The seaplane's floats kissed the turquoise water with a soft hiss, the hull settling into the swell as the engines wound down into silence. Isabella pressed her palm flat against the window, watching the island rise out of the blue—a green crown of palms on white sand, no dock, no buildings, nothing but the curve of the shoreline and the empty sky. Her breath fogged the glass. Beside her, Dante was already moving, unclipping his seatbelt, reaching for her hand.

"Come, wife." His voice was low, quiet, the same tone he used when he was about to take something he wanted. He pulled her up from the seat, his fingers closing around her wrist, and she let him lead her to the open door of the plane.

The heat hit her first—a wet, salt-heavy warmth that wrapped around her like a second skin. The air smelled of brine and sun and something green, and the water beneath the pontoon was so clear she could see the sand shifting on the bottom, ten feet down, the shadows of fish sliding through the light.

"There's no dock," she said, her voice coming out smaller than she meant.

Dante stepped out onto the float, his shoes finding the metal with practiced ease, and turned back to face her. The sun caught the scar on his jaw, the silver thread of it bright against his skin. "No," he said. "There isn't."

He reached for her, his hands finding her waist, and lifted her out of the plane as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders, the silk of her dress sliding against his suit jacket. He held her there, suspended over the water, his steel-gray eyes fixed on hers.

"Wrap your legs around me," he said. It wasn't a request.

She did. Her thighs locked around his hips, the dress riding up her legs, and she felt the hard line of him against her through the fabric as he waded into the shallows. The water lapped at his ankles, then his knees, and she clung to him, the sun burning on her shoulders, her heart hammering against her ribs.

He carried her ashore like that, his hands cupping her ass, her arms around his neck, the white sand giving way under his shoes. The palms threw long shadows across the beach, and the surf pulled at the shore with a rhythm that seemed to match her pulse. He didn't set her down until they were under the canopy, the shade cool on her skin, the sound of the ocean all around them.

Her bare feet sank into the sand as he lowered her, the grains fine and warm between her toes. She stood there, her dress still rucked up around her thighs, her hair coming loose from its bun, and she felt suddenly, impossibly exposed—not because of the dress, but because of the way he was looking at her.

Dante stepped back. He didn't speak. His eyes moved over her slowly, deliberately, from her bare feet to her face, and she felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on her skin.

"You brought me to an island," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You didn't tell me—"

"I don't tell you everything, little dove." He reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, his fingers finding the tab, and she felt the metal teeth start to part. "Some things I show you."

The zipper ran down in a single, smooth pull. The fabric loosened around her shoulders, and she held her breath as he pushed the straps down her arms, the dress sliding over her skin, pooling at her ankles in a whisper of black silk.

She stood naked in the shade of the palm, the sun dappling her skin through the leaves, the ocean breathing behind her. She felt the air on her breasts, on her stomach, between her thighs, and she crossed her arms over herself without thinking.

Dante's hand caught her wrist, gentle but implacable, and drew her arms away. "No," he said. "I want to see you."

His steel eyes raked over her body in the full sun, and she felt herself flush under that gaze—not with shame, but with a heat that started in her chest and spread outward, down her arms, between her legs. He looked at her like she was something he had won, something he had earned, and the hunger in his face made her knees weak.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words low and rough, like they cost him something. "Every time I see you, I think I've forgotten how beautiful you are. And then you're in front of me, and I remember."

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She felt the sand shift under her feet, the heat of the day pressing down on her bare skin, and she wanted him to touch her so badly it was almost pain.

He stepped forward, and the shade of the palm fell over them both. "No walls here, little dove," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, his hand coming up to cup her face. "No father, no brother, no phone. Just you and me and this island."

His thumb traced the line of her jaw, and she felt the calluses on his skin, the roughness of him against her softness. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and she felt his other hand slide down her back, over the curve of her spine, settling at the small of it.

"Say it," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. "Tell me you understand."

"I understand," she breathed. "Just you and me."

His hand slid lower, over the swell of her ass, and she felt his fingers dig into the flesh there, pulling her against him. The hard length of him pressed against her stomach through his trousers, and she gasped, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

"No walls," he repeated, his mouth moving to her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "No rules. No one to hear you but the ocean." His hand slid between her thighs, and she felt his fingers part her, finding the wet heat of her. "And I'm going to make you scream, wife. I'm going to make the whole island know who you belong to."

She whimpered, her hips pressing against his hand, and he rewarded her with a slow, deliberate stroke through her slick folds. His fingers found her clit, circled it once, twice, and she felt the pleasure spike through her, sharp and electric.

