Damn.
Even I have to admit it’s sexy. The red color pops against my fair skin.
It’s the exact opposite of how I usually look around Noah. Most of the time he sees me in my pink scrubs on my way to and from delivering babies. I’m generally wearing a floral-printed surgical cap and/or sporting leftover red lines on my cheeks thanks to the medical-grade face masks.
I wink at my reflection then grab the hibiscus from the bathroom counter and reinsert it behind my ear. With my light blonde hair hanging down around my shoulders, I look like some kind of hot tropical goddess. Then my eyes land on the empty margarita glass and I wonder—briefly—if I only feel like a goddess because of the alcohol pumping through my system.
I don’t have time to reconsider my bikini choice though because Noah calls my name from the living room and I’m forced to join him. I wrap a light sarong around my waist and then pause with my hand on the doorknob.
Here goes nothing.
Noah’s back is turned to me when I walk out, but when he glances back over his shoulder, his dark eyes do exactly what I hoped they would: smolder.
His brows rise a half-inch in shock and then he flashes a confident, devilish smile that melts me from the inside out.
“Nice bathing suit.”
I respond with a This old thing? shrug that feels so wonderfully cool I can barely stand it. Go me! I think as I breeze past him to slide the glass door open and step out onto the terrace.
It’s a hot afternoon, and without the ocean breeze, I’d be sweating bullets. Even with the breeze, I’m forced to pull my hair up off my neck and twist it into a bun as I walk out into the sand.
I claim one of the hotel’s beach chairs and drop my magazine and sunglasses down onto the woven wicker fabric before untying my sarong. Noah watches me. I’m not looking at him, but I can see him in my periphery as he stands motionless next to the chair beside mine.
I fold my sarong into a neat square and set it down on my chair.
Only then do I realize I forgot to grab sunscreen.
I glance up, and Noah waves a little tube of SPF 30 at me. Apparently, he came prepared.
“Need some?”
I nod and hold my hand out to take the bottle from him, but he points to the chair as if he wants me to take a seat.
“You can do mine after,” he suggests, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
We’ll just be two single adults, lathering each other up accompanied by the sound of waves breaking in the distance. It’s basically an ad for The Bachelor.
Still, I don’t want to make it seem like I can’t handle him slapping some sunscreen onto my back, so I sit like he urges and then hold perfectly still as he situates himself behind me.
I have about one inch of my butt cheek on the chair, barely perched on the edge so that I’m mostly holding myself up by my straining quad muscles.
Noah realizes and reaches out to grab my waist, tugging me back in between his thighs.
I’m nestled against him and a girlish whimper escapes my lips before I can clap a hand over my mouth. I clear my throat to cover it up, and thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
I listen as he pops the lid of the sunscreen and then rubs his hands together, warming up the lotion before he starts to apply it to my shoulders.
His hands are big and practiced. He’s not a brute about it, careful to work the sunscreen up my neck and underneath the strings of my bikini. I let my head loll forward just a bit as his palms slide farther down my back. He gets more lotion and then his hands skim down my spine and back up the sides of my chest. His fingers get dangerously close to the outer edges of my breasts, but I don’t say a word. In fact, I take my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from embarrassing myself again.
“You’ll fry out here if you’re not careful,” he warns. “The sun’s a lot stronger than it is in Boston.”
“I know.”
My body hums as his hands skate down my back to the edge of my bikini bottoms. His fingers carefully rub in the lotion there, brushing just below the material in case it shifts around while I’m swimming.
“I’m trying not to miss any spots,” he tells me, and I swear there’s a new huskiness to his tone.
Noah has never touched me like this. Never have his hands been on my bare skin beyond a simple handshake or high five.
I’m dying.
I want to bite down on something, squeeze my thighs shut, sequester myself in my room, and replay every aching second of this experience.