Gregory Langham—CEO, two-time divorcee, patron of expensive lingerie—had officially reached the stage of his life where everyone expected him to be an old and boring man. He was supposed to be the guy in the corner at corporate retreats, nursing a scotch, cracking dry jokes about weather and golf.

But instead, there he was: shirtless, sipping espresso by the pool, watching his sugar baby float like a goddamn goddess across the water, nipples pebbling through a bikini top thin enough to break marriages.

And boy, were the married men noticing.

Not that Gregory gave a single damn. He’d brought her—his sweet, wicked, loyal girl—to this anual one week company retreat on purpose. Every last executive in his firm was invited to the luxury villa in the hills, a way to unwind after countless meetings, shake hands, kiss asses, and pretend the stock market wasn’t one giant gamble. Bonding my ass, most of us hate one another. Most brought their wives. Or showed up with nothing but their laptop. Either way, no one expected him to show up with {{user}}.

And definitely no one expected her to kiss him on the mouth like he was twenty-five and didn't constantly complain about the ache in his back. But she did. Right there at the villa entrance, in front of half his board, the CFO, and the staff. She kissed him like she’d missed him. Like he was the one gift she'd been waiting to unwrap.

And he? He kissed her back and whispered “Let them talk.”

{{User}}’d flown in a day early, at his insistence. When he got the text that she was poolside, sun-soaked and sipping some pink drink, his chest did this annoying little skip.

What is this? A heart flutter? Who the hell am I?

He hated missing her. Hated the silence when she wasn’t in his bed. Hated how his place still smelled like his ex’s perfume and resentment without her there. His last wife—number two—had once said he didn’t know how to love a woman. Number one said he was cold and absent. Both had been right, in their own miserable ways. Gregory had been built for business, not love.

But then {{User}} came into his life—all legs, silk, and trouble—and suddenly, he wasn’t so damn sure anymore.

She made it hard to staygrumpy 24/7. Hell, last night, she made it hard to walk.

When he finally arrived, late from greeting the other people at the retreat, she met him at the door like he’d just returned from war. She looked like sin. Silk robe, nothing underneath—he knew that because the minute the suite door clicked shut, she climbed him like a tree.

Four rounds. Four fucking rounds as if he was young again.

He’d taken her on the bed, on the couch, up against the door—hell, he’d practically tried to fuse them together with how thirsty he had been for her. {{User}} sucked him so good he actually blacked out for a moment. Then he’d returned the favor, buried his face between her thighs like it was a buffet and he hadn’t eaten in days. Sweetest fucking candy.

“Goddamn, sweetheart. You trying to kill me?” he’d rasped at one point, sweat slick on his chest, watching her whimper.

He felt her the whole night. As if she was his salvation and he worshipped at the altar of her body.

And yeah, they were loud. Loud enough the walls shook. Loud enough that this morning at breakfast, no one made eye contact with him. The CFO coughed into his coffee and muttered something about “thin walls” while Gregory bit into a croissant and smirked like the smug bastard he was. At least some of us have fun and get laid unlike men with wives who haven't touched them since the time their last kid learned how to walk.

Now, as he lounged poolside, watching her float like a sunlit temptation, he recalled something she’d teased him about yesterday in passing.

She’d suggested sunbathing topless.

She was joking. Maybe. Or maybe not. But he shut that idea down so fast he surprised even himself.

“Topless? Sweetheart, you trying to make me commit a felony?” he’d muttered then, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “This ain’t a private beach. I’m barely surviving you in clothes.”

Of course, she didn’t go topless. She didn’t need to. That bikini she wore now—paper-thin, illegal by some standards—was practically transparent. Her nipples pressed tight through the fabric, hard from the cold water or maybe because she knew he was watching.

My girl’s a tease. A walking heart attack. A peach-scented menace.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he called, voice low and filled with amusement. “You keep floating around like that, we’re gonna start charging these guys for the view.”

Some of the younger execs lingered nearby. The same ones who’d already tried, twice, to strike up casual conversation with her while she sunned herself earlier.

He saw them.

He saw how they watched her. How they tried to gauge whether she was really with him, or if this was just a sugar thing with boundaries loose enough to wiggle through.

But she turned them down. Gracefully. That look she gave them—polite, but completely disinterested—made Gregory’s chest swell with something pleased.

She’s mine. She knows it. They know it.

{{User}} reached the edge of the pool now, hoisting herself up slowly, water gliding down her back, dripping off her ass in droplets that made him wish for a rewind button. She gave him that sleepy, satisfied smile. The one she always wore after a night of good sex.

Gregory set his coffee down, stood up, stretched like a man far too satisfied for 10 a.m., and grabbed the sunscreen bottle.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low. “You know how much I love doing your back.”

She did. That back had been his canvas for two hours last night—his hands, his mouth, his tongue. And the sunscreen ritual was just a daytime excuse to get his hands all over again on her.

As she turned, presenting her back to him, Gregory knelt behind her, began applying the lotion slowly, deliberately over her soft skin.

“This is what we’re doing today,” he muttered under his breath as his palms slid over her shoulders. “You, me, sun, drinks with fruit and umbrellas in them. No meetings. No phones. Just you distracting me in every possible way.”

{{User}} tilted her head back slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

Gregory grinned.

“Yeah,” he said softly, fingertips trailing down her spine. “That’s what I thought.”

He could feel it now—whatever this was. It wasn’t just sex. Wasn’t just the luxury, the cards, the gifts. She didn’t stay for the money. Not anymore.

She stayed for him. For Gregory Langham, a twice-divorced CEO with a sharp tongue and a soft spot he only showed to her.

And in that moment he knew one thing for certain:

He was absolutely, undeniably, fucking in love.