Page 51 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"You're punishing me for offering to make you feel good?" I fold my arms.

"Actions have consequences." He shrugs one shoulder.

I scowl at him like a brat denied candy. "This is cruel and unusual."

"Discipline is rarely convenient."

My whole body hums with want. Frustration. The sense that I've walked into a game I cannot win—and never want to stop playing.

Because underneath the sexual frustration is something else entirely. Something that lights me up from the inside like a live wire. The way he talks about punishment, discipline, consequences—it's not empty roleplay or bedroom games. It's real. He means it. And the fact that he's willing to enforce actual discipline, to hold firm boundaries even when I'm practically begging him to break them?

It's deliciously, dangerously wonderful.

I mutter under my breath, "Bet your cock's not suffering half as much as I am."

"Keep pushing, sweetheart. I dare you." Lucas smirks.

The tension between us stretches taut again—hot, charged, filthy—just shy of snapping.

And then?—

The thrum of rotors cuts through the stillness, vibrating through the windows, the ceiling, and our skin.

"Jason's early. I'll go handle the delivery."

Lucas straightens, checking his watch, expression hardening into something cool and alert. All business again.

"Of course." I mutter, throwing my hands in the air. "This damn place. If it's not the generator going out, it's a goddamn helicopter."

"Excuse me?" His brow lifts as he moves toward the door.

"This place is a goddamn cockblock."

He stops in his tracks and laughs—low, full, and completely unrepentant.

"Welcome to your sentence, sweetheart." Lucas turns and walks out of the kitchen.

"It would've been worth it." I shout after him.

He laughs, and like that, he's gone—leaving me in a puddle of heat, flour, and sexual frustration.

He disappears, leaving me with half-mixed ingredients and thoughts too complex to untangle. When he returns minutes later, arms laden with supplies and cheeks flushed from the cold, I've managed to compose myself into a professional again.

"Let's see if these fancy ingredients are worth the trouble." I unwrap the chocolate, inhaling the rich aroma. "Though I must admit, this smells promising."

We work side by side, following Grandmother Rose's detailed instructions. The kitchen fills with heavenly scents as we whip, fold, and stir. When Lucas reaches past me for a utensil, his arm brushes mine, sending an unreasonable flutter through my stomach. I focus harder on the task, increasingly aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with our professional collaboration.

The first test batch emerges from the oven looking distinctly un-soufflé-like—a flat, sad disc that draws matching frowns from both of us.

"We overmixed." Lucas pokes the deflated dessert with a spoon. "Knocked all the air out."

"Let's try again." I reach for fresh ingredients, determined to master this challenge.

Three attempts later, we produce a passable soufflé, though still not quite matching the picture Charlene sent. Lucas studies it critically, head tilted.

"The texture's wrong. We need a lighter touch with the folding."

"Show me." I hand him the spatula, watching his large hands incorporate the ingredients delicately.

---