Page 62 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

“Does your music have to be so loud?”

“It does when I’m trying to distract myself,” he says.

“Have you heard of headphones?”

“Then I couldn’t hear the ocean.”

“It’s not the ocean. It’s the gulf,” I say.

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. You’re a sailor. Doesn’t it mean something to you? What if I called your boat a canoe?”

He stands and narrows his eyes. “Don’t ever call her a canoe.”

“It’s basically a life raft.”

I can’t quite tell if he’s annoyed with me or if he’s playing our game. I can’t imagine he would be upset with me. But I don’t know him well enough. I need more.

He turns and heads into his house.

I follow. This is a game. He wants to yell at me and maybe he realizes he can’t yell in public. Or at least as public as our yards are, where sound carries over the waves. All the houses around us are rented out and I can smell something cooking on a grill nearby.

“You can’t just come in here,” he says.

“Fine, I’ll leave.” I turn. If I can’t figure out what’s happening, then I won’t play. Not when I don’t know the rules.

They changed when we slept together the other night. We agreed it’s temporary. We did it before and had a friendshipafterward and we can go right back to where we were. That was the point: we got it out of our system.

He’s not out of my system.

But I can’t tell him. Not now and maybe not ever. Not when it’s admitting a weakness.

“No, wait.” I catch a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Something inside me breaks. This has always been about me—he’s always been the strong one. I don’t know how to be if he isn’t strong. Something was off with him the other day too. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t even ask.

Fuck, I’m so selfish with him.

My back is to the door as he strides toward me. He places his hand on the door above my head. As if that little bit of resistance traps me in the house.

I trust him. If I want out, I can get out.

He’s not even touching me. I feel the heat off his body and his breath on my neck. I feel him everywhere, and the memory of his skin on mine goes straight between my legs.

If he asks what I’m thinking about, I’ll deny it. We’d both know I’m lying.

Of course I’m not wearing underwear, and I feel myself getting ridiculously wet.

I know where this is headed for him. What he needs.

Am I ready to give it to him, knowing I’m in too deep to be a fling?

I lift my face to his. His brown eyes pierce mine, and I do what I can to make myself smaller. He needs me, and I’m too willing to give myself to him.

This will dissipate for him. Our passion will become remnants. While I don’t know how not to be caught up in him.

“You can’t keep ordering me around,” I say.

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