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“I got the rest of it,” Emma says, opening the opposite door to take out the bag with our towels and water. As she stretches to grab it from the middle of the backseat, the top of her bikini bra gapes open, letting me catch a glimpse of a pink nipple.
Fuck.
That’s not helping the bulge situation at all. Plus, I’m now pissed because if I caught that glimpse, some passerby could’ve as well—and those sweet nipples are for my eyes only. As is that luscious ass in those too-short shorts.
Clenching my teeth, I straighten and take a deep breath as I lock the car.
Maybe the beach wasn’t such a good idea. Emma half-naked in public isn’t something I handle well, it seems.
“This way,” she says, heading toward the steps leading down to the beach, and after another settling breath, I follow her, making sure to hold the bag in front of me as I walk.
She goes straight for the shady area under the pier, and I set up our chairs about a dozen feet from the wet line in the sand, to keep our laptops safe from the waves aggressively lapping at the shore. Down here by the water, it’s much cooler than it was on the boardwalk, and the breeze is fresh and salty, as invigorating as only the ocean air can be.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Emma says to a middle-aged woman lounging on a towel near us. “Would you mind watching our things while we swim?”
“Sure, happy to,” she says with a hint of a Southern accent. “You folks go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Emma says, and taking off her hat, she gathers her hair into a thick, messy bun on top of her head. Next, she unzips her shorts and pushes them down her legs, revealing yellow bikini bottoms that cover even less of her ass than those tiny shorts. Her round, plush, perfectly grabbable ass. If we were alone, I’d have my hands all over it. I’d squeeze it, lick it, bite it—
Dammit, I seriously need help. Maybe I should see a shrink when we get back to New York—preferably one who specializes in sex addiction to curvy little redheads. There’s got to be such a thing, right?
In the meantime, I see only one way to deal with this torture.
“Come here,” I growl, stepping toward Emma, and ignoring her squeals, I swing her into my arms and carry her into the water, not stopping until we’re chest deep.
Well, I’m chest deep, and she’s clinging to my neck to keep the waves from hitting her in the face.
“You monster,” she shrieks, climbing up my body like a monkey when a particularly large wave tries to cover her anyway. “This water is freaking cold!”
I grin into her outraged face. “I know. Refreshing, isn’t it?” And most importantly, erection-reducing.
“No!” She wipes the salt spray off her face. “You suck!”
“You planned to go swimming, didn’t you?”
“Not like this! I was going to wade in slowly, let myself adjust to this… this ice bath.” She looks so offended by the seventy-five-degree water I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s not that cold, kitten. Besides, sometimes it’s better to just jump in. Take a plunge and then worry about adjusting.”
She licks her rosebud lips. “What if… what if you never adjust?” Her gray gaze turns somber. “What if you simply can’t?”
“And what if you can?” I counter, knowing we’re no longer talking about the water temperature. Holding her against me with one arm, I frame her pretty face with my palm. “What if it’s the only way?”
She blinks at me, her auburn lashes sweeping down and up. “You really think that?”
“I do,” I say firmly. “I really do.” And as another wave breaks against my back, I press my lips to hers, tasting the salt of the ocean spray and the addictive sweetness of her.
10
Emma
Our breakfast was pretty much a brunch and Grandma likes to eat dinner early, so we skip lunch and spend the entire afternoon on the beach, alternately lounging in the chairs and swimming. True to his word, Marcus lets me work on my laptop when we’re between swims, and I manage to edit a good chunk of a shifter romance novella due next Friday. Afterward, I call my landlady to find out how my cats are doing, and I learn that while Cottonball and Queen Elizabeth are as well behaved as always, Mr. Puffs has decided that my favorite pillow makes a great claw-scratcher.
Needless to say, there’s shredded memory foam all over my bed and floor.
“I was going to clean it up, but he started hissing at me,” Mrs. Metz says fretfully. “You’ll have to deal with it yourself. I swear, that cat of yours is part demon.”
Part demon? She’s being generous. It’s more like ninety percent.
“I’m so sorry about that. He probably just misses me,” I lie. No need to scare the woman by admitting that Mr. Puffs is always like that. “And please, don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll take care of it when I return on Sunday. Thank you again for watching them for me.”
