Page 18 of Hula Girl

I never would have thought this part of my body would be an erogenous zone, but his touch is sparking little fires on my skin, especially when he trails his fingers along the back of my knee and then in between my lower thighs. Letting my hand fall to his hair, I suppress a whimper of pleasure as his hand glides upward. He’s no longer gentle, though, as he squeezes my inner thigh with urgency before grazing his fingers against the increasingly needy spot between my legs. I close my eyes and surrender to his touch, to the way he teases me by tracing the strap of my thong and caresses my backside in a way that tells me he’s having a hard time restraining himself. At the same time, he’s pressing his lips to my thigh with slow, lingering, reverential kisses.

Just when I think my legs might give out, overwhelmed by the stimulation he’s generating, he pulls away. Standing, he slides his hand along the side of my neck, his fingers in my hair, and takes my mouth in his. It’s a commanding, confident move that makes me moan at the exact moment our parted lips meet and our tongues tangle, desperate to taste each other. He pulls my body to his with such unexpected force that my breath leaves me, and I have to break our kiss.

I look at him and he looks apologetic, as if he just can’t help himself, that having me in his arms somehow isn’t close enough. I can’t lie—being desired this intensely is a total turn-on.

I reach up and grab him by the back of his head to pull him to me once more. Once more into a kiss so deep, so full of need and want, that I can’t imagine how we’ll ever satisfy each other. But I’m open to trying, that’s for sure.

And so is he, by the feel of it. He’s hard and pressing insistently against me.

“My place is just up the beach here,” he murmurs as he plants kisses under my ear and along my neck.

I nod vigorously and suddenly he’s got my hand in his again and is pulling me along the shore in strides suited to his long legs, but which makes me struggle to keep up.

“Wait,” I say, and he stops abruptly. I take a deep breath and then hold out my free hand. “I need a drink after that.”

Smiling, he releases my hand, so he can remove the top of the tequila bottle we took from the restaurant.

“Sorry, no glass,” he says.

Raising the bottle, he tips it to my lips, easing the liquid into my mouth so that only a dribble spills onto my bottom lip. He doesn’t let that get too far, though, as he leans down and presses his lips to mine, sucking gently at the spot where the alcohol escaped.

God, he’s good.

“Where did you come from, Hula Girl?” he asks as if I’m the one to have weakened his knees and not the other way around.

I can only smile at him. After a quick swig for himself, he takes my hand once more and we’re walking briskly over the cool sand.

There’s nothing but beach from my viewpoint. It’s water to our left and deepening vegetation and the road beyond that to our right. I can’t imagine where his place could be. But after a few more minutes of walking, he pulls me to the right. Before I can ask where we’re going, I see an opening in the trees and bushes. It’s a little hut almost entirely tucked away from view. Glancing backward, I notice that the entry to the water here is particularly rocky, meaning that tourists probably don’t frequent this beach and making for a perfect hideaway.

Reaching behind the overgrowth of bushes by the front door, Surfer Boy releases some unseen catch and the door edges open.

He turns to me with a grin, saying, “Shhh.”

“Who am I going to tell?” I reply with a laugh, looking around at the barren beach.

When he flips a switch inside, I see that “his place” is no more than a one-room shack that looks like a strong breeze could knock it over. The lights aren’t a central overhead unit but rather a string of small multi-colored globes, each wrapped with twine to look like fishing net. Those, along with the five or six surfboards leaning against the walls, give the hut a charming beach chic vibe. There are stacks of books on the floor, an acoustic guitar propped in a stand, and a skateboard next to it. The central feature of the space is the queen-sized bed, sparsely covered by a navy-blue sheet and a single pillow, telling me Surfer Boy really is all about the basics.

He scrambles to straighten out the sheet, then pats the end of the bed.

“Have a seat,” he says. “I’ve got glasses for that tequila.”

I watch as he goes to a countertop along one wall that seems to serve as his kitchen. Underneath is a mini-fridge and open shelving with a few boxes of crackers, cereal, assorted condiments, and a handful of plates, bowls, and glasses. On top is a hot plate and a coffee maker.

“So, this is where you take the ladies to wow ’em,” I say as he hands me a tumbler too full of tequila.

Sitting next to me, he laughs and spreads his free arm out to showcase the place. “Impressed?”

“Is this really where you live? Or is this more like a crash pad?”

“I really live here, Hula Girl.” He takes a big sip from his glass. “Now, about those moves you were going to show me—”

Laughing, I say, “Oh no. I’m going to have to finish this obscenely large glass of tequila before I’m up for that.”

He knocks his glass against mine. “Cheers to that.”

But before I can take a drink, he does that thing again where he slides his hand into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me confidently, possessively, into him for a kiss. Though his kiss is what I want, I’ve accidentally sloshed some tequila out of my glass and onto my leg. I’m ready to ignore it, but he looks down and sees the liquid slowly rolling over my upper thigh.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs with a mischievous gleam in his eye, “we can’t let this go to waste.”

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