Vacation Girlfriend, Double Trouble — Bonus Chapter

The Villa Rule
by Isla Wilde

An exclusive bonus scene from Vacation Girlfriend, Double Trouble — too hot for Amazon.

The Villa Rule

P A I G E

The villa smelled exactly the same.

That was the first thing Paige noticed when Gavin opened the door—before the view, before the bed, before the silver ice bucket with the champagne she hadn’t ordered. The same salt-and-hibiscus air rolling in through the open balcony doors. The same faint trace of expensive linen and sun-warmed tile. The same quality of light, golden and liquid, spilling across the marble floor like the Gulf of Mexico was trying to get in.

Three months. Three months since she’d stood in this room alone, freshly dumped and half a bottle of Dom Pérignon deep, toasting her own wreckage. Three months since a frozen mango margarita had changed the trajectory of her entire life.

Now she stood in the doorway with a man on either side of her, and the room didn’t feel empty at all.

“Jesus,” Eli said, dropping his bag just inside the door and walking straight to the balcony. “I forgot how stupid this view is.”

Gavin set their luggage down with the precision of a man who organized his carry-on by departure terminal. His hand found the small of Paige’s back—easy, automatic, warm through the thin cotton of her sundress. “Same room?”

“Same room.” She leaned into him. “I requested it.”

He pressed his mouth to her temple. “Sentimental.”

“Strategic,” she corrected. “I have unfinished business with this bed.”

Eli’s laugh carried in from the balcony. He was leaning on the railing, forearms braced, the white linen of his shirt pulling across his shoulders in a way that made her want to trace the tattoo she knew curled along his left side. The late-afternoon light caught the copper in his hair. “Should I be offended that you’re talking about the bed and not me?”

“You’re included in the bed plans.” Paige crossed the room to join him, fitting herself against his side the way she’d learned to do over three months of mornings in the kitchen, where Eli cooked breakfast shirtless and she pressed her cheek to the tattoo on his ribs and let him feed her bites of whatever he was perfecting.

He turned, hooking a finger under her chin. His eyes were that ridiculous shade of green-gold that still caught her off guard sometimes—the color of expensive tequila and trouble. “How included?”

“Extremely included.”

He kissed her. Slow and deliberate in a way that was more Gavin’s register than Eli’s, which meant he was doing it on purpose, which meant he was already in the mood he got in when they had plans. Eli kissed the way he cooked—with attention and instinct and the constant awareness that the best things needed time.

Behind them, she heard Gavin’s bag zip open. The soft rustle of clothes being sorted.

“You’re unpacking?” she said against Eli’s mouth.

“Someone has to.” Gavin’s voice was calm, amused, and underneath both of those things, patient in the way that made her pulse climb. The voice of a man who could wait. Who wanted to wait. Who understood that the waiting was part of it. “Also, I brought something.”

Eli pulled back from Paige with an expression of exaggerated intrigue. “He’s been secretive about this bag for two days.”

“I haven’t been secretive.”

“You put a TSA lock on a duffel bag, Holt.”

Gavin straightened from the suitcase. He was holding a folded piece of paper—just one sheet, creased into thirds, the kind of thing you might mistake for a boarding pass. He held it out to Paige with the steady hand of a man who landed commercial aircraft in crosswinds.

She took it. Unfolded it.

It was a list.

A numbered list, written in Gavin’s precise, slightly cramped handwriting. She read the first three items and felt the heat start at the base of her throat and spread downward.

“You made a spreadsheet,” she said.

“It’s a list.”

“It’s a spreadsheet in pen.”

Eli appeared at her shoulder, reading over her. His eyebrows went up. Then higher. Then he made a sound low in his throat that she felt in her spine.

“Number seven,” he said. “When did you come up with number seven?”

“I’ve had time to think.” Gavin leaned against the credenza, arms crossed, watching them both with an expression she knew well—composed on the surface, intent underneath. The pilot’s face. The one that meant he’d already calculated the approach and was waiting for clearance. “We talked about things we wanted to try. I wrote them down.”

“Of course you did.” Eli took the list from Paige’s hand and held it up to the light, scanning. “There are twelve items on here.”

“We have all weekend.”

