Page 58 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

THEO

T he yacht we moored just off the coast of St. Barts swayed to the gentle rhythm of the tide.

The Future was quiet in the early light, its metallic gunmetal gray hull gleaming under a rising sun that kissed the water with liquid gold.

Somewhere in the distance, the island stretched out in lush, sun-drenched beauty—palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze, hills covered in emerald green, and beaches so pale they looked bleached by time.

But I wasn’t looking at the island. I was looking at him.

Sin slept tangled in linen sheets, one arm slung across my side, face half-buried in the pillow. The curve of his spine, the faint furrow between his brows even in rest—he was beautiful in a way that hurt. Like he didn’t quite believe he could have this peace, this quiet, this us .

I ran my fingers lightly through his hair and let my eyes trace every inch of him.

It hadn’t been easy getting here. Not for either of us.

We’d bled for this peace. Lied for it. Fought, clawed, shattered ourselves and rebuilt again and again just to hold on. Just to keep each other.

And yet, here we were.

Free.

Floating in the middle of paradise, no one watching but the sea and the sky.

The yacht had become our sanctuary. All sleek lines and luxury, it stretched three decks high with marble accents, glass railings, and floor-to-ceiling windows that welcomed the sun at every angle.

The main salon gleamed with polished wood and plush cream seating.

Below deck, the master cabin was a world of its own—sprawling and soft, with rich smokey accents and a bed big enough to get lost in.

A walk-in shower. A private terrace. Everything about it whispered indulgence. Freedom.

The kind we’d never thought we’d have. Now it was just us, the open sea, and the hum of possibilities.

Sin stirred beside me, his lashes fluttering as he blinked into the morning light. A soft groan escaped him and he buried his face in my chest with a sigh.

“Morning,” I murmured into his hair, my fingers brushing gently over the curve of his spine. Damp strands clung to his forehead, sleep still softening the sharp lines of his face.

“Mmph,” he replied, his voice thick with sleep. He buried himself deeper against me, arms tightening in a hold that said don’t go, not yet. “What time is it?”

I shifted just enough to glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. “Late enough to be hungry. Early enough to pretend we’re not on a schedule.”

He gave a huff of laughter that tickled my collarbone, the heat of it warm against my skin. “You always say the most responsible shit with the softest voice. It’s unfair.”

I smiled and tilted his chin up to look at me. There were shadows under his eyes again. Always. No matter how much sleep he got, they never left. Not fully. I kissed the corner of his mouth gently, and felt him sigh into it.

“Come on,” I said, brushing hair back from his forehead. “Breakfast’s probably already being laid out on the stern deck. Let’s go see what Chef’s made.”

But instead of moving, he just stared at me. Eyes smouldering. Tension thickened the air between us. Arousal curled through my veins.

“You’re not gonna make me go to breakfast without giving me a proper good morning are you?” he grumbled, rolling his hips against me so I could feel his rapidly thickening length.

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t do that to you, sweetheart.”

My hands traced the tattooed muscles down his back and cupped the globes of his ass as I pulled him into me.

Zaps of electricity licked at my skin everywhere we touched.

His throat bobbed. A beat passed, then he sunk his hands into my hair and pulled me in for a blistering kiss that stole my breath.

By the time I pulled away, unable to breathe, his full lips curled in a sinful smirk. “Shower?” he asked, the word catching in his throat, laced with want.

I nodded, already moving, his hand wrapped in mine like a lifeline.

He led me into our private bathroom, the air thick with yesterday’s heat, with unspoken truths that lingered in the space between heartbeats.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Every shift of muscle beneath skin.

Every inch of him called to something primal inside me.

My gaze dropped to the sharp curve of his ass, to the ridges of tension in his shoulders.

I wondered how it would feel to be inside him, to know him like that.

Skin to skin. Soul to soul. No barriers. Just us .

My teeth sank into my lower lip as he leaned into the shower cubicle, twisting the knob until steam filled the room in lazy curls.

Before he turned around, I forced myself to focus on brushing my teeth, trying to ignore the growing heat in my gut, the way my cock stirred at the very idea of sinking into him.

Of claiming him in a way the rest of the world never could.

