You’re not sure what day it is — and honestly, you don’t care. Somewhere between the first kiss on the bow and the fifth night wrapped in silk sheets, time stopped existing.

You and Rafe Cameron are untouchable out here. Just the two of you, his yacht slicing through the sea like it owns it. Maybe it does. He certainly acts like he does.

“Do you even remember where we were supposed to go today?” you ask, leaning back in a tiny bikini that matches the rosé in your glass.

Rafe grins, shirtless and sun-drenched, lounging across from you. His sunglasses hang low on his nose, and there’s saltwater still dripping from his hair. “Nope,” he says, taking a slow sip of his drink. “But we’re here. With this view.” His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate. “So I’m not complaining.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. How could you not? You’re on his yacht in Saint-Tropez, waves crashing softly, skin glowing, laugh lines forming from too much sun and too much of him. He’s been kissing you like he’s starving — slow, deep, teasing. The kind of kisses that stay on your skin.

Later, as the sun bleeds into the sea, he pulls you onto the bed — his hands firm on your hips, his voice lower, darker. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, hovering over you.

His mouth moves to your neck — not soft this time, but open, warm, needy. He kisses down your collarbone, to the curve of your chest, dragging his hands under the thin fabric covering you. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he breathes. “The way you walk around this boat like you don’t even know you’re driving me crazy.”

You arch under him, nails grazing his back as his lips trail lower, slower, with purpose. There’s nothing rushed — just heat. Hunger. Worship. His hands slide your bikini bottoms down without breaking eye contact. And when his mouth returns to your skin, it’s like he’s claiming every inch of you.

Your breaths tangle. His name falls from your lips like a prayer.

And when he finally lays beside you — chest rising, skin flushed, heartbeat still racing — he doesn’t let go. His arm pulls you against him like it’s instinct, like he needs your skin on his to breathe. You feel his lips brush your shoulder, slow and lingering, then your jaw.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he whispers. “But I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.”

You turn to face him — his eyes dark, raw, full of something unspoken but burning. His thumb strokes your bottom lip like he’s still not done with you. Like he never will be.

“You’re mine,” he says softly, not as a question. As a fact.

You don’t answer.

You just kiss him again — slow, deep, lazy — and smile against his mouth.

Because here, on this yacht, in this moment, under the Saint-Tropez stars… you are.

And if this is what losing yourself feels like?

You never want to come back.