Page 98 of Problematic Summer Romance

“Last night you made me come, and I didn’t even wake up to your customary ‘It was a mistake’ note.” I pout. “I thought it was our thing.”

It’s a joke. A funny one, I would argue. But his eyes turn laser-focused. “Do you regret—”

“No,” I say forcefully. Shaking my head, I swim back toward the edge until my feet find solid ground. I sit on the rock and lean back, watching Conornottrust me about my own fucking inner life.

“If you don’t want to—”

“Conor, please.” I meet his gaze with a steady, amused expression. “I know it’s asking for a lot, but do me the favor of not explainingmyconsent to me.” His eyes shift skyward, but he comes back up, too. The water barely laps at his upper thighs. “I like you, this way,” I tease.

“What way?”

I point at his body. The shorts plastered to his skin. The thick outline against the cotton. “When you can’t hide that you want me.”

“I always want you, Maya. And I’ve never been good at hiding it.”

My toes curl against the stone. “Most people, including your closest friends, have no idea,” I say, remembering what Minami told me last night.

His snort echoes against the walls.

“Then again,” I continue, “you’ve been giving them what theywantedto see for a long while, haven’t you?” I lean back. Cross my legs. For the first time since we stepped on the island, I glance down at myself. He really does have an excellent view of my tits. And of everything else. “Do you really think that I’m a childish brat?”

He winces, as though the conversation we had on the first day has been an ugly, achy thorn for him, too. “I think you’re impatient. I think you can be ruthless when it comes to getting what you want. And given the hand you have been dealt, you have every right to be.” He wets his lips. “I don’t think you’re childish. And even if you were…You’re young. You have so much room to grow. And…” A long, long pause. “It doesn’t matter, Maya. Because I like you the way you are.”

I smile. “It’s nice, when you let yourself treat me like I’m an adult woman.”

He works his jaw, like he’s debating something inside his thick, unyielding skull. “I like it, too,” he says at last, kneeling in front of me. The lower half of his body is submerged. “It’s my favorite thing in the world.”

“What is?” I exhale. Let him unfold my legs like I’m a doll and pick a position for me. “Acknowledging biographical truths?”

He shakes his head. Leans down, and I’m dizzy. I can’t think when his tongue does that—licking droplets of saltwater off my skin, finding a pebbled nipple through the see-through lace. “Pretending. That this could work.God, Maya.”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t touch you.”

My hand finds his cheek. “I thought your weird little security blanket of a rule was that you could touchme, and I couldn’t touchyou.”

“Fucking hell.” His breath comes fast, loud even over the patter of the rain. I feel his forehead against my belly. “Like I said,” he mumbles, bending my knee, pushing my leg up. “I was a goddamned saint for three years. I had it down. I knew exactly how to avoid you.”

I run my fingers through his hair. Watch him look down at me. The way the fabric adheres to every inch of my cunt. He can’t see me yet, but hecan. “Did you consider not coming to the wedding?” I ask.

“You know I did.” His hands find my inner thighs, splay me open so wide, my muscles groan. He yanks my underwear to the side, none too gently. It bunches there, slick, right next to my bare slit, and…

I hadn’t shaved inmonthsbefore this trip. I did before coming here, simply because I knew I’d be wearing bikinis, and I’m glad of it now. I doubt Conor would care either way, but I love feeling every pass of his tongue, every little movement as he nibbles and teases andeats.

He’s notniceabout it. Other guys have done this to me, and they weren’t bad by any means. But there was a daintiness to it, delicate licks, ghostlike touches. Conor groans. Conor sucks. Conor clutches and bites and swears. Conor looks, while eating me out, like other men do while I go down on them.

“Please,” I gasp, not asking him for anything except to continue. He’s relentless and ruthless. He can’t read my mind, nor does he skip the awkward phase of figuring out what to do. He does, however, shorten it to just a handful of trials.

Quick learner, and all that. All those years in academia.

“I–yes, there.” I writhe. Squirm against the rock even as it scrapes the skin off my back. Lift my hips right off the ground to meet his mouth. The sounds he tears out of me echo through the cave, but I’m long past shame.

“Fuck,” he says, and then he repeats it when I contract around the first knuckle of his thumb with a rush of heat. It slips inside me quickly, and my cunt squeezes it in, asking for more, and—“Fuck,”he says again, low and drawn out, and I wish I could tell him, show him how good this feels, but my orgasm shoots up my spine and wraps around my vocal cords. There is not enough air in the world. My body is made of snapping tension and loose pleasure and nothing else. This is how people die and still ask for more.

“Conor,” I gasp after a while. Above me, little stalactites drip from the ceiling. “You…”

I fall silent, because he does it all over again, with my fingers pulling at his hair and my heels shoving into the muscles in his back. His nose rubs against my clit and he licks me clean only to make me convulse again, and there is no scrabbling away from this pleasure, not until he lets out a low, barely stifled growl against my inner thigh, and decides that I’m free to go.

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