My teeth chatter as I heft myself up on the dock, so soaking wet that my dress clings to me like a gross-feeling second skin.
“I do feel terrible,” he says, bobbing in the dark water. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
I grin down at him, admiring how delicious he looks with his dark hair slicked away from his face and his long lashes clumped around his eyes. He’s so gorgeous and so wonderful and so mine.
I wiggle my fingers, delighting in the feel of his ring snug on my hand, still drunk on the magic of his proposal despite our freezing dip.
“Yes,” I say. “I can forgive you.”
Nick hums happily as he pulls himself onto the wood planks beside me, his gaze even more intense than usual.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I can see through your dress,” he murmurs, squinting. “Are you wearing a bra?”
My eyes widen as I cross my arms over my chest. “No, I couldn’t. The back of my dress is too low. Oh, my gosh, can you really see through it?”
“I don’t know.” He takes my wrist and draws it gently away from my chest. “Let me get another look or…two.”
I slap his shoulder before bringing my arm back in front of my chest. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not. It’s sexy as hell, and there’s no way I want you walking through the restaurant to the car looking like that.” He pops to his feet and reaches a hand down to help me up. “The boathouse should be open.”
I shiver as he pulls me up beside him. “Really? It’s never been open before. Lark and I used to try to get in there all the time when we were little.”
He twines his fingers through mine and leads me toward the one-room shack not far from the dock. “I might have paid Joe a little something to let me rent it out for the evening.”
“Aw!” I can’t believe he went to all this trouble. Even the sinking rowboat can’t ruin this proposal.
Heck, it really only adds to the story.
“Let’s get you hidden,” Nick says. “And I’ll go see if I can find something in the car for you to put on. At the very least, the picnic blanket is still in the trunk. You could wrap up in that.”
“Okay, I…” I trail off as Nick opens the narrow door to the boathouse, letting me pass through first.
“Oh, Nick.” I stop just inside, my hand lifting to hover in front of my lips. “What did you do?”
“Champagne and strawberries too cheesy?” he asks, closing the door behind us.
“No, it’s wonderful! It’s perfect,” I say, already feeling warmer even though the tiny room isn’t insulated.
But the walls block the breeze, and there’s just something about seeing a cozy little table with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth set with champagne and strawberries and a candle waiting to be lit that makes me cozy from the inside out.
“You are amazing.” I turn back to him for a hug, our body heat warming our soaked clothes as we come together.
Nick bends his mouth to mine, kissing me with that gentle, insistent passion that makes me ache all over. A little piece of me feels like it’s going to wither and die every time he pulls away.
The past weeks have been wonderful, perfect in so many ways, but they’ve also been torture. I’ve never wanted to be with a man the way I want to be with Nick. Every kiss, every caress drives me absolutely insane with wanting him. Last night—when he finally slipped his hand down the front of my pajama shorts and stroked me with his fingers—I sobbed with relief. He brought me over with an ease that was intimidating to a girl who’s still technically a virgin, but even a non-self-administered orgasm wasn’t enough to take the edge off the sexual tension simmering inside me.
I don’t just want to come. I want to feel Nick’s skin against mine, feel him moving inside me, finding his release while we’re as connected as two people can get.
I want to make love to him, but he’s been adamant about waiting until we were engaged.
“Oh,” I say, pulling away from the kiss as realization hits.
“What’s wrong?” Nick murmurs.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I drag my fingernails gently down the back of his shirt. “I just realized that we’re engaged.”
His eyes darken. “We are, and I can’t wait to get you home tonight.”
“Why wait until we get home?” I reach for the top of his shirt and work the top button through the soggy buttonhole.
He arches a brow. “Here?”
“I mean, we should probably get out of these wet things, anyway,” I say, starting on the next button. “Don’t you think?”
“The floor isn’t that clean,” he says, even as his hands move to the back of my dress, gripping the top of my zipper and dragging it down.