Page 61 of Every Heartbeat After

He goes on like I haven’t spoken, still zeroed in on my mouth. “But if I stripped you bare and took you right here on this beach, I bet that’ddrive youcrazy.”

My heart soars into my throat. Every bit of pent-up tension coils tightly in my abdomen, begging for release. There’s sand everywhere, people with balconies not even a hundred yards from where we lie, yet even with all these impracticalities, I find myself picturing it. Wearing nothing but moonlight while I finally figure out what it feels like to have Kit Llewellyn inside me.

I swallow hard, blinking away the image even as heat grows in intensity between my thighs. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The corner of his mouth tips into shadow. “You said that already.”

He starts tickling my side, and the sound that escapes me is somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. But that’s impossible, because his hands are currently occupied with pinning mine on either side of my head. The tickling sensation intensifies and moves, climbing the lattice of one exposed rib and disappearing when it reaches my bandeau. I glance down, and Kit does too. There, in the small space he’s left between our chests, a tiny crab has paused to stare at me. Or us. I can never tell what direction their eyes are pointed.

Kit shifts his weight slowly, backing onto his knees and releasing my hands.

“Be gentle,” I whisper.

“Always am.” The words are dark and double-edged, implying a second meaning that I can’t help but ponder at, though I get the feeling I’ll find out for myself soon enough.

His hand brushes my breast as he sweeps up the little crab, causing me to ache in more ways than one. He brings it close to take a better look, and from my vantage point, I see both the cradle of his strong hands and the impossibly beautiful smile that breaks up the shadows on his face.

“Hi, little guy,” he coos. “You just made me the luckiest man on earth, you know that?” His gaze flickers from the crab to me, and he quirks a brow. “So, can we cross crab hunting off the list?”

I swallow hard and nod, feeling sand bury itself farther in my hair. “I’d say so.”

“Good.” He lowers the crab into the sand on my right and releases it to scurry free. Then he begins to rise, offering a hand that I gladly accept. We both make it upright while I imagine that little crab running for its life somewhere in the dark.

I sweep a hand over my body. “I’m covered in sand.”

“You won’t be in a second.” He gathers the bucket, the flashlight, and finally, my hand, then starts toward the wooden walkway leading back to the Carmen.

Our footsteps thud over weather-worn wood, still warm though the sun set hours ago. Light from the pool deck spills down the path, stopping just a few feet short of the outcrop where several showerheads were installed for rinsing off before returning to the resort. Kit sets our bucket on the railing, then clicks off the flashlight and sets it inside the container. He kicks off his shoes and turns to me. “Anything you don’t want getting wet, you better take it off right now.”

He says it wickedly. Teasingly. I quickly unbutton my jean shorts and lower them to the ground, revealing bikini bottoms beneath. My bandeau top is white and will be made see-through the moment it gets wet, but I don’t have any alternatives, so I leave it in place. Kit’s eyes glitter in the near-darkness as he takes me in, a guttural sound vibrating his throat. He strips his shirt off and shucks his flip-flops, leaving him bare-chested in a pair of board shorts with no more than a five-inch inseam.

He really is beautiful. My eyes have adjusted to the shadows, and despite them, I can make out the lines of muscle and sinew carving out his abdomen. Broad shoulders swell into firm biceps, then hollow out to form valleys between the corded veins of his forearms. My gaze drops to his legs, and the taut thighs that fill out the hem of his shorts. Every hour spent running, training, whatever else it is he does to stay in shape for his job—it has paid off. Royally.

The pipes squeal as he turns the faucet on. Lukewarm water spews from the overhead spout. Kit pulls me beneath the spray, instantly dousing us both. His hands roam my skin under the guise of wiping off sand, but I know better. He palms my ass. Cups my breasts through my top. Turns me toward him and pulls me in close to stroke my spine.

His hands are warm everywhere they touch me. I find myself craving the rasp of his fingertips, arching into it like a cat seeking affection.

“Feeling clean yet?” he whispers against my hair.

“Mm,” I hum. “I think you might’ve missed a spot.”

He pulls back enough to lock eyes with me. “And where’s that?”

I turn, aligning my back with the hard ridges of his muscular chest. He’s facing away from the resort, which leaves me blanketed in his shadow. With my gaze trained on the dark, undulating ocean, I grab his hand and guide it over my abdomen, to the seam of my bottoms, then slip it beneath. How long have I imagined this moment? How it would feel? Countless times, even when I knew I shouldn’t. But I never could’ve imagined the delicious scrape of his calluses brushing my sensitive skin. I sigh at the sensation, letting my head loll as his hand dips lower of its own accord.

His fingertips brush my throbbing clit, drawing a shocked gasp from my lungs. His hips surge forward as though on instinct, pressing the hard ridge of his desire into the hollow at the base of my spine. “Fuck.”

He delves lower, spreading me to test my desire. I’m soaked. I don’t need to touch myself to know it. He strokes my wetness, coating his fingers, then plunges into my aching core. First one finger, then two. I bite my lip to swallow my cry. So good. He feels so good. Even like this, which is nothing compared to what I want from him. But he handles me perfectly, curling his fingers to stroke me in a steady rhythm, drawing me to an edge I hadn’t even realized was so close.

Straddling his hand, I rest my head against his collarbone and groan his name as loud as I dare. “Oh God, Kit.”

“You’re so wet for me, gorgeous. So ready.”

And I am. Because for all my teasing, I probably want this even more than he does. So I surrender myself to the feeling of his fingers sinking into my aching core. Every nerve ending in my body is a live wire. From the warmth of his hard palm against my hip to the rivulets of water spilling over my pebbled skin to his breath, hot and quick as it brushes my throat. It stokes the flame higher. Demands my attention. I forget my surroundings and lose myself in him, riding his hand the way I want to ride the man attached to it, biting my bottom lip so hard I’m certain it’ll bleed. In a matter of seconds, any worry that someone will see is lost to the feeling building in my belly, like a wave of pleasure surging toward a break.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Tess. Taking your pleasure. Are you going to come for me, baby? Right here, where anyone could see. Are you going to fuck yourself on my hand until you scream?”

His words are as tantalizing as his touch. I soak in every sensation: The hard press of his palm against my throbbing clit. The burning heat of his other hand moving to grip my breast and pinch my nipple through the thin fabric of my bandeau top. And finally, the whisper of my name against the hollow behind my ear that sends me skyward, exploding like it’s the Fourth of July and I’m the show everyone came to see.

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