PART 2
The sun climbed lazily into the sky, gilding the thatched rooftops of Phi Phi with light that shimmered like brushed gold. Fred sat barefoot on the wooden deck outside his suite, a quiet contentment seeping into him like the morning heat. A bowl of tropical fruit sat beside his coffee, and the faint scent of salt lingered in the air, carried by a soft breeze that played with the edges of his open book.
He had read this paragraph before — maybe five times already — but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t in a rush. His legs were stretched out, ankles crossed, and his mind wandered as easily as the boats bobbing in the bay below.
The night with Elena had left something behind — not regret, not confusion, but a kind of ache. Not in his body, but somewhere deeper. He hadn’t expected her to slip so easily into his space, or how his mind kept replaying the sound of her laugh just before she fell asleep. It should’ve been simple — beautiful woman, beautiful night, end of story. But part of him kept asking: was that it? Or had something already started he didn’t know how to name?
He had no plans for the day. No expectations. Just a promise he’d made to himself on arrival: one new cocktail each day. At noon, he’d head to the shaded lounge by the pool and ask the bartender to surprise him. Until then, he was perfectly fine watching the island breathe.
Elsewhere, at Zeavola, laughter spilled across the private pool deck of a sun-drenched villa.
Elena lay stretched out on a lounger, her bikini a soft powder blue that shimmered against her lightly tanned skin. Her book rested on her stomach, unread, while Savannah — in a striking emerald green bikini that matched her mood — scrolled through photos from the day before, smirking to herself.
“You’re glowing,” Savannah teased, sipping a mimosa. “Something about a certain engineer?”
Elena rolled her eyes, blushing despite herself. “It was just one night.”
“Sure,” Savannah said, grinning. “Just one. I heard you come in, by the way. Could’ve woken the island.”
Elena tossed a towel at her. “I wasn’t that loud.”
Savannah shrugged, all innocence. “Not judging. I approve, remember?”
They clinked glasses, their laughter easy and warm.
As the morning rolled into afternoon, they drifted from pool to spa to sunbed — indulging in a lazy pedicure, gossiping about old boyfriends, and tossing playful theories back and forth about Fred. Would he call? Was he already thinking of her? Or was she just another island story?
By late afternoon, as golden hour softened the sky, Savannah had an idea. “We owe him a drink… and maybe a little more fun.”
They posed for a photo together on the villa’s terrace — sunlight licking across their skin, both in their bikinis, sultry and smiling — and then hit record.
Elena’s voice was soft and teasing. “Hey stranger…” Savannah leaned in. “We’re heading out to town for drinks tonight at 8pm. Come join us.”
Click. Send.
Somewhere on the island, Fred’s phone buzzed on the table beside his untouched cocktail. He smiled before even opening it.
The late afternoon sun had mellowed, casting golden ribbons across the private plunge pool at Zeavola. Elena sat curled on a lounger, hair wrapped in a towel, her skin glowing from too much sun and not enough sleep. Savannah lounged beside her, still in her bikini, sipping something with crushed mint and lime, legs dipped lazily in the water.
Their phones buzzed almost in sync.
Elena picked hers up first, reading Fred’s reply to her earlier message. “Deal. Just don’t let Savannah pick the drinks. I plan to remember my name tonight.”
A second later, Savannah’s screen lit up with his response. “You won’t.”
She smirked. “He’s cute when he tries to act like he’s not out of his depth.”
Elena had always played the role of the calm one — the one who didn’t chase, didn’t crumble, didn’t compete. But something about Fred’s eyes the night before had slipped under her skin. The way he looked at her like she wasn’t a game or a conquest. Just… her. And now, watching Savannah — magnetic, confident, always one step ahead — she couldn’t tell if she was handing over the reins… or surrendering something she might want back later.
Elena didn’t answer right away. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but her lips were parted, thoughtful.
Savannah tilted her head. “You okay?”
Elena nodded slowly. “I just… wasn’t expecting any of this.”
Savannah grinned, stretching like a cat. “That’s the best kind, baby. No expectations, no regrets. Just pleasure.”
A pause. “You should go,” Elena said, glancing over.
Savannah blinked. “What?”
Elena lowered her sunglasses. “To drinks. Alone. I think you two have something to… explore.”
Savannah raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Elena gave a soft laugh, maybe a little too quiet. “Let’s not pretend you haven’t been planning it since the snorkel trip.”
Savannah rolled over onto her side, chin in hand. “I wasn’t planning. Just… observing.”
Elena looked away, back toward the pool. “You always do.”
Neither of them said anything for a while.
