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“Swimsuit rules.” She mumbles into my skin, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “If the swimsuit covers it, you don’t.”
Hell if she didn’t just yank all the prime real estate. I groan into her hair, gritting my teeth against the pressure building in places she’s definitely not going to venture. Then lift my hand—and my thumb—from her hip. “Sexy one-piece or skimpy bikini?”
“Bunched-up tankini.” She takes my hand, her touch hesitant, and sets it on her stomach, pushing my palm flat.
My fingers flex over her skin. Game on. I know how to sweet-talk a fine line.
Wrapping myself around her, I try to take my time. Listen to her body language. Let her catch up. Make sure she’s onboard.
My tongue plays her mouth. My hands play her body. My lips play her skin—hanging just outside that no-fly zone, making friends and flirting. And the whole time her groans play with my head. Cranking my speedometer farther and farther into the red.
Swimsuit rules. Swimsuit rules. Swimsuit rules.I pump the brakes before I can’t.
Nothing.
I slam them with images of dead puppies, eviscerated kittens, zombie unicorns. Hardcore, but I’m desperate. Never been this revved and cut the engine.
Still nothing.
I go for the emergency brake, buy a one-way ticket to hell, and picture naked nuns. Dried-up, wrinkly old nuns. With saggy boobs and leathery skin and hairy legs.
Big fat nothing.
Well, shit. I roll off Jess onto my back and put an arm over my face, vibrating like I slammed two Monsters and a Red Bull Chaser, heart beating like an adrenaline junkie.
Next to me, Jess shifts on the mattress. Her breathing’s rough, and her toenails keeping nicking my calf.
I move my arm and turn my head.
Sweat lightly slicks her skin, a flush rides her chest and face, but her eyes—they’re not glazed, they’re glossy. And she won’t look at me.
My stomach turns over. Flipping to my side, I grip her hip and roll her to face me. “I went too far.” My heart slams into my chest while I wait for her to cry or yell. I thought I was paying attention. I stayed on the nice side of the naughty line. I stopped. “I’m sorry. And stupid. And selfish.”
“It’s not that.” She twists her fingers in the bottom of her tank. Then her hair. Presses a hand over her chest in a move that makes me think her heart’s racing as much as mine. “It’s just... I feel like... ” She shakes her head. “Forget it.” She turns over, away from me, bringing her knees into chest.
Oh. Well shit. She’s having trouble pumping her brakes too. I can’t help my smile. Not because she’s suffering, because she’s as hyped up by me as I am by her. I scoot her against my chest, one arm over her waist, the other wrapping across her shoulders. “Right there with you.” And my body keeps no secrets about how much I want her.
She freezes. Tries to squirm away.
“Just ignore it,” I whisper into her hair. Naked nuns. Naked nuns. Naked nuns. I run the chant on a loop. It might be playing the rest of the night.
She slides her head closer to mine on the pillow. “Does this happen to you a lot?”
Before her? Not really. I don’t tell her I never start a race I can’t finish. Not since I was fifteen. “Running helps.” I smooth her hair to the side and place a sweet kiss just under her hairline. “I’ve worn off a lot of tread on my running shoes since I met you.”
“I’m sorry.” She relaxes against me.
“I’m not.” I might need a Siberian shower, but I wouldn’t take back the last hour of getting hot and heavy with my girl.
My girl.It’s beyond hypocritical—it’s also archaic, antiquated, and a bunch of other SAT words no one uses—but knowing I’m the first,the only,guy to touch her, kiss her, paint her in a pretty blush thrills my inner caveboy.
“Gabe?” Voice a little unsure, she moves the arm I have slung over her chest so she can slide her fingers between mine. “What if this happens to us a lot? Because I’m not ready to—”
“I’ll take up cross-country.” I squeeze her hand. “My buff calves and tight ass will thank you.”
“This feeling? It goes away, right?” She stretches her legs and squirms against me again.
“Eventually.” Cue the naked nuns. “I could... fix it for you.” I trail a hand down her stomach. It would be my pleasure to release her... stress. “We don’t need toyou know,” I use her term, “for you to—”
