Page 64 of The Beach Trap

Noah throws his head back, his laughter ringing in the night air. “God, I hope so. Why haven’t we yet?”

I’m too relieved—and excited—to feel embarrassed about being so forward. “Not here,” I say quickly. Nobody wants saltwater rashes inthoseareas. “And the dog’s in the casita. I don’t want an audience.”

His eyes dance with mischief. “Luckily we have access to a very fancy, very empty beach house.”

I grin. “Race you there.”

A few minutes later—after rinsing off in the outdoor shower,then wrapping up in dry towels—we’re rushing into the Rooneys’ dark, empty house. All my previous bravado has worn off and my stomach is fluttering with nerves. Still, I have no intention of stopping.

Noah pulls me into the first bedroom and his mouth is immediately on mine again, his hands cupping my face. His towel falls in a heap to the floor and my brain almost misfires:Noah is kissing me and he’s wearing nothing but a soaking-wet pair of boxer briefs.

I want him so badly it aches. My towel is still wrapped around me, and I take a deep breath and drop it. Noah steps back and watches, wide-eyed, as I reach behind me and unhook my wet bra, letting it fall to the floor.

He stares for several seconds. “Gorgeous,” he finally says. “You’re gorgeous.”

A beam of moonlight through the window casts silvery shadows on his torso—shoulders, chest, abs—and the trail of darker hair that disappears into his waistband. Lust pools in my belly as my gaze snags on what’s going on below that waistband.

“Ma’am,” he says, “my eyes are up here.”

I force myself to look up at his face and say, “I’d like to apologize in advance for objectifying the hell out of you tonight.”

“Back at you.” His face breaks into a smile and he scoops me up, making me laugh. I wrap my legs around his waist as he walks us over to the bed.

“New rule,” I say, running my hands down his shoulders. “Shirtless gardening from now on.”

“Only if there’s shirtless housekeeping, too.” He tosses me gently on the mattress, then crawls over me until he’s caging me in with his arms, gazing down at me.

He’s hardly touching me, but this direct eye contact is intense, intimate. In the past, my mind has sometimes wanderedduring sex, but there’s no chance of that happening now. I am locked into this moment, hyperaware of every detail: the slight hitch in his breath, the laugh lines around his eyes, the damp heat of his skin inches away from mine.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this with you since we watchedJurassic Park,” he says, still holding my gaze. “Every night. During the day, too. It’s been torture. Absolutetorture.”

It’s such a relief, hearing those words. “I thought maybe I scared you off.”

“Definitely not,” he says, and then finally he breaks eye contact and kisses my mouth, my jaw, my neck. Warm and wet and hungry. “I couldn’t wait to get back. I was hoping you’d want to do this.”

“I really, really want to do this,” I say, not even caring how needy I sound. He’s touching me everywhere—my breasts, my waist, my hips—and I arch my back and close my eyes and let myself drown in the sensations. My entire existence narrows to this and nothing else: Noah’s mouth and hands on my body, his low voice asking if I like what he’s doing, his soft chuckles of satisfaction when I gasp.

Then all of a sudden he’s gone, the bed rocking as he climbs off.

I sit up, alarmed that he’s leaving. “Wait—what?”

But he hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s standing next to the bed, wrapping his big, warm hands around my thighs. He pulls me toward him. His hands go to the waistband of my underwear. And then he kneels down.

Oh.

“Blake,” he says gently. “Please, may I? I’ve been dying to taste you.”

What can I do but lie back on the bed as he peels my underwear down, let my legs fall open, and take what he wants to give?And holyshit, does he give it to me. His tongue is warm and skilled and infinitely patient, and he keeps going until my eyes roll back in my head and I let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a strangled shout.

When I finally stop shaking, he pulls himself up next to me on the bed. He’s smiling like he just won an Olympic gold medal.

“So smug,” I say, brushing his wet hair back from his forehead. I’m floating, feeling boneless and tingly. But then I glance down at his boxer briefs, and I want more. “Take those off,” I say, pointing.

“So bossy. Hang on one second.” Leaning away, he opens the nightstand drawer and rummages around for a few seconds before pulling out a condom.

“You’re lucky those were in there,” I say, relieved—my brain is so scrambled right now that I haven’t given one thought to protection.

“Damn lucky,” he says, but he’s looking at me, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

---