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“Sky…” He attempts to push his hand back under my shirt.
Wriggling away from him, I place my hand over his tenting board shorts. “You’ll have to wait,” I whisper.
Dylan closes his eyes and rubs his lips together. “Don’t tease me.”
“I want to see the island. Show me around.”
“There are four beaches,” he says. “And a lot of trees. That’s about it.” He grasps my hair and attempts to pull me closer.
“Dylan.”
He rests his head against mine. “Fuck. Okay then.”
I stand, extricating his hand from my hair. “I’ll change. Maybe we can look for shells?”
“Shells? Seriously?” he asks in a low voice, watching me with darkened eyes.
As I walk into the bedroom and pick up my bag, Dylan calls after me, “Feel free to throw your knickers around the room.”
“Ha ha, your wit and originality astound me,” I call back.
He doesn’t stay away long, enfolding me in his arms as he approaches from behind. He nudges my ear. “Start with the ones you’re wearing.”
I slap at his hands, fighting down a giggle. “Dylan Morgan!”
Despite his best attempts to remove said underwear, I stop him. He wanders off muttering and I sigh, and sit on the bed. Then I catch sight of the view.
Wow.
At the foot of the bed, the wooden floor leads to matching dark wood double doors which open onto a beach. I shake my head, as if to dislodge the hallucination. A warm tropical breeze flows through the doors and the fan whirs overhead and the ocean laps the sand a few hundred metres away.
I’m exhausted after the last-minute overnight plane trip and the vomit-inducing boat ride, and I have the spaced-out feeling that can only lead to one thing. I lie back on the cool sheets, bury my head into the pile of the softest pillows and drift off to sleep, unaware of Dylan until he climbs on the bed and spoons against me, head buried into my neck.
* * *
I wake up late afternoon,the silence strange after months back in the suburbs. Dylan isn’t around so I pad across the floor toward the kitchen, half-expecting to find him cooking. A door leads from the kitchen to a paved terrace beneath a palm pagoda and Dylan reclines on a lounger in just a pair of green board shorts.
“Tell me this isn’t real,” I say as I cross toward him.
He opens his eyes and sits forward. Shirtless, the curve of his abs barely move as he shifts position and I attempt to look away. But he’s amazing and deserves to be looked at frequently. And licked. I rub my lips together.
“Why wouldn’t you want this to be real?” he asks.
“I don’t mind, everything just feels unreal.”
“‘Don’t mind’. I bring you to a tropical paradise and you’re ‘meh, I don’t mind.’” He shrugs, teasing me.
I push his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
Dylan catches my hand and kisses the palm. “What do you normally do on Christmas Eve?”
“Christmas Eve? Oh. I forgot. Quite often sit in a traffic jam and wish I’d left to get to Grant’s parents sooner.”
I catch something in the way Dylan’s cheek muscle twitches and looks at my hand, rubbing the back. Is he jealous of Grant? “How about you?”
“Not much. Go out, get drunk, and go back to wherever I’m staying. Rinse and repeat.” Dylan rubs his hand along my arm. “We can’t eat fish and chips on the beach tonight but I can still make us something.”
“Not noodles, I hope? I told you that’s an awkward thing to eat on dates.”