“Gavin.” Eli looked at him with the kind of respect usually reserved for architects and bomb defusers. “This is the filthiest document I’ve ever seen a man produce in Garamond font.”

Paige took the list back. She read it again, slower this time, and each item landed in her body like a match being struck. Some were things they’d done before—variations, refinements, angles. Some were things they’d talked about late at night in their Oakwood bedroom, tangled together in sheets, half-asleep and unguarded, when the honesty came easiest. Some were things she hadn’t even known she wanted until she saw them written in Gavin’s careful hand, each one numbered and specific, and realized that he’d been paying attention to every sound she’d made, every breath, every time she’d arched into one of them and gasped for more.

“We don’t have to do all of them,” Gavin said. “We don’t have to do any of them. It’s a—”

“Starting point,” Paige finished. She folded the list and set it on the nightstand. Then she looked at both of them—Eli, golden and grinning, practically vibrating with creative energy; Gavin, calm and solid, watching her the way he always watched her, like she was the instrument panel and he was reading every gauge. “I have one condition.”

Gavin straightened. “Name it.”

“I don’t want to start at number one.”

Eli cocked his head. “Where do you want to start?”

She looked at the list. At item number four, which read, in Gavin’s precise handwriting: Both at once. Her on top. Eye contact.

“Four,” she said.

The room went quiet the way a room went quiet before a thunderstorm.

Gavin moved first.

He always moved first. Not because he was impatient—Gavin was the most patient man she’d ever met—but because he understood structure. Beginnings. The first touch that set the tone for everything after.

He crossed the room in three strides and cupped her face in both hands, tilting her chin up. His thumbs traced her cheekbones. His eyes—that steady, impossible blue—held hers.

“Tell me what you want,” he said. Not a request. A protocol. The way he started every time, because Gavin Holt did not assume, did not presume, did not take a single thing that wasn’t explicitly, enthusiastically offered.

“I want both of you,” she said. “I want you underneath me and Eli behind me and I want to feel all of it.”

His jaw flexed. His thumb traced her lower lip. “Good girl.”

The words hit her the way they always did—a warm, golden detonation somewhere behind her sternum that radiated outward until her fingertips tingled. She’d spent five years with a man who made her feel like wanting was an inconvenience. Now she had two men who made her feel like wanting was the whole point.

Eli’s hands found her waist from behind. His mouth pressed to the curve of her neck, just below her ear—the spot he’d mapped on their second night together and had been exploiting mercilessly ever since. “We should probably close the balcony doors.”

“Probably,” Paige agreed.

Nobody moved toward the doors.

Eli’s fingers found the zipper at the back of her sundress. He drew it down with agonizing slowness, his knuckles trailing her spine, and the fabric slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet like it had been waiting for permission.

Gavin’s eyes dropped. Traveled. Came back to hers.

“You wore the white set,” he said.

She had. The white lace bralette and matching underwear that she’d bought three weeks ago, that Gavin had seen in the shopping bag and studied with the focus of a man reading an approach chart. She’d worn it on purpose. She’d worn everything on purpose. Three months with these two had taught her that being deliberate about desire wasn’t a flaw—it was foreplay.

“I packed it specifically for this,” she said.

“I know.” His voice had dropped to the register that meant his composure was structural, not effortless. “I saw you pack it. I’ve been thinking about it since Tuesday.”

Eli unhooked the bralette with one hand—a trick he’d perfected sometime around week two—and it dropped between them. His palms skimmed up her ribs, cupped her breasts, and his thumbs circled her nipples with the precision of a man who understood that every nerve ending had a rhythm.

“Eli,” she breathed.

“I’m here.” His mouth was at her ear, his voice low and rough and laced with that specific quality of amusement that meant he was fully present and having the time of his life. “Tell me what feels good.”

“That. That feels—” She broke off because Gavin chose that moment to kneel.

Gavin Holt, six-three, broad-shouldered, a man who could carry the weight of three hundred passengers’ lives without breaking a sweat, kneeling in front of her on the marble floor of a Gulf Coast resort with his hands on her hips and his mouth inches from the white lace that was the only thing she was still wearing.

He looked up at her. Waiting.

“Please,” she whispered.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and drew the lace down. Slowly, watching her face the entire time, reading her the way he read weather systems—with complete attention and the understanding that everything could change in a second.