Then Savannah stood, brushing the droplets from her skin with her towel. “Well,” she said, voice lighter again, “if I’m going to seduce your almost-lover, I better look the part.”
Elena threw a pillow at her. “Wear red.”
“Obviously.”
The beach bar glowed amber in the fading sun, lanterns already flickering to life in the palm trees above. A low hum of music floated beneath the murmur of guests, and the first stars blinked open in the darkening sky.
Fred arrived just before eight. His white linen shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves casually rolled, hair still damp from a quick shower. He moved without hurry, claiming a seat with a view of the ocean, then ordered something unusual — cocktail number four of his trip: a Tom Yum Martini. Citrusy, sharp, and laced with something spicy. He sipped it with a slight raise of the brow. Not terrible.
When she appeared, he noticed her first by the colour. Red — bold and glossy, like lacquered petals. Savannah walked barefoot across the sand as if it were silk, her dress clinging in places that made conversation seem optional. A slit traced the curve of her leg; gold hoops shimmered at her ears. Her lips, glossed and mischievous, parted into a slow smile.
“Surprised?” she asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Fred didn’t answer immediately. “Not sure yet. Am I in trouble?”
Savannah let out a low laugh. “You will be.”
They toasted without ceremony. Her drink was something darker — bourbon, maybe. The kind that lingered. Like her perfume, warm and sweet with a touch of vanilla.
“So what’s this?” Fred asked, swirling the martini. “A protective best-friend interrogation?”
Savannah leaned forward slightly, her voice teasing. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just curious if my girl is as lucky as she looks.”
“That doesn’t sound very sorority-sister of you.”
“We’re not sisters,” she said smoothly. “We’re explorers.”
He liked the way she said it — not provocative, just unapologetic.
“You’re very measured,” he said.
“I like a good engineer,” she replied, tapping his glass. “Always pretending you’re in control.”
She paused, her smile flickering for just a second. “Control’s overrated anyway. It’s just what people reach for when they’ve been blindsided one too many times.” The line came lightly, but there was weight behind it — something she wasn’t offering details on. Then her grin returned, as if she’d never said it at all. “Besides, chaos is way more fun.”
He laughed under his breath. “And you’re not?”
“I’m just better at hiding it.”
Their drinks lasted longer than they should have. The sun sank deeper, turning the sky a bruised orange. Still no sign of Elena. Savannah offered no explanation. She simply stood after a while, brushing sand from the hem of her dress.
“Walk with me?”
Fred hesitated, then stood. They moved together, quietly, down the curve of the beach.
The air had thickened. Not heavy, just full — like it held something waiting to happen. Her hand didn’t reach for his, but her arm occasionally brushed his. Her laugh came easier now, lower, like she was talking to herself and letting him listen in.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, not looking at him.
“That this might be a mistake,” he said, honestly.
Savannah stopped walking and turned to face him, the sea behind her and the breeze pulling strands of her hair loose from where she’d tied it.
“But you don’t care?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
She stepped closer. Close enough that he caught the scent of her — sunscreen and salt and something floral. Her eyes met his, unblinking.
“Then take me back to your room, Frederick,” she whispered. “And show me what she saw last night.”
The door clicked shut behind them, quiet as a held breath. Savannah stepped inside first, barefoot, her red dress whispering against her thighs as she moved. She didn’t turn right away—just stood there for a moment, looking around.
“Masculine,” she said finally, a curl in her voice. “Clean. Predictable.”
Then she turned, slow and deliberate. Her eyes swept over Fred with the calm of someone entirely at ease in her own skin. “I like disrupting things like this.”
Fred smiled, but barely had time to respond before she closed the space between them. Their mouths met—fierce, urgent, and without hesitation. She kissed like someone trying to claim something. He responded like a man who’d forgotten why restraint ever mattered.
She pushed him back gently, palms firm against his chest, guiding him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Then she stepped back. With a single tug, the knot at her neck came loose. The red dress slid from her shoulders in one clean motion, pooling silently at her feet.
She wore nothing beneath the dress — no straps, no secrets, just sun-kissed skin and unrushed confidence. Her breasts swayed slightly with her breath, full and unapologetic. Her nipples were already tight in the cool air. Below, her stomach was smooth, her hips flaring wide and soft with purpose. She stood like a painting, composed and bare, a woman who knew exactly how much power lived in stillness.