"Dante—"

"Say my name when you come," he said, his voice a command, his fingers working her slowly, deliberately. "Let the whole ocean hear who you belong to."

She was already trembling, her body arching into his hand, the rough bark of the palm pressing against her back. He pushed her against the trunk, the texture scraping her skin, and she felt the heat of the sun on her breasts, the shade of his body blocking out the light.

His hand was between her thighs, his fingers sliding through her wetness, and she could feel how much she wanted him, how ready she was. He pulled his hand away, and she heard him undo his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the silence.

"Look at me," he said.

She opened her eyes. He was standing in front of her, his cock hard in his hand, the head slick with pre-cum. He stroked himself once, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, and she felt her mouth go dry.

"You want this," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Her voice was a whisper, but it carried. "Yes, Dante. I want it."

He stepped forward, his hands finding her hips, and he lifted her as if she were weightless. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and he pressed her back against the palm, the rough bark scraping her skin, the heat of his body burning against hers.

He positioned himself at her entrance, and she felt the head of his cock pressing against her, slick and insistent. She was so wet she could feel it sliding against her, teasing her, and she moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Please," she breathed. "Dante, please—"

He sank into her with a single, slow thrust, and she cried out, the sound swallowed by the surf. He filled her completely, the stretch of him a familiar ache, and she felt herself clench around him, pulling him deeper.

"That's it," he groaned, his forehead pressed against hers. "That's my wife. Feel how good you take me."

She couldn't speak. She could only cling to him, her legs locked around his waist, her body impaled on his cock, the sun burning on her back, the sound of the ocean filling her ears. He began to move, slow and deep, each thrust pressing her harder against the palm, and she felt the bark scraping her skin, the pleasure building in her core.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice rough. "Say my name."

"Dante." The word came out broken, a moan. "Dante—"

He thrust harder, driving into her, and she felt the world narrow to the heat of his body, the rhythm of his hips, the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore. She was close, so close, and he knew it. He could feel her clenching around him, could feel her trembling in his arms.

"Come for me, wife," he said, his mouth at her ear. "Come on my cock. Let the whole ocean hear."

She shattered. Her body arched against him, her cry ripping from her throat, his name on her lips as she came, her cunt clenching around him in waves. He kept thrusting, riding her through it, and she felt the pleasure crest and break, leaving her trembling in his arms.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's my little dove."

He pulled out of her, and she felt the sudden emptiness, the loss of him. He lowered her to the sand, her knees giving way, and she lay back on the warm white grains, the sun burning on her skin, her chest heaving.

He loomed over her, his eyes dark with hunger, and she watched him strip off his shirt, his jacket already discarded somewhere in the sand. His chest was bare, the scars of a dozen wars crisscrossing his skin, and she reached up to trace the one on his shoulder—the old one, the one he'd never explained.

"Dante," she whispered.

He knelt over her, his body blocking out the sun, and he kissed her—deep and slow, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting her. She moaned into his mouth, her hands finding his back, her nails raking the skin.

"I'm not done with you," he said, pulling back, his voice a low growl. "I'm never done with you."

He positioned himself between her thighs, and she felt his cock pressing against her entrance again, slick with her come. He pushed inside her, slow and deep, and she moaned, her back arching off the sand.

"Look at you," he said, his eyes fixed on hers. "Spread out on the beach like this, taking my cock. You're so beautiful like this, Isabella. So fucking beautiful."

He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had her gasping, her hands clawing at the sand. The sun burned on her skin, the ocean roared in her ears, and she felt the pleasure building again, slow and inexorable.

"Dante," she breathed. "Dante, I—"

"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I can feel you. You're so close, little dove. So close."

He thrust harder, faster, and she felt herself climbing toward the edge, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world narrowed to the heat of his body, the rhythm of his hips, the sound of his voice in her ear.

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on my cock, wife. Scream my name."

She shattered again, her cry ripping from her throat, his name on her lips as she came, her cunt clenching around him. He followed her, a groan torn from his chest, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with his heat.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the sand, his breath hot on her neck. She wrapped her arms around him, her legs still locked around his waist, and she felt the ocean breeze cool on her sweat-slicked skin.

"I'm yours," she whispered, the words carrying on the wind. "I'm yours, Dante."

He lifted his head, his steel-gray eyes meeting hers, and she saw something there that made her chest ache—something raw and unguarded, something he never let anyone see.

"And I'm yours," he said, the words low and rough. "God help me, Isabella. I'm yours."

The ocean roared behind them, the sun burning overhead, and she felt the weight of his words settle over her like a brand. No walls. No rules. Just the two of them, and the island, and the promise of everything that was still to come.