His chest pressed flush against my back and his arm reached around me, brushing our skin together as he grabbed his toothbrush. His reflection met mine in the mirror. Those dark eyes were molten—hungry, and so fucking needy I could hardly breathe.

He stepped into the shower first, and I followed him in, the hot spray a baptism, a blinding scald of sensation.

Water raced down our skin. I closed my eyes, and could feel his presence behind me without needing to see.

His arms snaked around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. It was like being swallowed whole—by heat, by steam, by him .

His mouth brushed my shoulder, feather-light, trembling. Possessive. “You look so fucking hot,” he whispered, his voice so low it sounded like sin itself. “All wet… dripping for me…”

I turned in his arms, cupping his face, my thumbs dragging over the stubble that burned against my skin. “You always feel like fire.”

His lips crashed into mine—no hesitation, no breath—just heat and hunger. He kissed me like he was trying to crawl inside my skin, like the world would rip apart if he stopped.

And I kissed him back like he was the only thing keeping me whole.

Steam fogged the glass as our bodies collided. Fingers clawed at slick skin. Hands gripped. Touched. Marked. His desperation poured out in his tight grip, in the bruising hold of my hips against the cold tile. The water couldn’t cool us, couldn’t cleanse us. We were too far gone.

“Theo,” he breathed against my throat, his voice cracked open with reverence. “You’re the only thing that’s ever felt real. The only one.”

My moan was ragged, feral. One leg curled around his waist, grinding our cocks together. Needing. Aching. “Then trust me. Trust us.”

“I don’t know how to survive this world without you,” he confessed, forehead pressed to mine, breath shattered. “I don’t want to learn. I want to belong to you in every way.”

The ache in his voice gutted me. “You already do,” I whispered, kissing the words into his mouth like a vow.

His hand found both our lengths, slick with water and precum.

Our bodies moved in rhythm, fevered and fast, chasing our release like it was the only way to outrun the things we couldn’t say.

We came together in a blur of sensation—thick ropes of cum washing away under the spray, but the need between us remained, etched in our skin, seared into our bones.

When he collapsed into me, head buried in my neck, I held him like a man anchoring the tide. I stroked his back over and over. Not to calm him—but to keep him. To remind him that he was still here. Still mine.

And in that moment, I felt it. His weight shifted—not just physical—but emotional. Like he’d handed me a piece of himself he’d never given another soul. A part of him no one even knew existed.

We dried off in silence, towels clinging to damp skin. The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was reverent. Sacred. Heavy with everything we’d just given each other and everything we had yet to give.

The crew greeted us warmly as we made our way outside—smiles, nods, the kind of easy camaraderie that had formed since we’d set sail.

Breakfast was a spread of fresh fruit, flaky croissants, eggs cooked to our preferences, poached for me, sunny side up for Sin, and his favorite dark coffee that smelled like salvation.

Once we’d eaten our fill, we took the tender to shore; wind whipped in our hair, the island drawing closer like a mirage come to life.

St. Barts was even more stunning up close. Winding stone streets. Vibrant flowers spilling from balconies. The scent of salt and sugar in the air. We wandered through local boutiques and tiny art galleries, hand-in-hand, unbothered by the occasional glance our way.

Lunch was served feet from the water, under a striped umbrella that flapped gently in the breeze. Grilled seafood, chilled wine, and Sin’s bare foot teasing up my thigh beneath the table like we were a couple of teenagers.

He smiled at me like he had a secret. Like he was enjoying pushing me to the edge of my sanity. I loved seeing him like this, carefree and alive in a way I’d never known before.

I was so caught up in us that I didn’t realize hours had passed as we talked about everything and nothing and consumed enough wine to float a bar. The tide washed over our toes, making me jump and Sin laugh from deep within. The sound low, and free.

Back on The Future by late afternoon, the sky had begun to shift—sun bleeding slowly into dusk, the air cooling as the ocean glittered like a sheet of black glass.

I didn’t know what Sin had planned.

Didn’t see the candles being arranged on the upper deck. Didn’t hear the quiet clink of glasses being polished, or smell the rich spices wafting from the galley where the chef was preparing something special.

But I knew something had changed when I found him standing at the edge of the deck later that night, the stars exploding overhead like a silent firestorm.