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I fold my sarong into a neat square and set it down on my chair.
Only then do I realize I forgot to grab sunscreen.
I glance up, and Noah waves a little tube of SPF 30 at me. Apparently, he came prepared.
“Need some?”
I nod and hold my hand out to take the bottle from him, but he points to the chair as if he wants me to take a seat.
“You can do mine after,” he suggests, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
We’ll just be two single adults, lathering each other up accompanied by the sound of waves breaking in the distance. It’s basically an ad for The Bachelor.
Still, I don’t want to make it seem like I can’t handle him slapping some sunscreen onto my back, so I sit like he urges and then hold perfectly still as he situates himself behind me.
I have about one inch of my butt cheek on the chair, barely perched on the edge so that I’m mostly holding myself up by my straining quad muscles.
Noah realizes and reaches out to grab my waist, tugging me back in between his thighs.
I’m nestled against him and a girlish whimper escapes my lips before I can clap a hand over my mouth. I clear my throat to cover it up, and thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
I listen as he pops the lid of the sunscreen and then rubs his hands together, warming up the lotion before he starts to apply it to my shoulders.
His hands are big and practiced. He’s not a brute about it, careful to work the sunscreen up my neck and underneath the strings of my bikini. I let my head loll forward just a bit as his palms slide farther down my back. He gets more lotion and then his hands skim down my spine and back up the sides of my chest. His fingers get dangerously close to the outer edges of my breasts, but I don’t say a word. In fact, I take my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from embarrassing myself again.
“You’ll fry out here if you’re not careful,” he warns. “The sun’s a lot stronger than it is in Boston.”
“I know.”
My body hums as his hands skate down my back to the edge of my bikini bottoms. His fingers carefully rub in the lotion there, brushing just below the material in case it shifts around while I’m swimming.
“I’m trying not to miss any spots,” he tells me, and I swear there’s a new huskiness to his tone.
Noah has never touched me like this. Never have his hands been on my bare skin beyond a simple handshake or high five.
I’m dying.
I want to bite down on something, squeeze my thighs shut, sequester myself in my room, and replay every aching second of this experience.
I’m sad when he finishes, and it actually takes me a moment to realize he’s holding the tube of sunscreen over my shoulder so I can take it and finish putting lotion on the front of my body.
Then, we switch spots.
Noah sits down on the edge of the beach chair and I sit down behind him.
For a little while, I just take him in, as if I’m surveying how best to approach my job of lathering him up. My eyes skate along the curve of his neck and strong shoulders, then down his muscled back.
“You good back there?” he teases, cocking one brow up when he glances back to inspect me.
“Turn around. I was about to start,” I chide, squirting some sunscreen into my hand quickly and starting to work it into his shoulders. He’s a big guy. It takes me a while to cover every inch of his back and shoulders and neck. And sure, maybe I take my sweet time.
“Your hands feel good,” he tells me, rolling his neck forward. “I almost don’t want you to stop.”
I swallow the urge to squeal and instead recommend that he get a massage while we’re here.
“I’ve heard they’re really good, and you can request that they come right to your room.”
He hums in interest. “Will you do it with me? I’d feel weird doing it by myself.”
“Oh…I mean, sure. I guess.”
“I’ll organize it when we get back to the villa.”
Should we be doing that sort of thing? A couples massage? It sounds intimate, but then I have nothing to compare it to; I’ve never had one before. Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. It’s not like we’ll be alone—there’ll be masseuses in the room too.
“All right,” I say, wiping the last bit of sunscreen onto the bottom of his back.
I’m done.
He groans as if in disappointment and then stretches up and off the beach chair. “Fine. Then c’mon, let’s go in the water.”
“We should sit for a second and let it soak in.”
