The hum of the twin engines beneath the floorboards was a low-frequency drone that rattled my teeth, a perfect C-sharp in a world of discordant voices.
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1.
ELIAS
Subject: Margot Vane. Location: Port-side observation deck, Yacht *Aethelgard*. Time: 22:14.
She is wearing a slip dress the color of a bruise. It’s bias-cut silk that clings to her hip bones like it’s afraid of falling off. My job is to ensure that no one touches her. My secondary job is to ensure she doesn’t fall overboard. My unstated job is to ignore the way she looks at me when her father isn’t looking at her.
I stand three meters back. I am a ghost in a charcoal suit. I have a radio in my ear and a Glock 19 on my hip. I am perfectly still. To stay still in a world that is constantly pitching and rolling is a skill I learned in the infantry. It’s about the knees. You never lock them. You keep them loose, like you’re ready to absorb a blow.
2.
MARGOT
Elias looks like he was carved out of basalt. He doesn't move when the wind kicks up spray from the Ionian Sea. He doesn't even blink when the salt hits his face. I want to see him break. I want to see that military posture dissolve into something messy and human.
I turn away from the rail. The party downstairs is a muffled roar of champagne and ego. Here, it’s just the wind and the engines.
“It’s cold, Elias,” I say. I don’t look at him. I look at the white foam trailing behind us like a wedding veil being shredded.
“The temperature is sixty-eight degrees, Miss Vane,” he says. His voice is a baritone rumble. It reminds me of the way a cello sounds when the bow is pressed too hard against the string. “You should have brought your wrap.”
“I didn’t want the wrap. I wanted the cold.”
“Then you should be satisfied.”
He’s so clinical. It’s infuriating. He treats me like a line of code he’s been hired to protect.
3.
ELIAS
Visual Assessment: Subject’s pupils are dilated. She has been drinking the 2012 Krug, but she isn’t drunk. She’s bored. Boredom in a woman like Margot is a security risk. It makes her erratic.
She walks toward me. She doesn’t stop at the three-meter mark. She stops at ten inches. I can smell her. She smells like expensive jasmine and the metallic tang of the ocean.
“You’re standing in my way,” she whispers.
“I’m standing where I’m assigned, Miss Vane.”
“Move.”
“No.”
I don’t look down at her. I look straight ahead, over the top of her head. I can see the pulse in her neck. It’s fast. Faster than mine. I’ve been trained to keep my heart rate under sixty beats per minute, even when things are exploding. Right now, it’s a steady fifty-eight. I am a machine made of muscle and discipline.
4.
MARGOT
He’s lying. I can see the way his jaw is set. He has this tiny scar just below his earlobe, a jagged white line that looks like a lightning bolt. I want to put my thumb on it.
“My father says you’re the best he’s ever hired,” I say, stepping closer. My chest brushes the lapel of his suit. It’s rough wool. “He says you’re incapable of distraction.”
“Your father pays for my focus, Miss Vane.”
“What would it take to break it?”
“A direct threat to your safety.”
I laugh. It’s a sharp, jagged sound. “You’re so boring, Elias. You’re like a metronome. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.”
I reach out. I don’t ask. I slide my hand inside his jacket. I feel the heat of him radiating through his shirt. I feel the hard, rectangular shape of his holster. His breath hitches. Just once. A tiny skip in the rhythm.
Got you.
5.
ELIAS
Contact established. 22:28.
Her hand is small and warm. She’s touching the leather of the holster, but her fingers are grazing my ribs. It feels like a live wire is being pressed against my skin. In Tennessee, we have these summer storms where the air gets so thick you can taste the copper before the lightning hits. That’s what this feels like.
“Miss Vane,” I say. My voice is still steady, but it’s dropped an octave. “Remove your hand.”
“Or what? You’ll tackle me? Restrain me?” She looks up at me then. Her eyes are dark, reflecting the moonlight. She looks like she wants me to hurt her, or love her, or both. “Are you going to put me in handcuffs, Elias?”
“I am going to escort you back to your stateroom.”
“Do it, then.”
