My gaze rakes down his frame, from his broad shoulders to the gorgeous biceps that I’m pretty sure I bit at some point.
Sometime around orgasm two, my memory gets a little fuzzy.
I narrow my gaze, staring hard at his muscle. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me, but I would swear there’s a little red spot there.
Jesse chuckles. “Yeah, you left a mark,” he says in a husky voice that makes my nipples tighten against the spandex of my suit. “I’ll have to return the favor later.”
Later . . .
Because we’re going to do it again.
Be naked together—like last night when it was just him and me, and pleasure so fierce there were moments when it was almost too much. Like my body was struggling to rise to the challenge of channeling all that glorious goodness.
Jesse is high-voltage bliss and my erotic wiring is glitchy and out of practice, but I could get used to that kind of struggle. I could get used to him. To being with him like this, like partners in so much more than list-checking or graffiti crime.
“Assuming I survive,” I say, my breath catching as he reaches for the bottom of my filmy cover-up.
“You’re going to do more than survive; you’re going to kick ass,” he promises, drawing my cover-up over my head, sending a rush of arousal surging through me.
Heart beating in my throat, I tip my head back and murmur, “Kiss for luck?”
He smiles, nice and easy—just his style. Dipping his face closer, he slides his lips across mine, a sultry, summery kiss that makes the impossible feel possible.
That does the final trick in sweeping away my fears.
When he breaks the kiss, I’m dizzy and warm.
Most of all . . . ready.
“I like your good luck kisses,” I say.
“And I like giving them.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself.
And me.
And . . . us.
But there is no us.
I repeat that truth to myself over and over again as we cross the sand to the water, then wade in, yelping over the cold temperature.
“It’s freezing, but we’ve got it. Like this,” he says, splashing and playing.
In no time, Jesse turns getting used to the chilly water into a game, easing me into floating on my back in his arms before I fully realize what’s happening. One minute, I’m laughing with him as we dare each other to dip deeper and deeper into the water; the next, I’m gazing up into a clear blue sky, buoyant in the gentle waves with his hands hovering lightly under my shoulders and bottom.
It’s shocking how fast I master the whole floating thing.
I did know how to swim once—not well, by any means, but I could dog paddle anywhere I needed to go—but I could never float, and I’d assumed I’d be too terrified to do anything but flail if I ever again found myself in water deeper than a bathtub.
And yes, that day in eighth grade, feeling the ocean clutching at my legs, dragging me away from the shore no matter how I fought to get back to safety, comes back to haunt me more than once.
But every time I’m tempted to freak out, Jesse is there to hold me.
Just . . . hold me, cradled in his arms in the water until I’m ready to try again.
Several feet away, a mom and dad are helping a young boy, maybe seven or eight, learn to swim.
The same way.