Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,86

really let myself see the fact that I allowed myself to compromise a core value of mine.”

Beck leaned back on his hands but kept our knees touching. “Did you grow up rich?”

I slipped a piece of watermelon into my mouth, enjoyed its rich sweetness. “My parents always had enough money, but rarely more than enough. And when they had more, they gave it away. Donated it. When I was entering that VC competition, I knew I wanted to found a company that would change the cosmetics industry. But I also knew that when I got that money I’d eagerly give it away. Never hoard it or keep it for myself. Instead a decade has gone by and philanthropy hasn’t factored into my existence at all. Not one tiny bit. Instead I have so much money it’s laughable. And yet at night I have anxiety dreams about not having enough. And during my workday, I’m constantly strategizing about ways to get more. Because I do need more. I have more employees, more salaries, more costs, more products, more, more, more.”

The waves behind us curled in, white and frothy, and beneath I knew the ocean floor was teeming with fish and other sea creatures.

“I no longer feel right about the role of money in my life. And the fact that, whether I like it or not, it contributed to the situation I currently find myself in. That… greed.” The word felt like a sin. It certainly was to my parents. Greed was the worst of human weaknesses because it meant others around us would never have enough. “Money, image, branding. It’s all interconnected and the way I’m living right now isn’t right. It’s not entirely wrong either…” I scratched my head, thinking.

“But before the fraud though,” he said. “Your company was changing things. That’s not bad at all.”

I thought about what Wild Heart stood for, the policies we had in place. “No, you’re right. That’s true too.”

I cut watermelon in half, passed him a slice.

“The Miami Devils are runners,” he said. “Money, guns. People, sometimes. Cars. Anything of high value, you can pay a member of the MC to run it from one place to the next. They don’t give a shit what it is. They don’t have values. Their only need is money.”

I tilted my head, listening.

“My parents have always wanted a criminal empire, hidden inside a club. They’ve always wanted money. Shitty thing is that most motorcycle clubs aren’t gangs, aren’t criminals. Just groups of people who love riding bikes and enjoy their freedom. In Miami, my parents have stolen that freedom. Turned it into violence. And they’re too deep in it now. This is how they’ll live until the end.” He reached forward and tugged on a strand of my hair. I smiled at him. “Not you though. You’re at the beginning.”

I held his hand, put it to my lips. “As are you, Beck Mason.”

Hope was taking root in my heart. I leaned forward and kissed him for a long, long time. It was a sweet, exploratory kiss. My fingers slid into his hair. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me into his lap.

“It’s time for the next part of our hooky date,” I said, untangling myself from his warm body.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough.

In response, I tugged on the strings of my sarong, which dropped to the sand. Slowly untied my bikini top. Let it drop. Watched the transformation on his face—from emotion to a lust that stole my breath. I very deliberately slid the bikini bottoms down my legs and stepped out of them.

“Are you coming?” I asked. I backed down the sand, staring at the mountain of a man who was standing up. All muscle and hair and commanding strength. When he slipped out of his trunks, his thighs were thick with power. And that now-famous cock jutted away from his body.

Beck was magnificent. And he was prowling toward me in the water.

The water was at mid-thigh—it was bathwater-warm, gentle. Lapping at my skin like a lover, like Beck. The air was sticky, scented with flowers and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

He reached me in seconds and dropped to his knees. Pressed his face between my breasts and inhaled the scent of my body. His head tilted up, the look on his face reverent. Worshipful.

“I’m not coming, sweetheart,” he said, fingers gliding along my thighs. “You are.”

45

Beck

Luna stood naked in crystal-clear water—an image that would be burned into my brain. I was ready