She was stunning—soft where Elena was sleek, confident where others hesitated. She stood framed by the soft light spilling in through the open windows, her silhouette outlined in gold. Her skin held the bronze kiss of the island sun, glowing with a warmth that made her look almost unreal. Her curves were generous and deliberate—full breasts that rose with each breath, a soft, flat stomach, and hips that flared in a way that suggested both strength and indulgence. Her thighs were thick, sculpted by motion and mischief, and her legs held the kind of quiet power that spoke of dancing barefoot and never apologizing. Every inch of her was woman, unfiltered and unafraid, a figure carved not for perfection but for hunger. She stood still, letting him look. Not for validation. But as an offering.
Fred couldn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to — but because this moment had taken control of his body. She was art and danger, sex and silence. His palms itched to touch her, but he waited — letting her fill the room like heat. His heartbeat was no longer calm. It roared in his chest, pulsing between his legs, tightening everything. And still, she hadn’t even kissed him.
She moved closer, leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “No slow tonight,” she whispered. “You’ve done tender. I want you distracted tomorrow.”
Her fingers brushed his collarbone, featherlight, then slowly trailed down the center of his chest. She paused at the waistband of his shorts, her nails dragging just enough to raise goosebumps. “You’re thinking too much,” she murmured. Her voice was silk wrapped around a dare. “Stop thinking. Just want.”
Then she kissed him — hard, sure. He stumbled back a step, and she pushed him down onto the edge of the bed, straddling him. Her mouth pressed against his again, hands in his hair, hips already shifting to tease him through his clothes. Fred let her lead for a breath, for two.
It was Fred’s turn to move now. He stood, towering, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, her lips parted slightly—an invitation or a challenge, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both. Then he flipped her.
She landed beneath him with a breathless laugh, legs still wrapped around his waist. His shirt hit the floor. Her nails skimmed his back. He pinned her arms above her head and kissed down her neck — slow, open-mouthed kisses that made her squirm.
She bucked against him, legs tightening around his waist, her heels digging into his back. He could feel the tremble starting — low in her belly, rippling up. Her fingernails left stinging lines across his shoulder blades, pain blooming under the heat of her pleasure. Every nerve in her body seemed to reach for him, clenching, pulling, begging — and he gave her everything.
“You like control?” she whispered.
“I like watching you lose it.”
He slid down, tongue teasing her skin, lips finding the place just below her hip that made her breath catch. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, knees lifting to welcome him in. Their bodies tangled — teeth grazing, hands exploring, tension mounting.
He lifted her effortlessly, spun, and laid her back on the bed with a soft thump of surrender, her hair fanned across the white linen like spilled ink. Her legs bent instinctively, heels grazing his hips, pulling him in. His hands mapped her body like he’d been waiting a lifetime — gliding over the slope of her ribs, the subtle inward curve of her waist, the strength in her thighs. She gasped when his fingers pressed into the soft flesh at her hip, and her back arched high when he pinned her wrists above her head with one strong hand — firm, unrelenting, possessive.
They became heat and friction, breath and skin, the distance between them evaporating as mouths met, parted, and met again. He kissed down her neck, his lips tasting salt and sun, then across the soft curve of her chest. He paused — not to ask, but to savour — then trailed lower, tongue tracing a path over her belly. She moaned freely now — sharp, low sounds that vibrated in his spine and made his grip tighten.
When they finally came together, it was without hesitation or apology. Their bodies collided with a desperate kind of grace — hips aligning, limbs tangling, breath catching and staggering in time with each motion. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper, her voice rising in pleasure, calling out his name like a dare, like a challenge only he could meet.
He drove into her with rhythm and force, every thrust deliberate, deep, and hungry — claiming her in a way that blurred the line between pleasure and surrender. Her nails dug into his shoulders, sharp and desperate, anchoring herself to the moment as her body rose to meet every motion.
He moved with force and focus — an engineer breaking every rule, dismantling logic one thrust at a time. Against the door, where her hands clutched the frame. Then the bed, sheets twisted beneath them, the sound of skin on skin. Then into the window light, where shadows and gold flickered across their bodies.
The sound of their bodies — wet, relentless, skin slapping skin — filled the room like a heartbeat. Sweat pooled between them, slick and salty, and Fred could smell everything: her arousal, his own need, the faint sweetness of the lemongrass soap she must’ve used earlier. Her breath came fast and hot against his neck, punctuated by soft, feral gasps. He leaned down, tasting the hollow of her throat — salt and heat and something uniquely hers, like wild fruit left too long in the sun.
Her thighs shook violently, hips twitching as her breath broke into staccato moans. Her back arched so high it nearly lifted them both off the bed. Her hands scrabbled blindly at the sheets, at his arms, at the air itself — as if nothing could hold her together. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, mouth open in a silent scream before sound finally ripped from her throat — ragged, raw, uncontrollable. The climax took her in waves — shuddering contractions that rocked through her, tightening around him like a vice, as if her body refused to let go. Her body clenched, pulsing, pulling him with her.
