The first time Naomi saw him, she was wearing nothing but a white robe, damp from her post-flight

shower. The ocean breeze drifted through the open balcony doors of her Santorini suite, carrying

the scent of salt and sun, but all she could focus on was the man standing at her door.

Room service, he said, his voice deep. She had forgotten she ordered dinner.

The man, early 30s, maybe, with olive skin and dark, unruly curls, pushed the cart into her room.

His black uniform clung to his frame, the crisp white collar,

somehow making him look more dangerous than professional. He moved with a quiet confidence,

his fingers long and sure, as he lifted the silver cloche from her meal.

Naomi swallowed.

Enjoy your meal, miss.

Miss, not ma'am, not madam.

Miss, his eyes flicked over her barely noticeable, but she caught it.

The quick glance at the part of her thigh peeking through

the rope slit, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he looked away. She smirked. He left before

she could say anything, but the moment lingered, crackling in the air like the final notes of a song

that begged to be replayed. The next evening, she ordered something small, just to see if he'd come again.

He did. Still enjoying your stay, he asked, setting a plate of fruit and cheese on her

table. She leaned back on the chaise, her leg stretched out, her robe just loose enough.

It's better than I expected. Good, he said. A pause. You're alone? She tilted her head.

Does that matter? He hesitated, then let out a low chuckle.

Not at all.

Naomi watched the way his lips curved, the way his eyes darkened just slightly.

...