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As the family reaches the cabins, the kids fan out again, Serena already unlocking theirs while Lucas circles back with one last attempt.
“Okay—but seriously,” he says, half-whining, “you guys get the hot tub and we get… bunk beds?”
“You’re the one who wanted camaraderie,” you remind him sweetly.
Lucas huffs. “I thought that meant equality.”
Serena grabs him by the sleeve. “Trust me,” she says in her usual calm, decisive tone. “You don’t want to be in the same cabin as them tonight.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
She gives you a tiny, knowing shrug—and the faintest smile. Then turns to Callum. “Help me drag him before he keeps embarrassing himself.”
Callum obliges with zero hesitation, pushing Lucas forward while tossing a look over his shoulder. “Don’t forget we’re hiking tomorrow. The trail loops around the lake, other side from the ropes course.”
“We won’t forget,” you promise. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
Zayne nods. “Be ready by seven.”
Callum salutes with two fingers and disappears inside as the door swings shut.
You and Zayne start toward your own cabin, your hand automatically finding his.
You exhale through your nose. “I swear, ever since we had “the talk” with her, Serena’s either smug or disgusted. There’s no in-between. That daughter of yours is very understanding but too understanding.”
Zayne’s thumb brushes yours. “Oh? Now she’s just my daughter?”
You shoot him a look. “Where do you think she gets her sass? I would never.”
He snorts quietly, but says nothing. Just unlocks the door and nudges it open for you.
It shuts behind you—and before you even think to toe your shoes off, his arms hook around your waist and sweep you clean off the floor.
You yelp, startled, grabbing at his shoulders. “Zayne!”
He’s already carrying you through the cabin, steady as ever. His voice is low near your ear. “We should take full advantage of what we booked.”
He carries you straight through to the back patio. It’s open to the mountain air, lit softly by the fading sun. The hot tub waits at the edge of the wooden deck, steam curling lazily into the cool evening.
The moment you got near the hot tub, the warmth hits—from the rising steam, and from the weight of his gaze.
Zayne sets you down beside the hot tub, but his arms stay looped around your waist, holding you flush against him. The scent of pine and wood smoke drifts on the cool air, but the only thing you register is the solid cools of his chest and the way his fingers skim the small of your back—lazy, absent-minded, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Mist curls around you both, rising from the water and softening the sharp edge of the surrounding peaks. The rest of the world fades into that haze. His eyes stay locked on yours.
You tilt your head, voice light. “You’re not even going to let me change?”
“We won’t get much time alone other than today, the kids are too tired to crash at our place, so why waste time?” he murmurs.
He says it like a joke, but it’s too quiet, too focused. His gaze dips to your mouth, then lower.
You huff a soft breath that’s barely a laugh. “Uh huh, and their cabin is five steps away.”
Zayne doesn’t answer. Just brushes a knuckle over your cheek, down your neck. The same path he always takes when he’s trying to seem casual. Except now, his hand keeps going—past your collarbone, skimming under the hem of your shirt. His palm is cold, but the contrast makes your skin jump.
By the time the shirt is off and discarded somewhere behind you, his mouth brushes the curve of your shoulder. There’s no rush in the way he undresses you, just that calm, methodical quiet he always keeps—like he’s cataloging every new inch of skin.
When you’re both down to your underwear, he finally steps into the tub. Water laps at his thighs, steam clinging to his torso. His hair falls slightly forward with the humidity, darker and flatter against his brow.
He offers his hand. You take it—and the moment your foot hits the first step, he tugs gently, pulling you closer until you’re chest-to-chest again.
You sink into his lap without thinking, your knees on either side of him. The water envelops you in slow, rising heat, but it’s the feel of him beneath you—solid muscle, quiet tension—that leaves you breathless.
His hands settle on your hips. One thumb strokes just under the waistband of your underwear. Not enough to do anything. Just there.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs against your ear.
You let out a breath. “You think?”
His touch doesn’t go any higher, but you feel it like it does. Every motion, deliberate. A slide of fingers under the water. A small shift of his thighs beneath you. He adjusts his grip, pulling you fractionally closer.
“You always sit this straight when you’re pretending not to want something,” he says, so softly it makes your stomach tighten.
Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You try for flippant. “And you always start sentences like that when you’re trying not to rush.”
That gets you a faint hum. His hands trail down again, to the back of your thighs. His thumbs press in, slow circles, as if you’re just sore from the hike—but you know better. He’s waiting. Letting your mind fill in the gaps.
You shift, just slightly. It’s a subtle motion, but enough that your thighs brush his hips. Enough that you feel him under you—half-hard and getting harder. His grip twitches.
“Mixed signals, dear,” you murmur, watching his face.
