Page 118 of The Longest Shot
Because apparently I’m one of those gooey idiots now.
The beach stretches empty except for us and some seagulls. In some ways, it reminds me of that beach where, years ago, we'd both had our 'first time' together, and then a few days later I’d destroyed it because she asked me a real question and I turned into a walking Comedy Central reject.
But now, watching her in the twilight, salt air turning her hair into beautiful chaos, the memory seems less of a melancholy one, and more of an origin story. Because somehow, we made it back from the brink, despite all the time and more than a little bad blood.
It was a long-shot, but we scored with it.
Morgan steadies me instantly, with her particular mix of concern and amusement. "What are you thinking about?"
My grin is probably visible from the International Space Station. “That summer. That beach. You in that microscopic black bikini.”
Her eyebrows climb, but heat flickers in those slate-gray eyes. “Is that so?”
“Specifically,” I crowd into her space, “I was thinking about how I made you come three times in the sand before I even got inside you.”
Her breath catches. “Well, I remember someone lasting approximately thirty seconds once you did, followed by twenty minutes of apologies…”
“Hey, I was eighteen, and you were—” I gesture wildly at all of her, “—basically a weapon of mass destruction.”
She steps closer, her palm flat against my chest where my heart is hammering. “Think you could do better now? With all that alleged experience?”
“Alleged?” The word comes out rougher than intended. “Baby, I’m going to make you forget your name.”
I bend low, hook my arm behind her knees, and hoist her over my shoulder.
“James! Put me down!" She shrieks, fists drumming against my back as I bolt toward the ocean. "You absolute lunatic!”
“You wanted better!” I shout over her protests. “I’m giving you legendary! Epic! The kind of stories our grandkids will be too traumatized to hear!”
The first wave hits my shins with water cold enough to make me reconsider, but momentum is a beautiful thing. Morgan’s shriek morphs into breathless laughter as spray soaks us both. I keep going until water churns around my waist, arctic enough to make certain anatomical features file complaints.
I swing her down but keep her pressed tight against me as a bigger wave crashes over us. We’re both gasping, laughing, and completely drenched. Her T-shirt has abandoned all pretenseof being clothing, transparent and clinging to every curve, her nipples standing out in hard peaks through the soaked fabric.
She looks up at me, water streaming down her face, her eyes promising violence and sex in equal measure. “You’re completely unhinged,” she gasps.
“You love it.”
“I loveyou,” she corrects, then crashes her mouth against mine with the intensity of a third-period power play.
The kiss tastes like ocean and challenge and home. Her tongue slides against mine, aggressive and demanding. My hands develop their own agenda, sliding under her soaked shirt to find skin that’s furnace-hot despite the Atlantic’s best efforts at hypothermia. She groans, and I swallow it greedily.
My fingers fumble with her jeans, which have apparently been vacuum-sealed. The wet denim fights back with a vengeance, but I’ve faced down charging forwards and survived Karen Fitzgerald’s Thanksgiving dinners, so I can handle rebellious pants.
I crouch in the churning water to peel them down her legs, which puts me at eye-level with a religious experience in the form of pink lace panties. Not the practical black athletic underwear she usually wears, and not the seamless nude that disappears under gear.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, looking up from where I kneeled in the surf. “You wore these for me. Youplannedthis.”
She doesn’t answer with words. Just looks down with those slate-gray eyes and nods once. "You like?"
The pink lace doesn’t survive first contact with my enthusiasm. I hook my fingers in the delicate fabric and peel it down slowly, watching her face as I bare her to the ocean. She’s completely smooth, waxed bare, and the sight scrambles my remaining brain cells into white noise.
I surge to my feet, yanking her shirt over her head in one motion. Her bra follows—white cotton turned transparent—until she’s completely naked in my arms. The last sliver of sun catches her wet skin, turning her into something magical, like a glowing mermaid.
My jeans have become a torture device. I shove them down just enough, not caring that they’re tangled around my thighs like I’m some teenager behind the bleachers. Nothing matters but her against me, and we'll figure out what to do about our soaked clothes later.
“Up,” I growl, and she knows exactly what I mean because we’ve always spoken better with our bodies than with words.
She jumps, trusting me to catch her, and I do. Her legs lock around my waist, and suddenly she’s right there, slick heat pressed against my length, the cold having done nothing to dampen how rock-hard I am for her. The ocean rocks us as I grip myself and position myself at her entrance.
