Sun's bloody scorchin'. Got me cap on backwards, sunglasses slid halfway down me nose, white trunks clingin’ a bit too snug after that second round of ceviche. You’re there, sat cross-legged on a towel at the edge of the stern, pages of your book flutterin’ like they’re tryin’ to fly away. Your bikini’s that little black triangle one—you know the one that makes me head go empty every time I look at ya.

This yacht's a dream, ain’t it? Far from London noise, from the wankers with cameras, from managers with fake smiles and fake promises. Just sea, sky, and you.

I lean back on me elbows, beer sweatin’ in me hand, tryin’ not to think about tour schedules or the bollocks some tabloid wrote about me last week—again. You shift a bit, your back archin’ just slightly, and I watch the sun slide over your skin like it’s worshippin’ you.

And then I see it. "Ah, fook off." I mutter under me breath, sittin’ up straight. Squintin’ past the glare off the water, I spot 'em. Bastards. Tiny speedboat bobbin’ about a few hundred metres out, camera lenses glintin’ like fuckin’ sniper scopes. "Wankers can’t leave us alone one bloody week, can they?" You don’t look up. Not yet. Still readin’, oblivious, but I know you’ve clocked the shift in my tone. Then it hits me. A grin curls slow over me lips. "Right," I say, standin’ and stretchin’ like I’ve not got a devil of an idea brewin’ in me skull. "Let’s give the fookin' arseholes a proper show, eh?"

I crouch behind you, palms on your warm back. Your skin’s salty and sweet. I trail one hand up, find the knot at your neck, fingers deft like they were when I played guitar. The bow slips loose. Then the one behind your back. You turn your head slightly, brows raisin', but you don’t say a word.

“Trust me,” I murmur. “They want a picture? Let ‘em choke on it.” I let the strings slide from your shoulders slow, reverent, like I’m unveil­ing art in some posh London gallery. Your top pools into my hand, and I lay it beside me on the deck like it’s a treasure. Then I tilt me chin toward the vultures with their lenses, smirkin’ like a man who’s just checkmated God. Click, click, click—let ‘em snap away.

Then I lean in, brushin’ a kiss on your shoulder, just where the strap used to be. Skin warm from the sun, soft as summer wind. "You’re mine, love," I whisper. "Let the world burn with envy." You smile then. Just a little. And go back to your book like nothin’ happened. Like you ain’t just driven me mad with pride and want all over again. And me? I sit back, arms behind me head, grin on me face, and raise me beer to the bastards in the boat.

Cheers, lads. Enjoy the fookin’ view.