Page 6 of Theta

Her head twists against my chest. "No, Killy. But you took most of the beating. How are you?"

"Sore, but I’ll live." I pat her head, her shoulders, her back. "Sure you're okay?"

My hand finds warm flesh, soft and silky and smooth, and my heart leaps in my chest and my stomach lurches. What am I touching? Her back?

"Killy?" Her voice is faint and soft.

No, not her back.

Definitely not her back.

I'm no virgin, okay? But also I'm not Cal. My best friend has mad game; I can't tell you how many times I've found myself at loose ends for an hour or three on St. John or St. Thomas or wherever while he hooks up with a tourist. I've had my share of liaisons, is my point. Not as many as Cal, with his golden surfer looks and easy charm and brash confidence, granted. My point…my point here is that I realize—belatedly, at the soft questioning hint in her tone—that what I'm grabbing with both hands like I have every right to is Story's bare ass. Bare because the waves knocked us flying before she could right them.

And…fuck. It's every bit as glorious to have in my hands as I'd fantasized it would be.

Shut up—I already admitted to having a crush, okay?

You try spending every summer for years watching her blossom into stunning beauty, watching her grow confident in her body when you’re a horny but shy kid with a major crush you know is unrequited. You try watching that girl prance around the island in a bikini. You try watching this very ass, barely clad in a bit of fabric, sway with every step, jigging as she jogs to catch a Frisbee or dives into the waves.

You try to endure all that and not have a few wet dreams about her once in a while.

"I'm sorry, again," I bite out, yanking my hands away. I flatten them against the cold metal floor to either side of my hips.

"This is awkward, but I need help. My pants are all tangled and I…" she rests her forehead on my sternum. "I just need help. Please."

She wriggles on me, and it's fucking torture. I feel her breasts against my chest, her hips against mine. Fuck.

I can’t take much more of this—having her on top of me, pants around her ankles, wriggling like a fish out of water as she tries to sort out her clothing…knowing her bare ass is right there…it's torture.

"Just stop moving for a second," I say, sounding more short-tempered than I'd intended. "Just let me stand up."

I get one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and I stand up with her. Set her on her feet, back to the wall.

Her hands grip my shoulders as I kneel down and hunt at her ankles. I quickly discover the issue—one foot came out of the leg and pulled it inside out with the cuff in a tucked-in, knotted-up clump that you really need both hands to loosen. I sort the scrub bottoms out, and then grab her ankle. "Foot up."

I guide her foot into the leg and tug the pants up, tie them in a simple bunny-ears knot.

"Thank you, Killian." Her tone is wry.

"What?" I ask, confused as to the tone.

"Nothing. I’m saying thank you."

"There was a tone."

"I do know how to put on my own pants. I just couldn't in that position." She's amused rather than irritated or offended. "But I am truly and genuinely grateful for your assistance."

“Yeah," I mumble, shuffling out of reach. "Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just—"

Her hand shoots out and smacks against my hip, and then she tugs me back closer by my belt loop. “Hey. For real, thank you. I just found it…endearing, I suppose. That you felt it necessary to do that for me."

"Endearing." I can't keep the monotone sarcasm out of my voice.

"Or…or something." There's an element to her voice now that I can't place. An emotion she's hiding.

"Story, I'm sorry about all the—the groping. It's not on purpose."

"I know. It's okay." A short, sharp pause. "There was some lingering, though."