She doesn't move. She leans in until her forehead is resting against my chin. She’s breathing against my tie. “I’m a threat to myself, Elias. Isn't that what you said? A direct threat to my safety? I’m about to do something very dangerous.”
6.
MARGOT
I reach for his tie. It’s a silk knit, black. I wrap it around my hand and pull. He has to lean down to avoid being choked. Finally, we’re eye to eye.
He’s beautiful in a way that hurts. His eyes are the color of river water after a rain—brown and green and gray all mixed together. There’s a hardness there, but behind it, there’s something else. A hunger he’s trying to starve to death.
“Kiss me,” I say. It isn't a request. It’s a dare.
“Margot,” he says. He used my name. Finally. Not 'Miss Vane.' Just Margot. “If I do that, I’m fired by morning. I’ll be lucky if your father doesn't have me dumped in the harbor.”
“He’s in the cigar lounge. He won’t be out for an hour. And the cameras on this deck? I know you turned them off for your 'private sweep' ten minutes ago.”
He doesn't deny it. He just stares at me. The clinical mask is cracking. I can see the poet under the soldier. I can see the man who notices the way the light catches the silk of my dress.
7.
ELIAS
Protocol is dead. 22:35.
I shouldn't do it. I should push her away and walk her to her door and spend the rest of the night staring at a monitor. But she’s holding my tie like a leash, and the way she’s looking at me—it’s the same way I look at a guitar I can’t afford. Pure, unadulterated longing.
I reach up. I don’t grab her waist. I grab her throat. Not hard. Just enough to let her feel the weight of my hand. I thumb her jawline. Her skin is like cream.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” I growl.
“Show me,” she whispers.
I lean in. I don’t start with a kiss. I start with her neck. I press my face into the curve of her shoulder and breathe her in. She’s so soft it’s terrifying. I bite the tendon where her neck meets her shoulder, and she let's out a sound that isn't a moan—it’s a gasp, a sharp intake of air like she’s just broken the surface of the water.
8.
MARGOT
His mouth is hot and rough. When he bites me, I feel it all the way down to my toes. It’s a brand. I’m marked.
He moves his hand from my throat to the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my hair and pulling just enough to make me arch my back. His other hand is on my hip, his thumb hooking into the top of my silk panties through the thin fabric of the dress.
“Elias,” I moan.
“Shut up,” he says. It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night.
He slams his mouth against mine. It’s not a polite kiss. It’s a collision. He tastes like coffee and winter. His tongue is insistent, demanding entry, and I give it to him. I’m drowning in him. He tastes like the truth.
9.
ELIAS
I’ve spent ten years learning how to control my body. In thirty seconds, she’s dismantled all of it.
I lift her up. She’s light, like a balsa wood bird. I set her on the mahogany railing of the observation deck. It’s dangerous. One wrong move and she’s in the dark water. But I have her. I wrap her legs around my waist. The silk of her dress slides up, exposing her thighs. They’re pale and glowing in the moonlight.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her hair is a mess. Her lipstick is smeared. She looks perfect.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I say.
“Then die happy,” she says, and she starts unbuttoning my shirt with frantic, clumsy fingers.
10.
MARGOT
His chest is a map of service. There are faint scars, hard muscle, and a dusting of dark hair. I press my palms against him, feeling his heart. It’s not fifty-eight beats anymore. It’s a frantic drumbeat, a gallop.
I reach for his belt. The buckle is heavy, cold metal. I undo it, the click sounding like a gunshot in the quiet night. I slide the zipper down. He’s already hard, straining against his trousers. I reach inside, my fingers finding the heat of him.
He’s thick and smooth, the skin stretched tight. When I wrap my hand around him, he groans into my hair, a low, guttural sound that makes my own center ache and dampen. I move my hand, sliding up and down, feeling the weight of him. He’s like a mountain—immovable and ancient.
11.
ELIAS
I can’t think. The clinical Elias is gone, replaced by something primal. I reach down and gather the silk of her dress in my hands, bunching it up until it’s around her waist. She isn't wearing much underneath. Just a scrap of lace that’s already soaked through.
