Page 92 of Second Tide's the Charm
Her skin is warm but pebbled with goose bumps. At my touch, a shiver runs through her. “Cold?”
She hooks her fingers into my belt loops. “Hot.”
The word shatters my restraint and I tip her chin up with my knuckle and claim her mouth. Her hand grips my waist, bunching my shirt. We’re not holding back any longer, no doubts between us as our mouths slant against one another. Three years we missed. Three years of not touching her, holding her.
Her fingers clasp my shoulders, holding on like we’re at sea and not moored in the marina. Dizziness blurs my vision, a sailor in no want of shore or shelter, content to drown in the swells of her curves. Hopeless. That’s what I am. Lost for this woman.
Whatever time we have together, I’m determined to spend it showing this woman how much I love her. My Hope. My shelter from the storm.
thirty-eight
hope
Never ever did I expect to experience a kiss like this again. I wouldn’t be surprised to look overboard and find the water steaming. Adrian’s lips are fire, leaving a trail of smoky sweetness in their wake. When we leave, he’ll have to swing me over his shoulder and carry me, because no way could I stand on my own two feet right now, and I’m not mad about it.
By unspoken agreement, we slowed our pace, living in this moment, unable to stop tasting one another, teasing one another, drawing out the sensation. There’s an exquisite sweetness to kissing him. I revel in all the textures of us—the warmth of his hands, the firmness of his hands on my body, even as I tremble beneath his touch like ripples on a tide pool. Moving by touch, I feel fabric give way to skin as I trail my fingers along his waist, emboldened by the hiss as he sucks air between his teeth, eyes pinched tight, when my fingers lock in his belt loops to tug him close against me.
“Hope.”
I kiss him, closemouthed, our lips soft.
“Hope—” he pulls the barest inch away, speaking against my lips “—you’re killing me.”
I’m loving him, is what I’m doing. For three years I held back, and these past weeks apart were torture. Placing a hand on his chest, I splay my fingers, feeling his heartbeat under my palm. My other hand rises to cup his shoulder, sliding down to the swell of his biceps.
“Your body has changed so much, but not here,” I say, pressing a thumb to his full bottom lip.
He laughs, his beard brushing my knuckles, and goose bumps spread across my skin. I love the warmth of him. The immediacy of his presence.
“I love how you’ve stayed the same. Still so soft.” He cradles my jaw and kisses me. “Gorgeous as ever.” My eyes fall closed, but I can feel all his attention on me. Our kisses are languid, water droplets sliding down a glass bottle on a summer-hot porch.
Our kisses are flames in a fireplace, turning snow drops to steam on a winter evening. Our kisses gain speed, the rushing of a storm-swollen creek in spring, the breath-stealing bite of wind while cruising on the open water. My chest is tight with want and need and something deeper—love. A feeling I’m not scared to name. Not afraid to fight for.
My fingers slide up to his nape and into the twists of his hair, rooting him in place, guiding him, angling our kiss deeper. His tongue is a hot sweep against mine, his hands are on my waist now, holding me tight.
The hum of a motor churns in the darkness, and we pull apart, shielding our eyes from the bright lights entering the marina.
I scrape an unsteady hand over my head, reaching for my hair tie, but my wrist is bare.
“Use mine,” Adrian says, handing it to me.
Once I’ve pulled my curls into a bun, he holds my hand as we climb off the boat, mosquito bites that I hadn’t noticed before pricking my legs. I pause to bend down and itch them, and he waits, never letting go of my other hand.
“I talked to my sister.”
“Okay.” I drag out the word, because after all the revelations of the last few days, this doesn’t feel exactly noteworthy. “How is she?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t ask. But good, I assume.”
I would comment on this, but she probably didn’t ask how he was, either. Pleasantries are inconsequential in the Hollis-Parker household. “What did you talk about?”
“About whether I’ll be failing if I decided not to seek tenure. If it would be viable to pursue the channel long-term and work as an adjunct professor.” He looks over at me as we walk slowly between the moored boats, their shapes indistinct beyond the darkness of the dock lights. “Basically, I wanted her to sign off on it. Tell me I could open myself up to change, and things wouldn’t end badly.”
“What did she say?”
“That I always do my homework, and this is no different.” He laughs quietly. “She told me to trust my own judgment. That it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”
“That must’ve been good to hear.”
