Page 55 of Hearts on the Line

I throw down my shirt once I step inside and hold my chin up high, even as my hands tremble. Ethan strides in, shuts the door, then closes the space between us. He cups my face in his hands and draws my mouth up to kiss him, and I whimper at how perfect it is.

No anger or frustration. This feels like we have time, and I melt against him until he scoops me up and places me on the kitchen island.

RIP, Sloane Arden. Died dead by a grumpy lobsterman who can kiss like his life depends on it.

“What do you want?” he whispers, his lips barely brushing over mine.

The only chorus echoing around in my head is you, you, you.

I feel myself standing on the edge of another bad idea. I’ve worked so hard to be good, to do what’s expected of me, but since I left Jason, there’s a side of me that keeps spilling out and messing everything up. And I think I like this version of me best.

I press my lips against his because I’m desperate not to be so far away.

Kissing Ethan is like coming home. It doesn’t make sense to me. But I know I want more. I want him.

So I lean closer, tracing my tongue against the seam of his mouth, begging him to let me in. His skin is warm against my palm, the stubble on his cheeks scratchy. His hand hooks around the elastic of my shorts and drags me against him. My core collides with his waist, and the two of us groan as our kiss deepens. I wrap my legs around his waist, then pull away for a minute, knowing that what happens next will change everything.

“You okay?” he asks, catching his breath. His hazel eyes are wild, nearly feral for me.

I have to swallow to find my words lodged somewhere deep. It’s hard to locate them, not because I’m scared, but because it’s been years since I gave voice to what I want.

The last time changed my life.

And I’m so afraid tonight will too.

I nod before peppering kisses against his cheeks, temple, and jaw, raking my hands back into his hair. Something has slipped, and whatever control I had with Ethan is gone. I don’t want it back.

“Don’t stop,” I sigh.

He lifts me from the counter and walks us into his bedroom, where he tosses me down onto his bed. He reaches for his wet T-shirt hem and rips it up over his head as I lie there and gaze up at him.

I prop myself up on my elbows, my heart hammering in my chest.

“You need to tell me what you want,” he says, his voice a low growl.

“You.” The word tumbles out so quickly before I can think of anything else. I feel the heat on my cheeks at my admission.

“Fuck, Sunny.” He rakes his hand through his hair and pulls his eyes off me for a moment, clearly caught in his head, and I don’t know what else to say.

That’s when I see the tattoo on his rib cage by his heart.

I push up to my knees, and our eyes meet before he closes his as if I hurt him.

“Show me,” I say, my voice rough.

He waits for a minute before creeping closer to the foot of the bed.

I crawl to him over the mattress, well aware of the rough sound in the back of his throat before he says, “You’re crawling to me?”

The disbelief in that question is soft, but the way it makes the edges of my heart hurt is hard to ignore.

I reach my hand out and trace my fingertip over the familiar view etched in black ink. His skin is warm, and my breath skips the same jagged beat of his slow inhale. Under my finger is the view from our favorite spot on the beach between our houses, looking out to the lighthouse and the ocean. The lines stop, but I can draw the rest from memory. My house is just out of frame.

“Why?” I ask.

It’s such a stupid question. And for all the heat that just erupted between us, this quiets everything down, and suddenly my head is too loud. I think I liked it better when he was kissing me. That felt safer. This feels…

“It’s just a lighthouse.”