He groaned against her neck, her scent on his skin, her name spilling from his lips as his control fractured completely. Pulsing, squirting, twitching he spilled into her in hot, relentless waves, his release so deep and forceful she gasped with the sensation. Her body clutched around him, milking every pulse, until his mind blurred and the only thing left was her name on his lips and the sound of their bodies coming undone. He held her tightly as his rhythm slowed, breath catching, bodies slick and still entangled in the heavy air of after. They ended in a knot of sweat and sheets and gasping mouths.
The sheets beneath them were damp, twisted, clinging to their skin like a second layer. Fred could feel the faint tremor still running through her thighs as she lay half-draped over him, her cheek resting against his shoulder. Her skin was flushed and slick, her breath brushing the hollow of his collarbone in shallow bursts. The scent of sex hung thick in the room — salt, sweat, something heady and sweet, like jasmine crushed under heat. He ran a hand slowly down her spine, tracing the path of her vertebrae, grounding himself in the weight of her body and the quiet thunder of his own pulse still echoing in his ears.
Later, as the ocean breeze drifted through the open window, Fred lay on his back, chest rising fast. Savannah lay beside him, one leg draped over his, fingers tracing random shapes on his skin.
“That was…” he started, still catching his breath.
“Unexpected?” she offered, eyes closed, lips curved.
He turned to her. “Or overdue.”
Their breath slowed but stayed tangled, limbs draped over one another, their skin still humming from the heat they’d created. The room was warm and quiet, save for the distant hush of the sea and the occasional crackle of the fan overhead.
Fred lay back against the pillow, his chest rising steadily, one arm curved beneath her. Savannah rested her cheek just above his heart, her fingers drawing slow, idle lines across his torso. For a moment, it felt like peace — not romantic, not tender, but earned. Animal. Honest.
She kissed him once—softer, lingering—and rolled to her feet, pulling his shirt over her head. “Don’t worry, lover. I’m not here to break hearts.”
She picked up the red dress, sandals forgotten, and disappeared into the hallway barefoot, hips swaying like she’d just rewritten the rules.
The sheets beside him were cool. Not just absent-of-body cool — but early, deliberate, intentional. Savannah was gone. Fred lay still for a moment, eyes open, letting the ceiling fan spin above him in slow, hypnotic circles. The scent she left behind lingered like a secret: salt air and spiced vanilla, soft on his pillow, caught in the folds of the duvet. He inhaled once, then let out a dry chuckle.
“Used and dismissed,” he muttered to the empty room. “Fair enough.”
But even as he said it, the words rang hollow. He hadn’t felt dismissed — not really. What rattled him was how freely she’d taken what she wanted and left, unburdened. It was exhilarating. And unsettling. He wasn’t used to being the one left with questions and silence. Something about Savannah’s departure — elegant, unapologetic — made him wonder if he’d just been a chapter in someone else’s story. And if he’d liked that more than he should have.
He stretched, rolled out of bed, and padded to the window. The sun was already climbing — golden fingers reaching across the sea, turning the bay into a ripple of diamonds. The chaos of last night had been replaced with calm. With order. With a silence that somehow made the echo of her laugh louder in his memory.
The shower steamed. He shaved slowly, methodically. Picked out a pale blue linen shirt and rolled the sleeves just so. White shorts. No sandals. He looked like a man on holiday — and played the part — but every now and then, he caught himself smiling at nothing.
Downstairs, he skipped the hotel breakfast. Instead, he wandered barefoot through the waking streets near the dock, letting the island pace soften his stride. A corner café offered a strong, bitter espresso in a chipped ceramic cup. He drank it standing up, watching the longtails bob gently in the harbour. He bought a handmade soap bar — lemongrass and charcoal — from a market stall manned by a boy no older than sixteen. The boy grinned with pride when Fred complimented the scent.
Around midday, he slipped into a small pub tucked behind flowering bougainvillea. It was dark and cool inside, the hum of ceiling fans barely louder than the reggae playing on old speakers. He ordered a cold beer and a plate of fried shrimp, savoring each bite like it was a memory he was trying to etch in flavor.
By afternoon, he was back at the resort pool. He didn’t swim. Just lounged — feet dangling in the water, half-reading The Billionaire Career. The notes he’d underlined days ago felt alien now. Like they belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn’t kissed Elena beneath palm trees. Who hadn’t surrendered to Savannah’s heat and storm. He flipped the page. Sketched absentmindedly in his notepad — the curve of a boat hull, the angle of a woman’s jaw.
