Page 98 of Mexico Can Choke On It
But I can’t let her know that. The moment she sees me as vulnerable, she’ll rip me to shreds with her sass, and we’ll be right back to her having all the power.
Something tells me she’s used to men groveling at her feet. But I’m not most guys. I want her needing me—badly. Petra doesn’t respect weakness—she annihilates it. If I want to keep her attention, I need to be the one thing she can’t demand.
My hands smooth her rumpled dress back into place, making sure she’s covered before gathering the shredded remains of her pantiesand placing them beside her. A gentleman’s courtesy, even in the aftermath of complete debauchery.
I slap my best smug expression across my face and start casually backing toward the staircase. “Sleep tight, Pip. Try not to dream about me too much.”
I hear her inhale to fire off a quip—probably something that’ll bruise my ego and make me hard at the same time—but I don’t stick around for it.
She thinks she’s the one in control? Let her think it.
Tomorrow, she’ll be the one squirming and begging me to touch her again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PETRA
Hedinedanddashed.With a smug grin that said,You’re welcome.
Next time, I’m either going to slap that smirk off his face or sit on it.Decisions, decisions.
I press my eye against my cabin door peephole, fully embracing my inner nosy neighbor.
Across the hall: The Door of Doom, aka Bryce’s room.
“Come on out, Billionaire Boy,” I mutter. “Face me like a man.”
I groan and thunk my forehead on the doorframe with a dramatic thump. I didn’t sleep last night—not even a little. I kept blaming it on boat stuff: the gentle rocking, the low engine hum, the water lapping at the hull.
Total lies.
The truth is, I spent the entire evening replaying every breathless second in that glass pod on the ocean floor.
His confession. His hands. His tongue—
Nope. Down, girl. It’s barely eight a.m., and you’ve already blacked out three times thinking about it.
I’ve spent years analyzing Bryce Sterling’s micro-expressions. He drums his fingers on his thigh every time he’s uncomfortable. His left eyebrow twitches if he’s annoyed but trying to be polite. His jaw muscle jumps when he’s fighting a smile.
But swagger? Giving me a mind-melting orgasm and walking away with a wink and a one-liner?
I don’t know this man at all.
Thank God for Gavin’s wedding emergency emails: vendor meltdowns, seating chart crises, and absurd guest gift bags gave my brain something else to spiral over. Who needs bride and groom bubbles when you’re gifting exotic vacations and literal diamonds? These aren’t party favors—they’re dowries.
At three a.m., Katie saved my ass with a FaceTime call—ten in the morning for her in Italy. Despite strolling through an Italian piazza looking chic and stunning, she used her supreme event planner skills to help me. For over an hour, we emailed vendors, fixed monogram font spacing, and translated Fiona’s boujee aesthetics.
Apparently, there’s a critical difference between cream and ivory, and calling itwhite-ishgets you side-eyed by the bridal mafia.
I didNOTmention the mind-blowing underwater oral session.
My besties picked up the pieces of my heart the last time Bryce unknowingly wrecked it. Trying to pass off his skilled tongue as the reason I caved? Yeah, that’s not gonna cut it. I swore to them I would never fall for him again.
But my brain? She’s a slut for delusion.
Deep down I already know how this ends. This isn’t a storybook romance where the rich guy chooses the messy girl with no filter. This is more… hot billionaire has some fun with the troublemaker until real wife material shows up. Someone more blonde. Less sarcastic.
Still, I’ve been fantasizing about that moment last night since I was fifteen fucking years old. And it wasbetter, so much better, than all my teenage dreams combined.