His lips twitch. “Hm? Isn’t this how I always touch you?”
You press your weight down on his lap, letting the water shift around you. “Exactly,” you say sweetly. “So why are you reacting?”
His eyes stay on yours. Sharp, focused. But his voice stays calm. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”
You smile. “Oh, very polite.”
Your hips roll—not too much, just a lazy grind. Enough to see the smallest twitch in his jaw. Enough to feel the tension rise between your bodies, slow and dangerous.
Then you push off him and lean back against the edge of the tub, stretching one arm along the rim. The cool air nips at your shoulder, your chest. Water slips between your legs as you move—and one of the jets begins to pulse beneath you.
You blink. Your breath catches.
Zayne doesn’t move.
You glance at him. “What?” you ask, like it’s nothing. “I’m just relaxing.”
His gaze dips—lazily, deliberately—to where your body meets the water. “Are you?” he asks, voice low.
You try not to react. Try to play it off. But your fingers tighten on the tub’s edge, and your thighs tense just slightly.
Zayne doesn’t close the distance. He doesn’t touch. Just tilts his head and watches.
The jet pulses again, and this time, your hips twitch.
You swallow hard. “Coincidence,” you mutter.
Zayne’s voice is velvet-soft. “Mm. Convenient coincidence.”
His hand moves under the water—slow, a whisper of motion—and brushes your calf. Then higher. One smooth stroke up the back of your thigh. Not demanding. Just… coaxing.
You shift again, unintentionally this time, and the jet hits just right. Your breath leaves in a sharp little exhale.
Still, he doesn’t pull you to him.
Instead, he lifts your leg slightly and adjusts your position—just a little. Barely a tilt. But the next pulse of the jet is sharper, angled perfectly. You jerk in place.
“That—” you breathe.
“Shh.” His hand tightens, steadying you. “Let it do the work.”
You give him a sharp look. He meets it calmly.
“You started this,” he reminds you.
Your breathing is shallow. Your skin tingles. Each pulse from the jet sends another ripple of pleasure curling through your core. The water laps softly around you—but his eyes? His eyes don’t blink. Don’t waver. He watches like he’s cataloging every reaction—every twitch of your thighs, every hitch in your breath.
His thumb draws idle circles against your hipbone, so close to the edge of your underwear it’s maddening. Too close. Not close enough.
You lean into his touch instinctively—and he pulls back.
His fingers skim back down the inside of your thigh. Feather light. Aimless. Cruel. You can’t tell if he’s touching you or if the water is.
You let out a shaky whimper.
He hums, amused, tracing along the outside of your thigh now—back to safety. “Relax,” he says, the word syrup-smooth, entirely at odds with the slow-burning ache building inside you.
Your nails dig into the edge of the tub. Hard. The jet pulses again and your whole body jerks.
“Zayne, please—” It’s barely a whisper. Barely coherent.
He finally leans in, brushing a kiss against your shoulder again—slow, deliberate, maddeningly calm. His lips trail just a little higher, toward your neck, before retreating again.
His voice is low in your ear. “Tell me where you want me.”
Your head falls back with a helpless groan. “Anywhere. Fuck—anywhere.”
Zayne’s quiet laugh puffs against your throat. “Wrong answer,” he murmurs. “Try again.”
You reach for him on instinct—desperate, clinging—but he’s faster. His hands catch your wrists before you even touch him. He pulls you forward until your body’s pressed flush against his chest again, heat meeting cold, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.
“I’ll help you,” he says, his voice velvet-soft, dangerous. “If you ask properly.”
You rub against him, chasing friction, chasing relief. Your legs are trembling now, thighs quivering from the unrelenting pulse of the jet and the unbearable lack of his touch.
“Please,” you gasp, shameless. “Please… touch me. I want your fingers—you, not the water.”
That earns you something—finally. A kiss—not to your mouth, but to the base of your throat, right where your pulse flutters wildly beneath your skin. A low hum vibrates against your neck.
“Much better.”
Then his hand dips between your thighs. Slow. Measured. His fingers press against the damp fabric of your underwear—soaked from the water, yes, but he knows it’s more than that. He doesn’t move at first. Just rests there. Warmth through wet lace. Pressure, not motion.
You make a sound—raw, needy. A whimper dragged from somewhere deep in your throat. One that makes your whole body tighten with wanting.
And that—finally—gets him to move.
He leans in and catches your mouth with his.
It’s slow and consuming, like he’s trying to taste every shaky breath you’ve taken since the moment he sat you in his lap. His mouth moves against yours with quiet hunger, claiming, coaxing—like a reward and a warning at once.
You moan into the kiss, hips twitching as his fingers begin to move again—pressing a little firmer now, still over the soaked lace, sliding up and down in maddening rhythm.