The lace hit the floor. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs. Eli’s arms tightened around her from behind, steadying her, and then Gavin leaned in and pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh and she made a sound that definitely carried to the balcony.

“Doors are still open,” Eli murmured against her neck, smiling.

“Don’t care.”

Gavin’s mouth moved higher. His thumbs traced the creases where her thighs met her hips—that exquisitely sensitive strip of skin that no one had ever paid attention to before him. He kissed her there, open-mouthed and unhurried, and her knees buckled just enough that Eli had to hold her tighter.

“I’ve got you,” Eli said. “Lean back.”

She leaned into Eli’s chest. His hands came up to cover her breasts again, rolling her nipples between his fingers, and Gavin chose that exact moment to put his mouth on her properly—his tongue flat and firm against her clit, and the sensation of both of them at once, Eli’s hands and Gavin’s mouth, was so overwhelming that she grabbed the back of Gavin’s head with one hand and Eli’s forearm with the other and held on.

Gavin knew what she liked. He’d learned it with the systematic thoroughness of a man who believed that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing with precision. He knew the pressure she needed, the rhythm, the exact moment to add his fingers—two, always two at first, curved forward, pressing up while his tongue circled and his other hand gripped her thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints she’d admire in the mirror tomorrow.

“Oh god,” she gasped. “Gavin—right there, don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. Gavin never stopped until she told him to. It was one of the things she loved most about him—his absolute refusal to deviate from a course that was working.

Eli’s mouth found the spot below her ear again. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re close,” he murmured, and that was the other thing—the way Eli narrated, the way he told her what he was seeing, what she looked like, what she sounded like—because Eli Marlow believed that pleasure was better when it was witnessed, and he was right.

She came with Gavin’s mouth on her and Eli’s arms around her and the Gulf of Mexico glittering through the open balcony doors, and she didn’t hold back the sound, didn’t muffle it, didn’t apologize for the volume or the intensity or the way her whole body shook through it. Three months ago, she would have bitten her lip. Swallowed it. Made herself smaller.

Now she let it happen, and both of them held her through it like it was exactly what they’d come here for.

Gavin stood. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips, and behind her Eli made a sound that was half groan, half laugh—the sound of a man who was so turned on he could barely stand it but was also genuinely enjoying himself, because Eli approached sex the way he approached cooking: with joy and curiosity and the absolute conviction that the best was yet to come.

“Bed,” Paige said.

“Thank god,” Eli replied. “My self-control has a shelf life.”

They moved to the king bed—that enormous, ambitious bed she’d slept in alone three months ago. Gavin pulled his shirt over his head and Paige watched the way the light caught the planes of his chest, the definition in his stomach, the trail of dark hair below his navel. Eli stripped with less ceremony and more speed, revealing the tattoo that wound from his left hip to his ribs—a vine of something botanical she’d never identified, dark ink against tanned skin—and the lean, rangy body that moved with a chef’s economy of motion.

They were both hard. She could see that clearly, and the sight of it—two beautiful men, aroused and ready and waiting for her—sent a fresh pulse of heat through her that settled low in her belly.

Gavin lay back on the bed. He propped himself on the pillows, his body long and broad against the white sheets, and looked at her the way he always looked at her when she was about to climb on top of him—like she was the only instrument reading that mattered.

“Come here,” he said.

She straddled him. His hands settled on her hips—big, steady, warm—and she sank down onto him with a slow exhale that turned into a moan when he filled her completely. He was big enough that the first moment always required adjustment, a breathing-into-it that she’d come to love—the way her body opened for him, the stretch and the fullness, the way his grip on her hips tightened involuntarily and his jaw went taut and he breathed through his nose like a man exercising enormous restraint.

“Paige.” His voice was strained. Controlled. The voice of a pilot holding altitude in rough air. “You feel—”

“I know.” She rolled her hips, and his head dropped back against the pillow.

Eli moved behind her. She felt the mattress shift, felt his knees bracket hers, felt his chest against her back—skin on skin, the warmth of him, the hard length of him pressing against her lower back as he leaned in. His hands came around to cup her breasts again, and his mouth found her neck, and she was sandwiched between them—Gavin beneath her, Eli behind her—and every nerve ending in her body was lit up like a switchboard.

