The muscled man before me cocked a brow when my stare did not break after five minutes.
Why would it? I was looking at God. Not a god. God Himself. I would believe in a heartbeat that indeed the being my eyes feasted on in this moment was a divine deity. Here I thought Jethro was the tastiest cake on the table—Leigh would never know this had been my first running thought of him for months—when there were more than enough desserts looking just as scrumptious.
I took mentally notes at a worryingly rapid pace. Electric blue eyes in such a contrast with dark, almost ebony black, hair. Dark laminated brows, but definitely natural. Lashes that battled with my aesthetician's best extension work. Curled too. God should really stop giving men these features. Leave some for the gender that actually needs them. His suit was impeccable, and after accessing the lapels and blunt tailored cut, I guessed they were made by a cutthroat high-end luxury designer. The stuff of Ralph Lauren and the like. And those damn YSL shoes.
"Erika?"
"Hm? Wait… Erika? How do you know my name?"
My reverie shattered as I blinked my entrancement away to receive his answer. And God was he hot when he flushed like that. The red splotches on his cheekbones and neck gave him a boyish innocence, an absolute 10-pointer in my books. Goddamn, this guy is dangerous.
"Jethro mentioned Leigh's sister was somewhere up here. Then I'd been to a premiere of your movie and saw you there. And a few times before that. Couldn't forget the images if I wanted to."
Oh. "Well, nice to know my name precedes me. Were you there for the movie?"
"Sort of. My mom was in it."
I scrunched my brows and gave him a once-over. It hit me, like a sports ball speeding astray from the field at dizzying momentum. There were similarities; very faint but there nonetheless. Then my eyes squinted while on him as I tried so desperately to recall if my high-profile costar had a son my sister and I's age.
This mysteriously unmysterious man chuckled, slipping my wine glass back into my hand. I looked at the surviving white wine with shock and focused on it with disbelief. Like the sharks deserved the drink more than I did. As I contemplated feeding it to them despite his save, I blurted out, stunned at the slam dunk of a memory that ambushed me.
"ROMAN?"
Roman Wilder grinned and motioned topping off his hat. "The one and only."
As I stared at him, all the memories flooded back. His mother, Duchess Mona Wilder, descended from a dukedom lineage prominent in 18th to 19th century… and her heartthrob of a son, Roman. Memories of field trips with his mother's siblings and my grandfather whooshed to the forefront of my thoughts. I had very nearly forgotten he existed, and if the Duchess hadn't starred alongside me in our latest tragicomedy movie, I doubted I would've remembered him. It helped that I stared into her face so often. She was my on-screen mother, after all.
"Damn. I always thought I was forgettable," Roman teased, "But you take it to an entirely different level."
"In my defense, I didn't forget you. I just didn't… remember you… like this."
Roman no longer stood in my direct line of sight. Instead, he had dropped to one knee, and for a split second, fear gripped my heart like a vice. Then he opened his palm to receive mine. In a daze, I placed my free hand in his—he clutched at it lightly before planting a feathery kiss on the back of my hand. A typical school girl would feel butterflies at that, but all the reaction I birthed from that little exchange was a clenching of my vaginal walls and a buckling of my knees.
It was as though Roman knew exactly what he did, calling on British charms from his maternal ancestors. I cleared my throat and he made his way back up. My eyes glazed over his physique once more before they came to rest on those terrifyingly vivid blue eyes. Lust overtook all my senses, threatening to override all common sense. This is Leigh's wedding party, don't fuck It up by itching for sex with a hot man. Before I let go of my glass, I downed the rest of my wine and cocked a brow at Roman.
"Didn't you want to show me around?"
I hadn't mistaken the kindred spirit in Roman, and my perfectly executed line—the stuff of TV shows, really; I channeled my inner Margot Robbie—summoned a desire in Roman's eyes undoubtedly similar to mine. In slow, deliberate motions, he took my glass from my hand and bent it so he gripped the stem with the rims facing down. His glass took position beside mine in his hands, and his elbow jutted out and sideways, my invitation. I held onto rich muscle and was escorted off the balcony to the bar, where Roman and I sat for more drinks and stared into each other's eyes.
Not long now.
After sitting assessing ourselves, Roman leaned in to whisper, "There's a spare bedroom on the second floor. Only Jethro's friends and your sister know of it…"
Not long now….
"Would you like to check it out?"
Atta boy.
I smiled and lazily sipped my drink, one I'd long since lost interest in. My palm loosely cupped my chin as I tilted my head to blink at Roman. "Lead the way, Wilder."
The string of events afterwards happened like a thriller film. Numerous flashbacks swam in and dove out of my mind as he took us up to this bedroom. Roman ravaged my body with his eyes first before he descended on them with his hands. Boy were those hands skilled! He slid my dress off of me, shifting my tousled waves to my back to access my plush breasts. His hands worked with fiery determination, like I was his first and last fuck.
For a moment, I wondered how soundproof the walls in the yacht were. It'd be a real turn off if my parents and granddad heard me getting freaky with them within reach. Roman never strayed though, unlike myself. The hunk of a man set his sights on me and only me.
When we were both naked, writhing in the sheets, because I took him in and him me, a thought struck. My hands scratched at his back, my eyes widening in response to the damnable thought. I couldn't bear to let it out, but Roman gently tilted my head back, so my frantic eyes pinned on him.
In that instant, we both feared the same thing. So we rode ourselves to ecstasy and slammed the thought away. Or tried to, at the very least.