I slide two fingers under the lace. She’s slick. She’s burning. She’s a fever I’ve been trying not to catch for three months.
“Elias, please,” she whimpers, grinding her hips against my hand.
I find her clitoris. It’s a tiny, swollen pearl hidden in the wetness. I flick it with my thumb, and she nearly falls off the rail. I catch her, my arm a steel band around her back.
“Stay exactly where you are,” I command.
I use my fingers to open her up. Her labia are soft and heavy with blood. I slide one finger inside her, then two. She’s tight, clamping down on me. I can feel the internal rhythm of her, the small contractions of her muscles trying to pull me deeper.
12.
MARGOT
I’m falling. Not off the boat, but into the sky. Every time his thumb circles that spot, a jolt of electricity shoots through me. It’s not like the books. It’s sharper. It’s more violent.
I want him inside me. I want the weight of him.
“Now,” I breathe. “Elias, now.”
He doesn't wait. He kicks his trousers down to his knees and shifts. He’s holding me by the thighs, his grip bruising and perfect. He guides himself to me. He’s so big I don’t think he’ll fit, but then he pushes, and the world just... stops.
13.
ELIAS
Breach of protocol: Total. 22:48.
Entering her is like coming home to a house I’ve only seen in dreams. She’s so hot and so tight that I have to close my eyes and grit my teeth to keep from finishing instantly. I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s not just the sex. It’s the fact that I shouldn't be here. It’s the danger of the water behind her and the party below us.
I start to move. Slow, deliberate strokes. I want to feel every millimeter of the friction. The way her wetness acts as a lubricant, making the slide effortless but intense.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
She opens her eyes. They’re glassy and unfocused.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you in the airport in Athens,” I tell her. I thrust deeper, hitting her cervix. She cries out, the sound lost in the wind. “Since you looked at me and told me I looked like a man who didn't know how to have fun.”
“I was... wrong,” she gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “You’re... very good at this.”
14.
MARGOT
He’s a machine, but the kind that’s built for pleasure. He doesn't tire. He just keeps the rhythm, a steady, driving beat that is building a fire in my gut. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself closer, wanting to eliminate any space between us.
I can feel his cock hitting something deep inside me, a spot that makes my whole body shudder. I’m close. I’m so close I can’t breathe. The stars are spinning above his head.
“Elias, I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know,” he says. He picks up the pace. He’s thrusting harder now, his body slamming against mine. The mahogany rail creaks under us. I don’t care. If we go over, we go over together.
15.
ELIAS
She’s climaxing. I can feel her walls pulsing around me, a rhythmic squeezing that is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt. She buries her face in my neck and screams into my skin.
I can’t hold back anymore. I’ve reached the end of my discipline. I give three more hard, desperate thrusts, burying myself as deep as I can go, and then I boil over. It’s a total loss of control. I’m pouring into her, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I hold her. I just hold her for a long time, the only sound the wind and our jagged breathing.
16.
MARGOT
The silence afterward is the loudest part. The engines are still humming their C-sharp. The party is still going. But everything has changed.
Elias pulls out, slow and careful. He helps me down from the rail. He’s already back to work, his hands steady as he helps me smooth my dress. He doesn't look like a soldier anymore. He looks like a man who has just committed a crime and doesn't regret a single second of it.
“Your father will be leaving the lounge in five minutes,” he says. His voice is back to that baritone rumble, but there’s a new texture to it. A warmth. “You should go to your room and fix your hair.”
“And you?”
He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are calloused but gentle.
“I’ll be right outside your door,” he says. “Watching.”
17.
ELIAS
Subject: Margot Vane. Status: Safe. Location: Stateroom 1-A. Time: 23:15.
I stand in the hallway. My shirt is tucked in. My tie is straight. My Glock is on my hip. To anyone passing by, I am the perfect employee.
But under my tongue, I can still taste her. And on my skin, I can still feel the salt and the silk.
My heart rate is sixty-two beats per minute. It’s not back to fifty-eight yet. I don’t think it ever will be.
