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“The restaurant is impressive.”
“Just the restaurant?”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling. “Your ego doesn’t need the feeding. We’ve already established that.”
After lunch, we walk along the harbor, our hands occasionally touching. It feels both strange and natural to be with Ethan like this—no cameras, no audience, just two people enjoying each other’s company.
He points out historical sites and shares stories about the island, and I find myself engaged. It’s like being with a different person than the corporate villain I’d made up in my mind.
“We should head back,” he says, checking his watch. “Unless you want to skip the massage workshop?”
I’d almost forgotten about the scheduled couples’ activity. “God, that’s going to be awkward.”
“More awkward than what we’ve already done?” His expression is teasing.
“Different context.” I bite my lip. “Last night was private. This will be in front of others.”
“We can skip it. Say we lost track of time exploring the island.”
I consider this escape option, then shake my head. “No, we should go. It’s part of the itinerary, and besides, the massage might be relaxing.”
We make our way back to the ship, arriving with just enough time to change before the workshop. In my cabin, I swap my sundress for yoga pants and a tank top, as suggested by the activity description. My phone buzzes with a text from Ethan:
Ready for me to get my hands on you again?
I type back:
Professional context only, Cole. Don’t get ideas.
His response is immediate:
Too late for that warning, Bennett.
The massage workshop is held in the ship’s largest spa room, with eight couples’ massage tables arranged in a circle. An instructor stands in the center—a serene-looking woman in flowing clothes who introduces herself as Celeste.
“Welcome to our Sensual Massage Workshop,” she says once all couples have arrived. “Today you’ll learn techniques to enhance intimacy and relaxation with your partner.”
Ethan and I exchange glances. He looks amused; I try for professional detachment.
“Each couple should decide who will receive the massage first,” Celeste continues. “The receiver, please lie face down on the table. Givers, stand beside your partner.”
“Your choice,” Ethan says quietly. “Give or receive?”
The double entendre is obvious, but I refuse to acknowledge it. “I’ll receive first.”
I settle on the table, face down, trying to maintain my composure as Ethan stands beside me. The other couples around us are all at various stages of coupledom—some dating, others longtime partners or spouses.
“Givers, start by warming the massage oil in your hands,” Celeste instructs, her assistants handing out small bottles of oil. “We’ll begin with the back and shoulders, where we hold most of our tension.”
I hear Ethan rubbing his hands together, and then his warm palms make contact with my shoulders through the thin fabric of my tank top. Despite my resolve to remain clinical about this experience, I can’t help the small sigh that escapes me as his strong fingers work the knots in my upper back.
“Feel free to remove your clothing for better contact,” Celeste suggests. “Always respecting your partner’s comfort, of course.”
“May I?” Ethan asks, his hands pausing on my shoulders.
I hesitate, then nod. “Just the tank top.”
His fingers lift the hem of my top, sliding it up to expose my back while leaving my front covered against the table. The oil is warm as he spreads it across my skin, his touch sensual.