and forefinger.
I bet it’d feel even better if he did it. Especially with those large hands and thick fingers that make a cigarette look as small as a needle. I bet his palms are rough and his touch heavy.
And then, I wonder what would have happened if, in the darkness of the walkway, I’d answered his question truthfully.
You.
I’d rather kiss you.
My hand trails down my stomach and slides between my legs. It’s a different wetness that coats me down there; it’s warm and slick and when I dip a finger deeper into it, my whole body reacts.
What would he have done if that one word had fallen from my lips? I imagine his square jaw sharpening, his gaze darkening. One hand trapping me against the wall, the other gripping the hemline of my dress and impatiently dragging it up my bare thighs. He wouldn’t be gentle, and deep down, I know I wouldn’t want him to be.
Letting out a hiss of air toward the sky, I slide my finger up to my hardening clit and start rubbing in slow circles around it. It’s not how Angelo Visconti would touch me. No, I irritate him too much for him to go slow and soft. He’d rip my thong to the side and cup my sex. He wouldn’t tease out an orgasm, because men like him don’t tease. He’d demand one with long, thick fingers.
I bite my lip as I slip a finger into my hole, imagining it was his stretching me open instead. I move on it, bucking my hips against my palm to build up friction, chasing that release I need so badly. The back of my head and my ears bob in and out of the water as I kick my legs to stay afloat. God, it feels good. My eyes flutter open, just as a seagull glides overhead, and when my gaze falls back to shore, I freeze.
There’s a figure standing on the beach. A man. Sharply dressed in a navy suit and a crisp white shirt.
My blood runs colder than the water around me.
No. It can’t be…
But Angelo’s silhouette is impossible to overlook, standing tall and wide against the backdrop of the house. He’s staring straight ahead, feet shoulder-width apart, and his hands are tucked into the pocket of his slacks. I’ve stared at him enough to know it’s definitely him.
Swan, swan, swan.
When the salty water brushes over my lips, I suddenly realize I’m not treading water anymore, and I quickly flap my arms and kick my legs to stay afloat. What the hell is he doing here? Can he see me?
Of course he can. It’s the first rule my father taught me when camping: If you can see a predator, assume they can see you, too.
A wave picks me up and carries me a few feet closer to the shore, but I lie on my back and kick against it, trying to get further out to sea.
Sinking a little lower under the surface of the water, I peer up at him through wet lashes. My memory of him from last night is shrouded by a cloak of darkness, gin, and nicotine, making him bigger, sexier, scarier. Perhaps the way he made by head spin and clit pulsate could have been brushed under the carpet, if he didn’t make me feel the exact same way in the cold light of day. There’s about a hundred feet and an ocean between us, and yet, just the blurry outline of him makes hot, itchy, lust crawl through my veins, and the network of nerves between my legs beg for pressure.
Just the darn image of him drains my brain of all rationale. My hand slides back into my bikini bottoms. This time, I don’t need to close my eyes to imagine him, I simply stare across the waves. Him, in all of his untouchable glory. I imagine him spotting me, his gaze darkening and his fists ripping off his Armani suit as he impatiently strips to join me in the water. I imagine what he looks like under those tailor-made clothes. What muscles will flex and contract in his back as he swims to reach me in a few quick, strong strokes. How hot and hard his body feels when he presses it against mine.
The wind is picking up now, and I groan into it, my eyes never leaving his imposing silhouette on the shore. Then my hand becomes his hand again, and he slides one of those thick fingers into me. The walls of my passage burn deliciously as they stretch to accommodate him, molding to his thickness and adjusting to his speed. His touch is rough but the space between his neck and shoulders is warm—God, he smells good—and I nuzzle into his damp skin to get more of it, all of it.
With two fingers inside my now, I grind the heel of my palm against my clit, riding the crest of my sick fantasy. And then my free hand reaches back into my bikini top, pinching and twisting my nipples until every nerve ending in my body is pulsing with an electric current. My orgasm is so close, and I look up at Angelo through blurry, half-lidded eyes, rubbing harder, faster. I’m frantic. God, I want him. I want him on me. I want to know what he feels like.
My orgasm builds and builds, tingling deep within my pussy and threatening to spill out and flood my entire body.
One more stolen glance at Angelo’s indifferent expression and I come, hard, the lust washing over me like a wave. I ride it in delirium, throwing my head back and crying out in the wind. The adrenaline zaps through my spine like a lightning bolt, and I realize—this is what I live for. I chase this high. It’s why I continue to do bad things; why I want to fly planes thousands of feet in the air. Why I find myself balancing on the edge of a cliff, one sneaker hovering over nothingness.
Why I’m fingering myself at the thought of Alberto’s nephew, while he’s a mere few feet away, oblivious.
I live for living dangerously in a place that barely lets me live at all.
The throbbing between my thighs dies down to a subtle ache, and my breath slows to its natural rhythm. But I’m still high on the sin, so as I swim back to shore I’m biting back a smile.
When it’s shallow enough for the pebbles to graze against my stomach, I tilt my chin and allow my gaze to flicker up to Angelo’s. He’s lifting a cigarette to his lips, but he stops in his tracks when I stand up.
We stare at each other. Almost a gawp, as you do when you see an exotic animal in the wild for the first time. It’s like I’ve never seen a man in a bespoke suit, and he’s never seen a girl nearly naked. I come to a sudden stop, my heart pounding a mile a minute in my chest. My legs are still shaky from my orgasm, but that’s not what’s making it impossible to walk.
His stare hardens into a glare, and slowly, he slips the cigarette back into the pack and tucks it into his pocket. He palms his jaw. Swallows. Then his gaze drops to below my collarbone, where it trails the drips of water running down my chest and disappearing into my cleavage.
My pulse flutters, and I feel my nipples hardening underneath my bikini top; knowing that the fabric is thin enough for him to notice.
Simply for something to do, I drag my heavy hair over one shoulder and twist it, squeezing out the seawater. Something about this action elicits a low growl from his half-parted lips.
Feeling bold after sinning in the sea, it’s me who slices through the heavy silence first.
“What are you doing here?”
He purses his lips, then tears his eyes from me and turns his attention to the horizon over my shoulder. “I told you. I’ll be taking you to see your father on Wednesdays, and Saturdays.”
For some reason, his tone doesn’t sound as indifferent as usual.
“Oh, yes.” I aim for nonchalance, but my acting skills don’t stretch that far. “I’ll go get changed, then.”
He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he stares ahead with a smolder hot enough to set the Pacific on fire. I side-step him, brushing my wet shoulder against his dry suit as I pass. But then I feel a strong tug on the side tie of my bikini bottoms and come to an abrupt stop next to him.
What the hell?
Confused, I look down to see his forefinger is hooked under the thin bow tying my bikini bottoms together. My heart stops beating so suddenly that I feel as if I may pass out. He’s touching me. The back of his knuckle scorches my bare skin, and it doesn’t escape me that all it’d take is a slight tug and my panties would be in the sand.
Blood drums in my ears. I glance up, but he’s still glaring out to sea. The only thing moving on him is the pulse thumping in his jaw.
“If you belonged to me and dressed like that around other men, I’d pull down those skimpy bottoms and spank your ass until it was raw.”
His voice is thick and raspy. Each word is short and bitter, and yet, his expression remains emotionless.
We stand like this, side by side, for what feels like minutes.
Eventually, with his threat lingering between us, he unhooks me and lets his hand fall to his side.
Trying to catch my breath, I stumble up the beach, gathering my sweats as I go, and try not to collapse under the weight of his words.
