Page 18 of Etched In Stone
Here, there wasn’t another soul for miles in any direction. It was our own private Eden, a place that seemed suspended in time. The island was too small and too remote for commercial development, its rocky outcroppings and coral formations making it nearly impossible for larger vessels to approach the shore safely. Even The Lucy couldn’t get close, and we had to use a small motorboat to reach land.
I looked past the colorful reefs to see The Lucy proudly floating on the glimmering surface of the water. The dinghy we took to shore was just ahead, nestled in the sand. Today was our last day here, and once we pushed the little boat into the water and made our way back to the grandeur of The Lucy, it would signal the end of our honeymoon and the start of our journey back to reality.
While we had taken a plane to Jamaica, the boat had taken the long way, traveling from Montauk Marina in New York to the Caribbean. Unfortunately, our jobs didn’t allow for a lengthy trip back home. The return would be much shorter. Once we pulled up anchor, we’d go north to Fort Lauderdale. From there, Alexander and I would catch a private plane back to New York and leave the hired crew to navigate The Lucy back to Lake Montauk.
The thought of returning to the demands of our regular lives sent a pang of regret through me. I wasn’t ready. It had been three weeks of bliss with my new husband. Our trusted crew members had navigated the boat, sticking mainly to the control room and their private quarters, ensuring our paths would only cross if one went looking for the other. This allowed Alexander and me privacy aboard the expansive yacht. Explosive, lust-filled nights with me bound and at the mercy of my husband’s every desire were followed by seemingly endless days on shore.
“I don’t want this to end,” I admitted, the words escaping before I could stop them. “These three weeks have been...” I searched for adequate words to describe the transformation I’d felt, the way being Alexander’s wife had changed something fundamental inside me.
“Perfect,” he finished, and there was something in his voice that told me he was feeling the same reluctance to return to our complicated world.
“Let’s stay on the beach a little longer,” I suggested. “Maybe we can catch the sunset.”
“I don’t want to tender back to The Lucy in the dark, Krystina. It’s not safe. We can stay for a bit, but can’t be on the beach when it dips below the horizon. You’ll have to see the sunset from the main deck.”
“Fair enough.”
Determined to make the most of our final evening on the beach, I quickened my pace toward the dinghy. I had a surprise planned—a small celebration to mark the end of our honeymoon, even though I knew Alexander preferred to be the one making such arrangements. The risk of his displeasure only added to the excitement thrumming through my veins.
Reaching into one of the boat’s storage compartments, I retrieved the beach blanket I’d hidden there earlier, along with a small Bluetooth speaker I’d managed to smuggle from the yacht. With a mischievous grin, I picked up my phone and selected a song from one of Alexander’s playlists. Rihanna’s “Only Girl” burst to life. The pounding beat and sultry vocals rolled out over the sand, bold and unapologetic.
As the chorus swelled into Want you to make me feel, like I’m the only girl in the world, my chest tightened. The lyrics weren’t just music. They were everything I felt in that moment. That was what Alexander did to me. No matter the chaos of his world, no matter the shadows of his past, he made me feel like the center of it all—his focus, his possession, his everything. And here on this beach, I wanted to give that same feeling back to him.
“Alex, can you grab the cooler?”
When he didn’t immediately respond, I turned to find him standing motionless, one dark eyebrow raised in an expression I knew all too well. The cooler already sat open beside him, revealing the champagne bottle and crystal flutes I’d carefully packed that morning. His hands held the evidence of my unauthorized planning, and the set of his jaw told me I was in for exactly the kind of trouble I’d been hoping for.
“Planned ahead, did you?” His voice carried that edge of authority that never failed to make my knees weak. I could already see the heat burning in his sapphire eyes beneath the stern facade.
“Perhaps,” I replied with deliberate coyness, turning my back to him as I began spreading the blanket across the white sand. I could feel his gaze tracking my every movement. I made sure to bend just a little more than necessary, giving him a full view of my thong bikini, knowing exactly how the gesture would affect him.
I’d barely had time to smooth the blanket’s corners when I felt his arm snake around my waist with predatory swiftness. He pulled me back against the solid wall of his chest, and I could feel the heat radiating from his skin through the thin fabric of his linen shirt. His lips found my ear, his breath sending shivers cascading down my spine.
“Did you forget who makes the decisions here, Mrs. Stone?” The question was asked in that low, dominant tone that made my core clench with anticipation. “Did you forget that everything—every plan, every surprise, every moment of pleasure—belongs to me?”
The reminder of our dynamic sent heat pooling low in my belly. There was a time in our relationship when I would have challenged his stern reminder, but I was a fast learner. This was all part of the game with my dominant husband—and the reward for playing was always worth it. I’d learned to crave his control, to find deep satisfaction in surrendering my independence to his capable hands.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I whispered.
“Good,” he murmured, and I felt him shift behind me, his arousal pressing against my lower back in a way that made my breath catch. “Because now I’m going to have to remind you exactly what happens when my angel thinks she can take charge.”
The promise in his words sent electricity racing through my veins. I was in trouble.
Serious trouble.
And I couldn’t wait to be punished.
I remained perfectly still as he stepped away, leaving me aching for his touch while anticipating whatever delicious punishment he had in mind.
The sound of a cork popping made me smile despite my supposed contrition. Trust Alexander to incorporate my unauthorized surprise into his own plans, to take control even of my small rebellion and make it serve his purposes.
“Turn around,” he commanded, and I obeyed immediately, finding him standing before me like some pagan god of desire. His white linen shirt hung open in the tropical breeze, revealing the bronzed expanse of his chest that I longed to explore with my hands and lips. The champagne flute in his hand caught the sunlight, the bubbles rising through the pale liquid like tiny promises of intoxication.
“Drink,” he ordered, bringing the glass to my lips with one hand while the other cupped the back of my neck in a gesture that was both tender and possessive.
I parted my lips obediently, allowing him to control the pace as the cool champagne slid across my tongue. The bubbles burst against my palate, adding to the effervescence already building in my bloodstream from his proximity, his scent, and his absolute command of the moment.
When the glass was empty, I deliberately let my tongue dart out to catch a lingering drop at the corner of my mouth, knowing the gesture would inflame him further.