“This,” she said. “This is what I wanted.”

She began to move. Gavin’s hands guided her hips—not controlling, guiding, matching her rhythm, letting her set the pace while he watched her face with an intensity that would have been intimidating if it weren’t so obviously reverent. Eli’s hands moved with her, one on her breast, the other sliding down her stomach to where she and Gavin were joined.

His fingers found her clit.

“Oh, fuck—” She pitched forward, catching herself on Gavin’s chest, and the angle changed and everything got deeper and tighter and Eli’s fingers kept circling, relentless and precise, and Gavin began to move beneath her, thrusting up to meet her downstrokes, and she was caught between them, between the fullness of Gavin inside her and the maddening, expert pressure of Eli’s hand and the dual sensation of being held by two people who knew exactly—exactly—what she needed.

“Look at me,” Gavin said.

She opened her eyes. He was right there, inches away, his blue eyes locked on hers, his jaw tight, his hips driving up into her with a controlled force that she felt in her teeth.

“You’re perfect,” he said. Not casually. Not as flattery. As a statement of observed fact, delivered with the same conviction he’d use to report weather conditions. “You’re absolutely perfect, and I need you to know that.”

She broke.

The orgasm hit like a wave—building from the pressure of Eli’s fingers and the depth of Gavin’s thrusts and the eye contact that Gavin held like a lifeline, and it was bigger than the first one, deeper, the kind that started in her core and radiated outward until she was clenching around Gavin and crying out and shaking, and Eli was murmuring in her ear—”that’s it, that’s so good, god you’re incredible”—and Gavin was gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, holding himself back, waiting for her to finish because he always waited, always let her go first, always made sure she was taken care of before he let himself follow.

She collapsed forward onto Gavin’s chest, breathing hard.

“You okay?” he murmured against her hair.

“Give me thirty seconds.”

Eli pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades. “Take your time. We’ve got all weekend.” A pause. “And eleven more items on the list.”

She laughed. She actually laughed, breathless and boneless and draped across Gavin’s chest with Eli’s mouth tracing her spine, and she thought: this. This was what she’d been missing. Not just the sex—though the sex was spectacular, the kind of sex she hadn’t known was possible until two men showed her that wanting wasn’t a weakness and asking wasn’t a burden and being desired by more than one person at once didn’t divide the attention, it multiplied it.

What she’d been missing was this. The laughter. The ease. The absolute absence of apology.

She lifted her head. Gavin’s eyes were waiting.

“I’m not done,” she said.

His hips moved beneath her. A slow, deliberate roll that pressed deep. “Neither am I.”

“Eli?”

“Sweetheart, I haven’t even started.”

She sat back up. Gavin was still inside her—still hard, still patient, still watching her with those steady blue eyes. She reached back and found Eli’s hand and brought it to her mouth and kissed his palm.

“Number four says both at once,” she said.

The room went very quiet.

“Are you sure?” Gavin asked. Because he always asked. Because Gavin Holt would sooner ground a flight than skip a checklist item.

“I’m sure.” She looked at him. Then turned to look at Eli. “I want to feel both of you. At the same time.”

Eli’s expression shifted—the playfulness didn’t disappear, but something deeper moved underneath it, something raw and serious and wanting. “We’ve got what we need in the bag.”

They’d prepared. Of course they’d prepared. Gavin had packed the list and Eli had packed the practicalities and between them they’d arranged this weekend the way they arranged everything—as a team, with Paige at the center, because that was how they worked.

What followed was slow. Careful. Eli was meticulous with preparation—his fingers gentle and patient, working with enough slickness that the stretch was a gradual opening rather than a shock, and he talked to her the entire time, that low running commentary that kept her present and aroused and grounded. Gavin stayed inside her, barely moving, his hands stroking her thighs, her stomach, her breasts—keeping her body humming at a frequency that made the new sensation not just tolerable but desperately wanted.

“More,” she whispered after what felt like forever.

“Yeah?” Eli’s mouth was at her ear.

“Please.”