The sun began its descent.
He ordered cocktail number six — a coconut margarita served in a heavy glass with a sugared rim. He sipped it slowly, toes still in the water, the taste sweet and sharp on his tongue. The wind had shifted slightly, cooler now, brushing across his forearms as the sky began to soften with the colour of stories not yet written.
Then his phone buzzed.
The villa was quiet except for the distant hum of cicadas and the slow crash of waves beyond the trees. Morning light spilled across the stone floor like liquid gold. Elena stirred first, the sheet slipping from her bare shoulder as she rolled toward the window. A single glance at the empty half of the bed beside her made her smile softly — not sadness, not regret. Just memory. Scented with sunscreen, sea salt, and the faintest trace of last night’s champagne.
A lazy stretch. A soft exhale.
Moments later, Savannah padded in from the outdoor shower, towel wrapped loosely around her chest, wet hair slicked back and glinting in the sunlight. She held two iced espresso martinis, already sweating in their glasses.
“Breakfast of champions,” she declared, handing one to Elena as she slipped into a sun-warmed lounger.
Elena accepted it without a word, her long legs still tangled in white linen. She took a sip and winced — then smiled. “That’s dangerous.”
Savannah grinned. “That’s the point.”
A few minutes later, a fruit platter arrived — papaya, pineapple, passionfruit — alongside warm croissants, slivers of cheese, and more coffee. They ate slowly, languidly, in the soft rhythm of women with no urgent place to be.
The morning passed between laughter and silence. Savannah lay topless on her lounger, a black bikini bottom riding low on her hips, skin bronzed and glowing. Elena wore a white bandeau top, her matching sarong undone and tossed carelessly to the side. The sun kissed their skin, and they let it. No makeup, no timelines, no expectations.
Later, at the spa, they sat side by side in oversized robes, their toes dipped into warm water as the therapists began their pedicures. Savannah squealed and kicked gently when the scrub brush hit a ticklish spot. Elena laughed until her stomach hurt.
In the afternoon, they returned to the private pool. Floating — slowly, dreamily — drinks in hand, music drifting from a speaker half-lost under a towel. The water shimmered. Time blurred.
Elena had been quiet most of the afternoon, not out of hesitation but because she was deciding. Watching Savannah tease, watching Fred pull back then lean in — it wasn’t jealousy she felt. It was curiosity. A kind of power in seeing it unfold, knowing she could shape how far it went. She wasn’t giving anything up. She was setting the stage. And Fred? He wasn’t ready for what they were about to offer.
At one point, Elena floated past Savannah and whispered: “Do we tell him… or surprise him?”
Savannah tilted her head, grinning over the rim of her glass. “A little of both.”
They both giggled — wicked and young and glowing.
Around 4:30 PM, the sky began to soften into its golden hour. And together, still damp from the pool, they selected their swimsuits for the evening. Elena chose a light blue two-piece — delicate, clinging, like seafoam against her skin. Savannah opted for black: a triangle top and thin ties at her hips. Gold hoops. Sunglasses.
Before they left, they stood side by side on the deck. Elena held up her phone. Savannah leaned in, pulling her glasses down, gaze direct and knowing.
Snap.
Then Savannah hit record.
Fred’s phone buzzed against the wooden armrest of his lounger, interrupting the quiet splash of pool water around his legs. He reached for it lazily, expecting a calendar reminder or a missed call from someone back home.
But it wasn’t that. A photo filled the screen. The two of them — sun-drenched, barely covered.
Elena in a clinging blue bikini, her hair still wet, lips parted slightly in a half-smile that held secrets. Savannah beside her in black, sunglasses pulled down just enough to reveal her eyes: sharp, challenging, gleaming.
Seconds later, the voice note began to play. A crackle of background music, laughter, then—
Savannah’s voice, rich with mischief: “Evening plans just opened up.”
A beat, then Elena, smooth and sultry: “Boat leaves at five-thirty. Bamboo Island. Sunset. Champagne.”
Savannah again, slower this time: “You coming, Mr. Brandt?”
Elena, one last time — low and lilting: “Or should we come get you?”
Then the sound of both girls laughing — warm, full, completely in control.
Fred leaned back in his chair. Smirked. Exhaled. The sun was starting to dip toward the sea, casting everything in molten gold. He hadn’t planned on another night like the last two. But then again, they weren’t exactly asking.
They were inviting. And they didn’t sound like the type of women who liked to be kept waiting.
