He responds right away, dropping his mouth so it hovers above mine.
It’s an agonizing moment of longing, that pause he takes.
It’s suspended torture that only ends the moment our lips touch.
We’re just like the rest of the couples now—forgetting where we are, too caught up in the moment. Our kiss is a thousand years in the making and neither one of us is eager for it to end. He tilts his head and takes it deeper, sweeping his tongue across mine.
His hands tighten on me and I stretch up onto my tiptoes to bring my body even more aligned with his.
If we were alone, I have no doubt his hands would be sliding up the slits of my dress and brushing my panties aside. We’re kissing like we’re fucking, and I need him to continue more than I need my next breath.
The song ends, and people clap.
It’s that sound that finally breaks us apart.
We don’t just take an inch, we take a few yards, stepping away from each other like we’re two magnets, scared to get irresistibly drawn together again.
What the fuck was that, my expression says.
He doesn’t look confused; he looks territorial.
Hungry.
What did he say earlier about being attracted to people?
It’s more in the way someone makes me feel. Electrified, excited…hungry.
That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
He drags a hand through his hair, seeming to gather himself enough to walk toward me, grab my hand, and tug me away from the restaurant.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here.”
“You don’t have to walk so fast. You’re hurting me.”
He slows his pace, barely. Still, I feel like I have to hustle to keep up with him. My wedges don’t help, and I beg him to stop so I can yank them off. Once they’re in my hand, I have no trouble keeping up with him.
We reach the door of the villa and he unlocks it. A dark, quiet living room waits for us, and I immediately see everything through new sexy eyes. He could bend me over the back of that couch or prop me up against that TV stand. We could go at it against the sliding glass door or right outside, on our private beach terrace.
I know he’s thinking the same. I know he’s about to haul me back up into his arms and finish what we started at the restaurant.
Instead, he groans as if in pain, takes one look at me, and throws his hands up in the air.
“I think you should go to bed, Lindsey.”
BED?!
Now? Is he kidding?
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he steps toward me, grabs my shoulders, and starts to gently push me in the direction of my room. “I want you to go into your room and shut the door and lock it. Can you do that?”
I shake my head as all the momentum of the last hour seeps out of me.
“What—why?”
“Because, Lindsey, I think you’re a good girl.”
I’m not, I want to tell him.
I left that girl behind in Boston.
But it’s too late.
I’m inside my room and he’s shutting the door as he leaves me in here.
Without him.ONE THING IS for certain: if I wasn’t his sister’s best friend, Noah and I would have had sex four times over last night. If we were just two strangers who had met at that restaurant and started to dance, we would have been tugging our clothes off and romping in the sand within forty-five minutes of saying hello.
The issue is that Noah respects me too much. He doesn’t want to hurt me, and he likely doesn’t want to suffer the consequences of having a vacation fling with me, knowing we’ll have to face each other once we return to our normal lives in Boston.
The thing is, this isn’t just his decision.
What about what I want?
Last night, as I slipped into my pajamas and brushed my teeth, my stomach ached with the feeling of missed opportunity. I debated going back out into the living room and pleading my case.
I’m not a good girl!
Look, I’ll show you!
That’s when I would have performed some kind of sexy striptease, during which he’d fall to the floor in a puddle of lust while losing his mind, thus giving me the upper hand.
Instead, I cracked open the mini bar in my room, snagged some overpriced peanut M&Ms, and tucked myself right into bed.
I’m angry at myself for wimping out.
Especially as I roll onto my side and face the ocean just in time to see Noah finishing his workout. He must have gone on a run already. He’s slick with sweat. Shirtless. Tan. He’s using the shallow ledge of the terrace to aid him with push-ups. It’s a hard job to lie in bed and watch his muscles ripple in the early morning sun. A hard, hard job. I reach for the rest of the M&Ms I didn’t finish last night and take in the show. He’s set up a yoga mat—probably found in some closet in the villa I haven’t bothered searching through—so he can continue with some crunches next. Yes, I think. Better make that six-pack an eight-pack.