His free hand rests against your cheek, so gentle compared to how he’s kissing you now. Your fingers thread into his wet hair, anchoring him there—so he can’t pull away if he thinks to tease you again.
He nips your bottom lip, just once, then starts to pull back—his hand shifting over yours, just enough to speak.
“Keep making those sounds, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “Let me hear how much you need it.”
Then his fingers press harder—slow circles against the aching spot between your legs. Still teasing, but more deliberate now. Less like he's playing, and more like he's leading you somewhere on purpose.
Your thighs twitch again, and you gasp—barely able to breathe through the heat flooding your body.
And he just watches again, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on your face like it’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Then—slowly—his hand slips lower.
Still underwater. Still hidden. You feel his fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, and your breath catches.
He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.
You don’t.
The soaked lace peels away from your skin, sticky with heat and water. The second his fingers touch bare flesh, your whole body jolts.
“Zayne—” you gasp, but whatever you were going to say melts into a moan.
He strokes you—finally—flesh to flesh, slow and precise. The kind of touch that’s meant to drive you mad. The kind that says he’s not in any hurry.
His voice is lower now, rougher. “Not too loud now, Darling.”
You make another sound—choked, pleading—and this time, he kisses you again. Softer. Slower. A contrast to the way his fingers work you open beneath the water, dipping between your folds with maddening control.
Every now and then, he pulls back just enough to breathe you in—his forehead resting against yours, his breath ghosting your lips.
“You feel how wet you are?” he whispers. “And it’s not just the water, is it?”
You shake your head, before tilting it back, unable to speak. The water sloshes gently around you as your hips roll into his hand.
His other hand slides from your cheek down to your lower back, holding you steady against him while his fingers continue their unrelenting rhythm.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he adds, voice quieter now—just for you. “Don’t hold back.”
Your body breaks around his fingers.
It hits you all at once—a breathless shudder that starts deep and ripples outward. Your thighs tremble, your nails dig into his shoulder, and the sound that escapes you is raw, helpless—muffled only by the hand you slap over your mouth at the last second.
Zayne’s eyes flick briefly to your hand, then back to your face. His lips twitch in a faint smile—half reverent, half amused—but he says nothing.
He just watches you fall apart, gaze fixed on every twitch and gasp like it’s something sacred.
His fingers slow, gentle now—drawing out every aftershock, steadying you as your legs nearly give out.
You sag against him with a shaky breath, forehead brushing his. Your chest is still rising and falling in shallow bursts.
And he has the nerve to drag his hand up again, just slightly—like he might start teasing all over.
You swat him weakly. “Zayne,” you gasp, voice raw. “I thought we weren’t supposed to waste time?”
There’s a pause.
Then he laughs under his breath, the sound low and quiet against your cheek. “Right,” he murmurs. “This is family vacation.”
You reach toward the edge of the tub—fingers curling around the small foil packet tucked discreetly beside the wine glasses. You hold it up between two fingers with a knowing look. “You were very prepared.”
Zayne hums, tilting his head. “Of course.”
You tear the packet with your teeth. “Mm-hm. Lift your hips.”
He raises a brow, amused, but he obeys—shifting just enough in the water. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, sliding them down and off with slow intent. The motion displaces the surface slightly, warm waves lapping against your stomach as you take him in hand. His cock twitches as you roll the condom on—slow, steady, teasing him back for everything he just put you through.
“Good,” you murmur. “Now sit.”
He lowers himself again, eyes fixed on yours.
You shift your hips, guiding him with one hand as you straddle him fully, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance beneath the water.
The moment you start to sink down, the heat of the water and the slow stretch of him inside you hit all at once—and you both exhale together, lips parting in mirrored breath.
Water floods around your thighs, curling up your spine as you move, and it’s delicious. The way the heat seeps in with each thrust. The way it slicks your skin even more. The way his hands find your waist, gripping tight now, no longer teasing.
You roll your hips slowly, deliberately, taking him deeper—your forehead resting against his again.
Each movement is fluid, deliberate—water shifting with your rhythm as you sink down onto him again and again. The wet heat of the tub wraps around you both, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building between your thighs.
His cock stretches you perfectly, the sensation made even more intense by the gentle slosh of warm water pushing in with every bounce. It drips from your skin, runs down your curves, and pools between your joined bodies.
Zayne watches you like he’s in a trance—one hand anchored on your hip, the other sliding up, slow and reverent, until it cups your breast.
You gasp, arching into his palm.
He rolls your nipple between his fingers—wet lace clinging to your skin as he toys with you through it. Then he pushes the fabric down, baring you completely to the open air and his touch.
Each time you ride down on him, his hand tightens.
