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The boat slid smoothly up to the pier, and Nick stepped out, rolling his shoulders beneath the crisp linen of his untucked shirt. He looked sixty-three, but was in reality almost seventeen hundred years old. His body still carried the lean muscle of a man who could haul a sack of toys up a chimney without breaking a sweat—a fact "Mrs. Claus", appreciated far more than the children's letters ever let on. He grinned, watching Maeve stride ahead, her sundress swaying against thighs that could crush a man's ribs if she felt like it. The red of her hair caught the island light like wildfire.
She paused beside Sisa, the logistics VP, their heads bent together. Nick didn't miss the way Maeve's fingers brushed the younger woman's wrist—a gesture too deliberate to be accidental. Sisa laughed, dark eyes crinkling, and Nick filed away the moment. His wife's appetites were legendary, and logistics had been flawless this year. Rewards were due.
Mandla cut through the crowd like a blade, his bare shoulders gleaming with sweat from directing the unloading. He stopped just shy of Nick's personal space—respectful, but close enough for Nick to catch the scent of salt and exertion. "How were the meetings? The Zulu asked.
"Unproductive," Nick spat out in frustration. "Tough to get a thought through empty skulls. How they feed themselves is a mystery."
"Sorry to hear, Mandla responded. "That suggests the next delivery will be just as intense as the last—plenty of time to rest. Your house is ready," Mandla informed his boss, voice deeper than the island's volcanic core. "All unpacked. Even the"—his mouth twitched—"special cabinet."
Nick clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." He didn't specify which cabinet. I didn't need to. The entire compound was wired for intimacy—hidden compartments stocked with oils, silks, toys that would make a brothel owner blush. Privacy was optional here. Consensual voyeurism is practically a sport.
Across the courtyard, Maeve leaned against a palm tree, her assistant Sea-ah whispering something that made her bite her lower lip—a habit Nick knew meant trouble in the best way. The Korean princess darted away with a smirk, leaving Maeve waiting with that slow-burn smile that promised his evening would involve significantly less sleep than planned.
Nick turned to Mandla. "Do a sweep with Aitor. I want confirmation that the perimeter's secure before sunset—no details unless something's compromised." Mandla left without another word.
Nick moved toward Maeve with the predatory grace of a man who'd spent decades navigating both boardrooms and bedrooms. The sundress clung to her hips as she shifted her weight—deliberately, always deliberately—and he caught the scent of coconut oil and her signature musk. "Plotting something, love?" He slid a hand around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve above her ass.
"Always." Maeve turned her head just enough for her lips to brush his stubble. "Sea-ah found a... *creative* use for the hammocks. Thought you might want a demonstration later."
Nick's grip tightened. "Christ, woman." He exhaled through his nose before forcing himself to focus. "Mandla!" The Zulu reappeared like a summoned spirit. " Maeve chuckled, pressing her hips back against him in a slow grind that had no business being this dangerous in public. "Ever the control freak," she murmured.
The scent of hibiscus mingled with the salt air as Nick replied, "Must keep our ‘family' safe, my dear." His free hand slid lower, tracing the hem of her sundress where it rode up her thigh.
"Hammocks?" Nick growled against her temple, pulse already kicking at the mental image—Sea-ah's gymnast flexibility, Maeve's rope tricks from her pagan festival days, the way silk strands would bite into flushed skin. "I'll be the one demonstrating after dinner."
Maeve laughed and suggested they retire to their house—not the main
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