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Her tits rise in pale arcs above her bodice.
The flicker of her pulse against the thin skin of her throat.
The way I feel her hips so close to mine, our clothing not nearly thick enough to mask that raw heat.
The sound is freezing right now.
And I can’t feel a damned thing but fire.
My fingers clench convulsively against her back. The dip of her spine glides against my knuckles. She inhales, her smile fading into confusion, her eyes searching mine.
“August?”
I can’t.
But it still kills me to let her go, step back, and take a deep breath of the cutting air to clear my head.
“Apologies,” I deflect. “I was worried you’d fall.”
A lingering look tells me she doesn’t believe me. But she doesn’t press, either, letting her smile return as she steps back, spreading her arms and pretending to wobble. Her dress trails into the shallows, swirling around her gracefully and soaking up to the knees, turning almost fully transparent and offering the silhouette of her slim, enticing legs.
“I might,” she teases, her eyes wide. “Oh no, whatever would happen if I fell into the murky darkness of these treacherous inch-deep waters?”
I roll my eyes, folding my arms. “You’d be very wet, and I’d have to haul you inside before you wound up with hypothermia.”
“Oh no.” She feigns pure drama.
Brat.
She tilts a bit more, and the breeze pulls several locks of hair loose, licking the strawberry-gold strands against her neck.
“I’m losing my balance, Rhett. Whatever shall I do? Someone save me—save me! Where is my brave hero?”
This wretched child.
I’m not laughing.
I’m not.
I’m not smiling either.
That feeling pulling at my mouth is purely phantom.
Imaginary.
And I’m most definitely not uncrossing my arms to sweep my hands through the water. My fingers go numb as I splash her.
“I’m not your hero,” I say. “I’m the kraken, and you’re going under.”
Elle shrieks, bursting into laughter as she dances back. Her movements slow with the drag of her wet dress. Her extremely wet dress, the splatters of water hitting her chest and stomach in splotches that offer tempting views.
Pale skin.
Lacy underthings.
Apparently, I’m the architect of my own doom because it’s damned impossible to look away from her.
“You jerk,” she sputters, tugging where her dress sticks to her skin. “Don’t you dare do that again.”