Each time you roll your hips just right, he answers by flicking or tugging your nipple, making you cry out into the steam-heavy air.
“God, Zayne—” you choke out, nails digging into his shoulders for balance.
He hums again, calm and maddening, like he’s still half in control even now. “You feel incredible,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek as you move.
Your pace quickens.
The water splashes higher now with each thrust, slapping softly against the tub walls. Your thighs burn with effort, but the way he groans when you clench around him only drives you harder.
He leans in, mouth catching the peak of your breast, tongue dragging slow over your skin before he sucks—just once, just hard enough to make your hips stutter.
You whimper, full-body shuddering against him.
“Zayne—fuck—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he murmurs, thumb circling your other nipple now, guiding your rhythm with both hands. “Keep going. Just like that. Let me feel you lose it again.”
And you do. You feel it coming again, fast this time, pressure building between your legs with every bounce, every thrust, every deep press of him inside you.
You ride him harder—water splashing, your breath catching, your moans spilling freely now with no room left for shame.
“Say my name,” he groan, lips at your throat now, voice rougher than before.
You say it, feeling one of his hand playing with your nipple while the other finally press at your clit, circling around the little sensitive bud.
And you would’ve cry and scream his name, if not for the way his mouth catches yours, muffling the sound as the pleasure rips through you a second time, harder than the first—you pull back just to collapse against him, nails dragging down his back, thighs quivering as he holds you in place.
You’re dazed. Breathing uneven. Every nerve still pulsing with the aftershock. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, steady where yours is not.
Only then does he move—one hand sliding from your breast to cradle the back of your head, the other steady on your waist.
You can feel him pulsing inside you. Still hard. Still waiting.
And it hits you, suddenly—how he hasn't let himself fall. How he's still holding back for you.
There’s something tender in the way he watches you. Not need, not lust—but care. Control. He’s holding it together for you. Just like always.
You lift your head slowly, face flushed, lips parted. “Zayne…”
He meets your gaze—his eyes dark, the barest twitch of restraint in his jaw.
You shift in his lap, still sensitive, but determined. Your hand strokes up his chest before reaching back to guide him deeper again with a slow roll of your hips. His head tilts back just slightly at the sensation.
“Your turn,” you whisper.
He watches you, eyes locked on yours as you start to move again—this time not chasing your own release, but coaxing his. Deliberate. Giving. Intimate.
You lean forward, kissing him—slow and wet—while you ride him again, your hands bracing against his shoulders as the water sloshes softly around you.
Each thrust makes you both gasp now.
Then his hand finds your breast again, fingers curling with every bounce, tugging softly at your still-sensitive nipple, drawing more quiet sounds from you as you move.
And still, you don’t stop.
Your pace builds—not too fast, not too rough, just enough. Enough to feel the drag and thrust of him deep inside you, enough to push him toward the edge he’s been holding off for too long.
He groans, low and tight, and grabs your hips now, grounding you against him.
“Don’t stop,” he breathes, voice almost trembling. “Just—like that—”
You tighten around him on purpose, watching the way his brows pull together, the restraint breaking in his expression.
You want him to lose it.
And finally—he does.
Zayne pulls you down hard against him as he comes—hips jerking, jaw clenched, breath catching against your skin he spills into the condom, buried deep inside you. A quiet sound escapes him—raw and low—and his grip on you tightens just enough to make you gasp.
You hold him through it, fingers in his hair, your body still wrapped around him.
And when he finally exhales, you feel it against your neck. Soft. Spent.
The two of you stay like that for a moment—panting, tangled, water lapping gently at your skin.
Then Zayne lets out another soft breath, lips brushing your collarbone. “We’re in trouble.”
You laugh, pulling back just enough to see his face, brushing his wet hair away from his face. “We’ll be fine.”
“We’re hiking tomorrow, with three hyper children. They’ll drag us to the top of the mountain if they can.”
You breathe a laugh, your chest still pressed to his. Everything aches—in a good way. “And?”
“We’re getting old, darling.” He says dryly.
You shift in his lap, feeling him still inside you, slowly getting hard yet again. “Not that old,” you murmur, smirking as you lean in to kiss him.
His lips meet yours again—slow, unhurried, but deep. His hand cradles your jaw as he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. Like there’s no sunrise waiting. No hike. No reality outside the steam and the water and the way your bodies still cling together.
Your fingers curl in his hair, lips parting for him, and the kiss turns hotter—more hungry, more promise than play. A shared understanding passes between you in that silence.
Just you and him. Right here. Right now.
The water sloshes gently around you as he shifts, pulling you closer again—his arm wrapping firm around your waist.
And then the world softens.
The stars blur above you. The world shrinks to skin and breath and the quiet sound of your kiss deepening into the night.