Eli eased into her with a slowness that bordered on excruciating, and Paige’s entire body went taut—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of having both of them inside her at once, the impossible intimacy of it, the way her body stretched to accommodate them and the way they both went absolutely still, waiting, letting her adjust, letting her breathe, letting her decide.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“Talk to me,” Gavin said. His voice was barely controlled. She could feel the effort it was taking him not to move, the tension in his thighs, the grip of his hands on her hips. “Tell me what you need.”

“Don’t move yet. Just—give me a second.”

They held. Both of them. Two men, fully sheathed inside her, holding perfectly still because she’d asked them to. The intimacy of that—the trust, the restraint, the way their bodies deferred to hers—was almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation.

Then she exhaled. And everything softened.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Move.”

They found a rhythm. It took a moment—the coordination was different from anything they’d done before, requiring a counterpoint that Gavin established first (because Gavin established everything first) and Eli matched with the intuitive timing of a man who’d spent his career responding to the cues of a kitchen. One thrust forward, one back. Push and pull. A tide.

And Paige was in the center of it, held between two bodies, full of both of them, feeling every nerve ending she possessed light up in a cascade that built and built without cresting—a sustained high that kept climbing, kept intensifying, kept pushing her toward something she didn’t have language for.

“Fuck,” Eli groaned against her shoulder. “Paige, you feel—I can’t—”

“I know.” She turned her head and kissed him, messy and desperate, and Gavin’s hips rolled beneath her and she made a sound into Eli’s mouth that was barely human.

“I’m close,” Gavin said, and his voice had lost all composure, stripped down to raw want, and that—hearing Gavin Holt lose control, hearing the pilot who never panicked sound like a man coming apart—was what pushed her over the edge.

She came with a full-body shudder that pulled sounds from her she’d never heard herself make, and Gavin followed within seconds, his hips slamming up into her as he groaned her name—her actual name, not sweetheart or baby but Paige, like it was the only word that mattered—and Eli was right behind them both, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his body going rigid, his breath a ragged curse against her skin.

They stayed like that for a long time. Connected. Tangled. Breathing together in the golden light of a Gulf Coast sunset while the curtains billowed and the ocean did its thing, indifferent and beautiful, exactly as it had been the night Paige stood on this balcony alone and decided she was done apologizing.

Eli pulled out first, gentle and careful, pressing a kiss to the base of her spine. Gavin lifted her off him with those steady hands and settled her between them on the pillows, and she lay there, boneless and buzzing, while they arranged themselves around her—Gavin on her right, Eli on her left, their legs tangled with hers, their hands finding hers in the sheets.

“So,” Eli said, after the silence had stretched long enough to become comfortable. “How do we feel about numbers five through twelve?”

Paige laughed. It came out hoarse and satisfied and completely unself-conscious.

“I think we pace ourselves,” Gavin said.

“Bold talk from a man who just made the best spreadsheet of his career.”

“It’s a list.”

“It’s a manifesto.” Eli propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Paige. His hair was wrecked. His expression was the one she’d come to think of as post-kitchen—the calm after the creative storm, the satisfaction of something that had turned out exactly right. “Verdict, Wynn? On a scale of one to ‘glad we came back’?”

She turned her head and looked at both of them. Gavin, steady and flushed, his hand tracing slow circles on her hip. Eli, bright-eyed and wrecked, his grin softening into something genuine and unguarded.

Three months ago, she’d stood on that balcony with a bottle of champagne and toasted her own destruction. Now she was lying in the same bed, in the same room, with two men who had turned a fake vacation-girlfriend joke into the most real thing she’d ever felt.

“The villa rule,” she said.

“What’s the villa rule?” Gavin asked.

She looked at the folded list on the nightstand. At the open balcony doors. At the champagne no one had opened yet because they’d been too busy making item number four look easy.

“What happens in the villa,” she said, “is just the beginning.”

Eli grinned. “I can work with that.”

Gavin pulled her closer, pressed his mouth to her hair, and murmured: “We have eleven more items and sixty-two hours.”

“Fifty-nine,” Eli corrected. “I’m making dinner.”

Paige closed her eyes. The ocean breathed in and out through the balcony doors. The bed held all three of them easily, because it had been designed for people with ambition, and for the first time in her life, Paige Wynn had ambition to spare.

She reached for the champagne.

This time, she had people to share it with.

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