Page 15 of Etched In Stone (The Stone Saga #3.5)

Alexander

The early light of morning spilled through the sheer curtains of The Lucy ’s primary suite. The rays were soft and warm against my skin. The yacht swayed despite the absence of the engine humming, a reminder that we were still anchored in the crystal waters off Enchanted Isle.

I stirred slowly, my internal clock registering the time even before I glanced at the sleek chronometer on the nightstand.

Nearly seven o’clock—a time that would have found me already dressed and reviewing market reports in my New York penthouse, but here in this floating sanctuary, such rigid schedules seemed like another lifetime.

My body had adapted to this new rhythm over the past three weeks, learning to wake with the sun rather than the harsh buzz of alarm clocks and urgent phone calls.

The transformation surprised me—I’d built an empire on the foundation of early morning discipline and relentless scheduling.

Yet, here I was, genuinely reluctant to return to that world of constant demands.

I turned my head to see if Krystina was awake, and my breath caught.

She lay beside me, her dark curls scattered over the pillow in a wild halo, her delicate features softened by sleep.

The early sun painted her skin in shades of cream and rose, and her lips were slightly parted as if she were whispering secrets to her dreams. She was the kind of beautiful that made a man want to pause time—an intoxicating mix of strength, sassiness, and a vulnerability that had wrecked me from the moment we met.

Her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

She looked as if she were savoring some particularly pleasant dream.

I found myself wondering if I featured in whatever fantasy was playing behind her closed eyelids.

As had happened every morning since our wedding, I felt that profound sense of wonder that this extraordinary woman was mine.

The legal documents and platinum rings were merely symbols.

What we’d built together transcended any contract or ceremony.

For years, I’d been alone by choice—my life filled with work, discipline, and solitude.

I’d convinced myself that independence was strength, that needing another person was weakness.

But those days were now over. Krystina had shown me the difference between loneliness and solitude, between existing and truly living.

She’d filled a void in my soul that I’d become so accustomed to carrying that I’d never allowed myself to feel what it meant to be whole.

Careful not to wake her, I slid from the bed and stepped into the shower.

The water was brisk enough to pull me from the fog of sleep but not nearly enough to wash away the memories of the past few weeks—the feel of her nails in my skin, the taste of her moans, the way she whispered my name when she was on the brink of falling apart.

When I came back into the bedroom, Krystina was sitting up in bed. The sheet clung to her chest, barely covering the swell of her naked breasts.

“Are we still anchored?” she asked, her voice still thick from sleep.

“Yes. Why?”

“Good,” she announced, exhaling sharply. She pushed back the covers with sudden determination, her movements filled with purpose. “I was afraid we’d already left. We need to go back to the island.”

I frowned. “Go back? Krystina, I’ve already given Isaac our departure instructions. We were already delayed due to weather. It looks clear now, and the crew should be preparing to?—”

“This will be quick,” she interrupted, tossing the covers aside. The sheet slid away, revealing every inch of her bare skin in a torturous tease. She crossed the room without a shred of modesty, pulling a pair of panties and a light blue sundress from the closet.

The sight of her moving about the room naked sent an immediate surge of desire through me, my body responding with the same intensity that had characterized our entire honeymoon.

She was grace personified—every curve and line of her form speaking to something primal and possessive within me.

The morning light played across her skin, highlighting the gentle slope of her shoulders and the elegant line of her spine, making it nearly impossible to focus on whatever urgent mission had captured her attention.

My gaze tracked up those legs—endless, toned, and still marked faintly from my hands the night before. Without conscious thought, I crossed the cabin in three quick strides, my hands finding her waist and pulling her back against my chest. The sundress slipped from her fingers to the floor.

“Alex!” she gasped, laughing as I buried my mouth in the curve of her neck, tasting the faint sweetness of her skin.

“I need to feel you,” I growled against the sensitive skin of her throat, my lips finding the spot that never failed to make her knees weak. “The way you look right now… It’s taking every ounce of my control not to carry you back to that bed and have a repeat of last night.”

