“Then I’ll make you beg for it while you’re sitting pretty.”
A choked sound escapes me. It might be a laugh. Might be a moan. Who even knows anymore?
His thumb strokes the inside of my thigh again, and I swear, my bones melt. My body is seconds away from surrendering. From throwing me at him like some desperate groupie.
The island is right there, close now. Forest green and sun-dappled against the endless blue, a whole new mystery waiting. But I barely see it.
Right now, all I see is him. The wind in his hair, the salt on his skin, the fire in his eyes blown wide and dark with want.
And God help me, I want to burn.
Thud.
The boat jerks violently as it hits the rocky shallows, grinding over the shore with a teeth-rattling scrape. I shout and lurch sideways, catching myself on the edge of the bench just before I go sprawling. Sand grates the hull, halting our momentum like nature itself has calleda time-out on our foreplay.
Alder curses, scrambling to grab the tiller as I push myself upright and try to regain my composure and what’s left of my dignity.
He hops into the knee-deep water and drags the boat closer to shore with obnoxiously flexed arm muscles.
I climb out with as much grace as I can fake while my legs are still trembling and my libido is screaming,What the hell just happened?
As soon as my feet hit the sand, I blow out a breath and brush the hair from my face. The breeze off the water hits my skin like a slap, and I silently thank the universe for that crash because I was two seconds away from committing a very stupid, very public sex mistake.
But Alder is no easier to ignore now than he was in the boat.
The way his shirt clings to his chest, damp with sea spray and sweat, the fabric molding to every lean, sculpted line like it was tailor-made to ruin me. Those breeches—tight, sinful, displaying the kind of ass that should come with a warning label.
God, he’s fucking sexy.
Heat washes down my spine as he kneels beside me in the sand with the picnic basket he retrieved from the boat. He unties the woven lid and unpacks its contents with deliberate care—an aged wheel of cheese, fresh baked bread still dusted with flour, glistening strawberries, a bottle of wine. And then, nestled among the linens, he lifts out a small jar of golden syrup, sprigs of lavender suspended within like tiny blossoms trapped in amber.
He uncorks the wine first, pouring deep red liquidinto two delicate glasses. Without a word, he hands one to me, his fingers brushing over mine as I take it. I hesitate, studying the glass.
“I don’t think we should drink,” I say finally, my voice softer than I intend. “I want to be clearheaded. If we’re going to talk—if we’re going to make decisions about whatever this is—” I gesture vaguely between us. “I want to use my brain. Not my other…parts.”
His eyes darken, showing his amusement. “Your other parts?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I absolutely do.” His voice drops, velvet-soft and dangerous. “And I’m not interested in clouding your judgment.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, he tips his glass and pours the wine into the sand. The red liquid soaks into the earth like blood. He takes mine and does the same.
“I don’t need wine to want you,” he says. His voice is low, husky, threaded with a heat that makes my stomach do something unholy. “And I’d rather you remember every second.”
The air between us thickens—charged, electric, impossibly heavy.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You are entirely too good at this.”
“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says, leaning closer, his eyes on my mouth. “You want a list?”
“I want a perimeter,” I mumble, but my voice is shaking.
He grins. “Gemma, if you wanted distance, you shouldn’t have gotten in my boat.”
“Oh my God,” I groan, trying to get my bearings.“This is exactly what I mean. I’m trying to be smart, and you’re making it impossible.”
“If you want to make decisions with your head, do so, but what about your heart?”
