Page 171 of Wild Then Wed
I shrug, fighting a smirk. “It’s a fair question.”
She groans and sets her cup on the ledge behind her. “Once. And it wasn’t even good sexting. I didn’t know what I was doing. I think I said something about unbuttoning his shirt and then panicked and blocked him.”
I laugh, full-out now. “Unbuttoning his shirt?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s some Fifty Shades level of foreplay right there.”
She lifts her middle finger, but she’s smiling too hard to make it threatening. “It was horrible. I was seventeen and mortified and I’ve never done it since.”
I raise my cup in her direction. “Here’s to personal growth.”
She clinks her drink against mine. “Here’s to never unbuttoning anyone’s shirt ever again.”
She takes a sip of champagne, eyes on the skyline now, but I’m still looking at her.
It’s easy with her.
It’s never awkward, never too much or not enough. She doesn’t fill the silence just to kill it. Doesn’t pretend to be someone she’s not. She just…is. And somehow, that’s more than enough.
Most people try too hard. Wren never does. There’s a kind of peace in that I didn’t realize I missed until I had it again. Until I had her.
She turns back to me with a crooked little grin, her eyes flicking over my bare chest and then up to meet mine. “Truth or dare?”
I let the warmth of the champagne settle in my chest before answering. “Dare.”
That earns a raised brow from her. “Dare?”
“Why not?”
She swirls the last bit of champagne in her cup like she’s thinking it over—probably trying to gauge how far I’ll go. And right now, I’d go pretty much anywhere she told me to. Then she sets the cup down, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “I dare you to whisper your biggest turn-on in my ear.”
I give her a slow smile. “You sure you can handle that?”
Her smirk deepens. “Try me.”
I grin and nod once. “Come here then.”
She sets her cup down, but her fingers linger on it a beat too long, like she’s thinking about it—whatever this is—just long enough to talk herself out of it. But she doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer. Her legs shift through the water until she’s between mine, her knees just barely brushing against my thighs.
That won’t do. Not tonight.
I reach for her. My hands find her waist like they were made to hold her. The dip of her ribs, the flare of her hips—I trace them with my fingers like I want to memorize every single inch of her. She’s so small compared to me, so damn perfect. I don’t ask, don’t hesitate. Just keep dragging her closer until she’s sinking onto my lap.
And then she’s there.
Sitting on me, straddling me, her chest rising faster than it was a minute ago. Her hands find my chest, her fingers splaying across my skin. Her thighs bracket mine beneath the water, and I swear I can feel every place we touch burning straight through me.
Her body is warm and slick, the soft swell of her hips fitting into my grip like it’s the only place she was meant to be. And Jesus, the feel of her—light but solid, soft but not delicate. She’sall muscle and curve, her red bikini clinging to her in a way that’s begging me to peel it off. Every inch of her is close now, and I feel the shift in my own body immediately.
Every muscle in my body coils.
She has to feel it—the hard, aching proof of what she does to me. There’s no hiding it, no pretending.
But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. She just looks at me. Eyes wide, lips parted, her breath catching in her throat.
And I look right back. My hands still holding her, not because I need to—but because I don’t want to let go.
