Chapter 4: Secrets Under the Table

Chapter 4: Secrets Under the Table

An hour later, Dahlia stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror of the suite. The woman staring back was a stranger. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes bright with a feverish, secret knowledge. After their frantic encounter, James had retreated to his side of the suite, a silent, brooding presence. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the memory of his mouth on her skin and the weight of the trophies he now possessed.

She wanted them back. Not just the flimsy pieces of lace and cotton, but the power they represented. He had taken something from her, and in doing so, had left her feeling both exposed and achingly empty. It was a hunger she’d never known, a desperate need to continue this dangerous, exhilarating game.

She had chosen her dress with deliberate care: a slip of emerald green silk that clung to her curves and ended mid-thigh. It was elegant enough for the ship’s fanciest restaurant, but the fabric was so light that the absence of her underwear beneath it was a constant, thrilling reminder of her current state. Every slight movement, every brush of the silk against her skin, felt illicit.

Ken, dapper in a button-down shirt that was, for once, a solid color, whistled as she emerged. “Looking sharp, DD! You’ll have to fight the captains of industry off with a breadstick.”

Dahlia laughed, a sound that felt surprisingly genuine. “Just trying to keep up with you two.” Her eyes found James. He was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked devastatingly handsome, and his gaze swept over her, slow and appreciative. It wasn't the look of a friend. It was the look of a man cataloging his prize. He knew exactly what she wasn't wearing, and his eyes held a possessive heat that made her stomach clench. He still had her bra. And her panties. Tucked away somewhere in his room. His trophies.

The restaurant on the top deck was a spectacle of crystal and white linen, with a panoramic view of the endless, ink-black ocean. A string quartet played softly in the corner. It was the picture of refined elegance, a world away from the raw, desperate act that had taken place in their suite. The contrast made everything feel sharper, riskier.

Ken, in his element, regaled them with a detailed plan for their shore excursion in Cozumel, completely oblivious to the silent war of glances being waged across the table.

Dahlia took a sip of her wine, her eyes locking with James’s over the rim of her glass. His expression was cool, almost lazy, but there was a fire in their depths that was just for her. He knew she was sitting there, feeling the cool leather of the booth directly against her bare skin. He tilted his head slightly, a silent question. Are you comfortable?

She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. Perfectly.

Her phone, sitting face down on the table, buzzed softly. She glanced at Ken, who was now passionately explaining the merits of different tequila types to their waiter. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she flipped the phone over under the table.

A text from an unknown number. But she knew.

Unknown: Enjoying the view?

Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed a reply, hiding the screen with her other hand.

Dahlia: It’s breathtaking.

The response was instantaneous.

Unknown: I’m not looking at the ocean.

A jolt went through her, hot and immediate. She risked a glance at him. He was listening politely to Ken, but his eyes were on her, hooded and intense. He was playing with her, stoking the fire in plain sight. This was a whole new level of the game.

“DD, you with us?” Ken asked, turning to her. “Snorkeling or jeep tour?”

“Oh, uh… jeep tour,” she said, her voice a little too high. “Definitely.”

She dropped her linen napkin, a deliberate, calculated move. “Oops,” she murmured, bending down to retrieve it. The enclosed space beneath the table was a secret world of its own. Her hair brushed against James’s knee. She reached for the napkin, her fingers purposefully grazing the hard muscle of his calf.

She froze, her hand hovering there. He didn't flinch. He didn't move away. She left her hand on his leg, a silent, shocking claim in the darkness.

Above the table, Ken laughed at something the waiter said. Below, Dahlia felt James’s hand cover hers. His palm was warm, his grip firm and possessive. His thumb began to draw slow, lazy circles on the back of her hand. It was an answer. An acceptance.

She straightened up, her face a mask of polite composure, her hand still trapped under his beneath the table. The duality of it was intoxicating—the civilized dinner conversation, the string quartet, the clinking of silverware, all while a secret, sordid conversation was happening in the shadows.

His foot found hers, his shoe nudging her bare heel. Then his hand released hers, and for a terrifying, thrilling moment, she thought the game was over. But then she felt it. The feather-light touch of his fingers on her ankle.

Her breath hitched. He was exploring.

Slowly, inexorably, his fingers began to trace a path up the back of her leg. Up her calf, over the sensitive skin behind her knee. The silk of her dress offered no protection. His touch was electric, a slow-burning fuse making its way toward the powder keg. Every inch he climbed was an eternity of suspense. Ken was talking about dessert now, blissfully unaware that his best friend’s hand was now on his other best friend’s bare thigh, hidden by a tablecloth.

His fingers crept higher, onto the soft, untouched skin of her inner thigh. She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from gasping. It was too much. The risk of being caught, the sheer audacity of it, was pushing her toward the same frantic edge she’d found in their suite. He was going to make a scene. Someone would see.

Just as his fingertips brushed the place where the leg of her panties should have been, her phone buzzed again, a sharp, insistent vibration against the linen.

Her hand shot down, snatching it up. Her fingers were clumsy as she unlocked it.

Another text from the unknown number. It wasn't words this time.

Unknown: Service Corridor 7B. Now.

It was a summons. A command.

He pulled his hand away. The sudden loss of his touch left her skin feeling cold, abandoned.

James cleared his throat, placing his napkin on the table. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, his voice perfectly level. He stood and walked away from the table, not toward the main restroom, but in the direction of the ship’s service areas.

Dahlia’s heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of her chest. He had ended the game on his terms, calling her to a new, more private arena.

She waited a full minute, forcing herself to take a sip of water, to nod along to whatever Ken was saying. The seconds crawled by.

“You know,” she said, her voice miraculously steady as she placed her own napkin down. “All this talk of the ocean… I think I need to see it without a window in the way. I’ll be right back.”

Ken beamed. “Good idea! Don’t fall in!”

She stood, her legs feeling like jelly. With a final, reassuring smile at her oldest, most oblivious friend, she turned and walked away from the glittering restaurant. She ignored the exit to the main promenade and instead followed the path James had taken, toward a discreet, unmarked door.

Toward Service Corridor 7B. Toward the man who held her secrets in his pocket, and who was waiting to demand his next payment.