Rhys
The drive to the pier felt like a race against a clock that was already ticking toward zero. Every time the car hit a bump in the road, Kayden let out a strangled, high-pitched whimper that made my hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather groaned.
I could feel the heat radiating off him in waves, and the heavy, sweet scent of orchids beginning to permeate the small space of the car.
It was affecting me too. The way he groaned, the way his orchid scent smelled sweeter and thicker, were too overwhelming for me, and it took all the willpower that I had right there not to stop the car and claim him.
When I finally arrived at the private dock, the Northern Star was waiting. The Northern Star was another yacht I owned—a masterpiece of custom engineering, a hundred-and-ten-foot sleek, silver-hulled motor yacht that looked like a shard of fallen moon against the dark Atlantic water.
