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“All the cases you could be arguing in court. Isn’t this so much better?”
“Still not what I do most days,” he says, “but I take your point. What about you? Do you miss telling off unruly little kids for running with scissors?”
“That almost never happens.”
“Almost isn’t never.”
“No,” I say with a chuckle, “it’s not.”
Phillip’s eyes dip briefly to my lips. My breathing grows shallow, nerves erupting pleasurably in my stomach.
“We could do something to pass the time,” I say.
“Hmm. Any ideas?” He’s closer than he was when we sat down. Have I moved? Has he?
“Um, there’s a lot of sand. We could build a sandcastle?”
“We could,” he says. “But I haven’t done that in twenty years.”
“We’d probably disrupt the turtles, too.”
“Yes, and we can’t have that,” he says.
“No. Conservation is… important.”
“Mm-hmm.” He’s close enough that I feel his warm exhale against my cheek. “Staying put is a safer bet.”
“Yes. Much.”
There’s a second, and then another, of tantalizing closeness. The almost-before-it-becomes-a-certainty, when anticipation is a physical weight in my chest.
Then, our lips touch.
He tastes like fresh coffee and rum, and I close my eyes against the nearness. It’s foreign and not quite right, but then he tilts his head, and all of a sudden, we fit. His lips move steadily on mine.
Like he’s thought about kissing me before.
Energy runs in a current down my spine, and the sound of waves and other volunteers talking have turned down to mute.
My hand finds his shoulder, right where it meets his neck.
“Come here,” he says hoarsely and turns toward me fully. An arm around my waist pulls me in closer, and then we’re kissing again. The fit is even better now, with his chest against mine.
He runs a hand along my back, and I shiver at the too-light, teasing touch. My nerves feel electrified, and my skin’s too thin, as if I’m feeling the world too strongly.
His tongue brushes over my lower lip, and then he’s there, too, the kiss deepening. I can hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
Of course, he’s good at this.
His hand brushes over my cheek and settles in my hair, holding my face still. And if he’s allowed touching, then I am, too, and my hand moves from his neck to his hair.
The short strands are thick and slightly roughened by sea and sun, and I twine my fingers through them. My nails accidentally scrape against his scalp.
He groans against my mouth, and the sound tightens something in my stomach.
“Fuck, Eden,” he murmurs against my lips. The hand on my back tugs me closer. “If I’d known…”
I chuckle and press my lips to his again. I’m not done. Not done with the warmth, the closeness, with the not-thinking.
