🌴 Tropical Permission 📖 Chapter One: Ocean Heat

They came for the anniversary. But Diane came for something more.

My first manuscript, Tropical Permission, is almost finished so I wanted to start sharing some chapters now! Feedback is ALWAYS welcome. xoxo - L.H.

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Diane stepped out of the shuttle and into a wall of sticky, subtropical heat. The air smelled of sea salt, ripe papaya, and sunscreen. She adjusted her sunglasses and took in the resort: bougainvillea tumbling down whitewashed balconies, infinity pools catching the light like glass, and a distant, beckoning strip of turquoise ocean.

James whistled low beside her.

“Not bad,” he said with a touch of false modesty — he’d been their travel agent on this trip.

Diane smiled. “You did good.”

He grinned, the kind of easy grin that still made her heart do a little stutter-step. His hair — dark brown with a hint of salt and pepper coming in around the temples, thick, and curling slightly in the humidity — caught the sunlight at the tips. His skin, pale now but quick to bronze, would be golden in a day or two. He wore a crisp linen shirt open at the collar and khaki shorts that clung to muscular thighs.

Thirty-seven, fit in a natural, unshowy way. The kind of man who still turned heads without realizing it.

She reached for his hand, and he took it. Squeezed gently. His palm was warm, his fingers calloused from gym bars and home improvement projects, some of them completed.

Diane’s palm, like the rest of her, was soft and smooth and feminine. Her hips flared beneath a sundress cinched tight at the waist. Her skin was olive-toned, golden already, with the kind of healthy glow that came more from Pilates and water than serums or filters (although some of those, too). Her dark auburn hair would lighten after a few days, and had already curled into loose waves in the heat.

Diane caught their reflection in a lobby mirror and thought: we look like a couple in a travel commercial.

They also looked like what they were: two people in love, still attracted to each other five years in, still curious, still discovering things about each other — and liking what they found.

But this vacation was sorely needed. Work had been non-stop recently, and after half a decade they’d fallen into routines that could use some shaking up.

And in Diane’s opinion, they were at their best as a couple on trips together.

Inside the open-air lobby, a bellhop handed them welcome drinks: frozen, pastel-colored things that tasted like rum and coconut. Diane sipped hers and let the cold numb her tongue.

“Still think this was too much?” James asked, nudging her with his shoulder.

She shook her head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”

He kissed her temple, then let his hand rest on the small of her back as they followed the concierge to their room.

“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Allen.”

“Happy anniversary, Mr. Allen,” she replied, and smiled like a woman who knew she meant it.

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Their room was perched on the second floor of a quiet villa with a view of the ocean. The king-sized bed was framed in gauzy white drapes, the linens bright and clean, the pillows excessive. A bottle of chilled Prosecco waited in a silver bucket. Outside on the private balcony, two loungers faced the sea, and the afternoon sun painted the tile floor gold.

Diane slipped off her sandals and moved toward the sliding doors.

“You know what I want to do?” she said, opening them wide and breathing in the sound of waves and cicadas.

“Tell me,” James said, setting their bags down.

“Nothing. For, like… the next five days.”

Looking at James, a smile lit up her whole face — hazel eyes, a small dimple in one cheek, and full lips that stretched wide with her grin.

He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing softly into her back, gently kissing her neck.

“Fuck. Yes.”

She turned in his arms, putting her lips to his, slow and firm. His mouth was warm and tasted like rum. Her body melted into his: the familiar press of his chest, the heat of his thighs, the weight of his hands as they slid lower.

She let out a soft sigh. “And I want to do a lot more of that too, please.”

He kissed her again. It wasn’t the kiss of newlyweds. It was deeper. Hungrier.

The kind that doesn’t come from novelty but from history — the confidence of knowing how to turn each other on, and the comfort of knowing it’s safe to want more.

Want more? Read Chapter 2 here.

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Author’s Note

Welcome to Tropical Permission. This is a high-heat, emotionally layered novella about marriage, curiosity, and what happens when a woman asks for more—and her husband says yes.

New chapters every week. Thank you for reading. Please consider subscribing!

xo,

Lydia