“A kiss for the shell?”
“Just one?”
“Just one,” I say as I angle my mouth against his.
One of his hands slides up to cup the back of my head. He holds me against him, kissing me in a way that is both satisfying and fueling my hunger, so when he pulls away, it’s too soon.
“Let me guess, that didn’t count?” he taunts, still hovering close enough to drag his lips over mine, tempting me for a second kiss.
“That didn’t count,” I breathe, tangling my fingers into his wet locks.
“If it didn’t count, you don’t get the shell,” he says, pleased with himself by trapping me with his logic.
“Fine, that one counted. This one doesn’t,” I say and claim his mouth again, taking what I know he wanted to give me anyway.
Miles slides his fingers up my thighs over my shorts, his fingertips skimming over my hip bones. His hands skate up my body to engulf my ribs, caressing the undersides of my breasts. He puts space between us to hold me like that, but I wrap my legs tighter around his waist to pull him back against me.
In the back of my mind, there’s a little voice telling me to stop, telling me that this isn’t a good idea, that I am playing with fire. I told Hazel it would get messy if Miles and I hooked up, that my emotions would get all tangled up again. The last thing I need is to catch feelings for man as emotionally unavailable as Miles was. But in so many ways, Miles is nothing like how he was in college.
And maybe I like to play with fire.
As if he can read my thoughts, his mouth leaves mine to find my neck, a trail of eager kisses and his tongue dancing over my pulse point silencing any voices opposed to what he’s doing.
“What else doesn’t count, Abby?” He asks the question into my neck, his low timbre vibrating against my skin.
“That. What you’re—” My breath catches in my throat as he glides his tongue over my pulse point, sending a shudder through my body. “Doing. That doesn’t count.”
“I don’t know what that means, Abby. You have to be more specific.”
He’s antagonizing me, trying to get me to play his little game. He likes the power, and of course the explicit consent, but I think more than anything, he likes that I’m breaking my own rules for him.
“When you kiss my neck, it doesn’t count.”
He acknowledges my words with soft “mmm” that I feel rather than hear and continues to kiss my neck, gently suckingthe skin into his mouth before releasing it and finding a new place to mark me.
“What else doesn’t count?” he asks, adjusting his head to work the other side of my neck. I roll my head the side, offering more of myself to him.
“When you touch me—my chest, when you touch my chest, that doesn’t count,” I say, wanting more from him.
One arm still gripping my ass, he slides his other hand up my arms, over my shoulders and down, stopping just under my collarbone. Water droplets kiss my skin with the motion, his wet hand cooling me where the sun’s heat has warmed my skin. He meets my gaze, and I narrow my eyes at him, the cheeky bastard.
“Here?” he asks, knowing damn well that’s not what I meant.
“Lower,” I instruct.
“Say it,” he demands.
I huff out a frustrated breath. Not because I’m actually frustrated but because I want him to touch me. My nipples are aching, pushing against the wet fabric of my bra and tank top. He’s waiting, his eyes searching mine.
“It doesn’t count when you touch my breasts. My nipples.”
He slides his hand down, his palms brushing the hardened peaks. Even through all the fabric, his touch is a welcome relief.
“With just my hands?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“It doesn’t count if you use your mouth,” I say, my breath hitching with anticipation.
He kisses my sternum as he makes quick work of lifting my tank top and bra, just enough to expose them to him. Thanks to a few days in the sun, the bare skin he’s looking at is paler than the rest of me, the pink peaks of my breasts hardening without Miles’s body or the pool water to keep me warm. He takes one nipple into his mouth and the other between two fingers, and I moan loud enough to trigger my sense of propriety. I slap my hand over my mouth.
