His lips are confident. Firm, but completely unrushed, laced with something so much sweeter than lust. Despite what his fingers just did, this somehow feels likemore. His scruff tickles my skin as his tongue sweeps in, dragging against mine with easy intent, and sensation explodes in my chest, a whimper flying loose. He swallows it, fingers tightening in my hair as his cock twitches against my thigh.
I reach for his pants, hand pressing against the outline of his thick, hard length. Our lips move, becoming frenzied, as he leans back and I shift onto my side, my intent as clear as his want. My fingers fumble for his button when the smooth, velvety notes of a song wash over us.
It’s soft at first, enough to make me wonder if I’m so caught up in him, I’m hearing things. But then Grayson breaks away.
He catches my hand, the half-lidded desire in his eyes morphing into awareness as he sits up.
“Fuck.” This curse isn’t gritty with desire. It’s agitated.
When I follow his gaze, I understand why. A fishing kayak drifts toward our beach, an old man mouthing the words to—is that Frank Sinatra?—playing from his large speaker.
“Thought this was the Secret Spot,” I mutter through swollen lips, running my hand down my sand-coated hair.
He releases a drawn-out exhale, raking his hand across his jaw. “Like you said, it faces the open pond.”
I track his hand as he adjusts his bulge, which still hasn’t gotten the message of the moment. We sit there, breathing, as the man casts his line, drifting closer and closer, completely oblivious to what he’s interrupted.
And what, exactly, did he interrupt?
My mind is eager to overanalyze, to start drawing conclusions about what just happened, tofind answers now. But it doesn’t get the chance, because Grayson faces me then, notices the sand in my hair, and begins dusting it off.
With a hitch to his cheek, he says, “Think we can safely conclude you were eating oysters in the wrong company, Boston.”
My shoulders relax. “I think you just have really potent oysters.”
He barks out a light laugh. “Tell yourself whatever you want.”
I glance pointedly at his hard-on. “And what's your excuse?” I ask. “You only had one.”
His hand pauses, resting on my head. His tongue drags across his lip. Slowly. Thoughtfully. And he gives me the last reply I expected. One that doesn’t deflect, or tease, or end with a challenge.
“I don’t need an aphrodisiac with you.”
Oh.
His words hang in the air between us, like an epic declaration, the summit of a peak appearing through clouds I assumed would never part. Maybe he didn’t mean them to be so…big, but that’s the impact they strike me with.
His ringtone cuts through the air.
For a few moments, he ignores it, his eyes steadfast on mine.
But the electronic notes keep going. I watch as he recedes from the moment in slow-motion, his lips pressing together. Then he breaks away completely, removing his hand, sitting up, and pulling his phone from his pocket.
“Sorry,” he says, brows drawn as he reads the caller ID. “I need to take this.”
“All good.”
He cleans up as he talks, and I help him, trying not to blush as I pick up the shell he’d touched me with. I hearLala’s name mentioned, Grayson’s tone low and serious, and wordlessly file back into the skiff with him.
We’re almost at the docks when he finally hangs up. “Lala’s got a fever,” he informs me over the wind. “I’ve got to go take her to the doctor’s. My aunt’s watching her, but her husband has her car.”
I nod in understanding and say, “I hope she’s okay.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, then.
I don’t need an aphrodisiac with you.
His words themselves are a freaking aphrodisiac.