“You are insatiable.” She wriggled in my arms, her laughter breathless but her pulse racing under my lips. “Later. Many times, if you want. It’s going to be a long trip back to the mainland. I just need to do this one thing first. Please, Alex. It’s important.”

Reluctantly, I loosened my hold. She bent to retrieve the dress, and the moment that soft cotton hid her body, I felt the loss like a physical ache.

“I think you’ve forgotten the rules again, Krystina. I’m in charge, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Bossy Pants,” she replied with an airy wave of her hand that would have earned a much stronger response under different circumstances.

She disappeared into the bathroom, and I could hear the sound of water running.

When she emerged, her curls were tamed into some semblance of order, and her face glowed with a natural beauty that expensive cosmetics could never replicate.

“Mr. Bossy Pants, huh?” I echoed, arching a brow.

“I need tools,” she said matter-of-factly.

I blinked. “Tools?”

She tapped her chin as if deep in thought. “I’m not sure what yet. I’ll know when I see them. Do you have a toolbox on board?”

“There’s a large chest behind the helm.”

“Perfect.”

And with that, she was off like a shot.

I followed in her wake, my curiosity now thoroughly piqued.

When we reached the main deck, I watched my wife approach Isaac with the kind of animated enthusiasm usually reserved for children on Christmas morning.

She pointed toward the island, her hands moving in grand arcs, her laughter carrying across the waves.

I was perfectly content to watch from a distance.

When Krystina became overly excited about something, it was usually quite entertaining to watch.

Isaac’s weathered face showed the kind of patient confusion that came from decades of dealing with the sometimes incomprehensible requests of yacht owners and their guests.

He nodded appropriately and gestured toward the secured equipment locker.

A few moments later, Krystina returned to me with a small canvas bag looking like trouble wrapped in sunshine. I could hear metal clanking inside.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked.

She winked and replied, “You’ll see.”

The anticipation radiating from her was almost tangible, and her excitement was utterly contagious. Despite my natural inclination toward control and advanced planning, I found myself genuinely eager to discover whatever scheme she’d concocted.

“Lead the way, Mrs. Stone,” I said, gesturing toward the dinghy that would carry us back to our private island paradise one final time.

The journey to shore was brief but filled with the kind of anticipatory tension that made every moment feel charged with significance.

Krystina sat opposite me in the small tender, her tool bag clutched protectively in her lap, her eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline.

When we arrived on the beach, the water gave way to the soft, powdery sand that stretched endlessly before us.

The salty breeze tousled Krystina’s hair as I took her hand and helped her out of the small boat.

“Now, tell me what this is all about,” I demanded, but my words carried no heat. She had my complete attention now.

“Do you remember the first day you brought me to this island?”

“Of course.” The corners of my mouth tilted up from the memory. “We arrived in the morning and had a picnic breakfast that we never finished because I decided a nearby boulder was the perfect place to give you a spanking.”

“Exactly.” She flushed, her memory obviously matching mine, but her eyes held mine steadily. “That boulder—it’s where we christened this island as ours. It’s where our story on Enchanted Isle began. And I need to find it again.”

My brows raised, and I lashed her a devilish grin as my imagination immediately conjured several interesting possibilities for why she might want to revisit that particular location.

“Are you perhaps hoping for a repeat performance, Mrs. Stone?”

Her laughter rang out across the empty beach, pure and joyful.

“No! Well, not right now, anyway. I have something else in mind. Something that will last long after we’re gone from here. Do you recall the location?”

“I do. It’s this way.”

With her hand firmly clasped in mine, I led her down the shore toward the secluded area she was referring to.

“Look, there it is!” The energy in her voice matched the sparkle in her eyes.

I followed her gaze and saw the massive boulder standing sentinel on the beach, bathed in the shadows of the surrounding palm trees.

Looking at it now, I could almost feel the phantom sting in my palm from the morning when I’d reddened her perfect bottom until she’d begged me to stop.

The memory sent a familiar surge of heat through me, along with a dozen other recollections of the ways we’d claimed this space as our own over the weeks that followed.