Page 45 of The Viper
“Then don’t,” I murmured, and pulled him under again.
We staggered farther into the surf, clothes turning heavy, water wrapping our shins, our knees, the coolness a bright edge that made everything hotter. When a wave hit, he braced both of us easily, one hand spanning the small of my back, the other cupping my jaw like he’d memorized the angle already. Hekissed me until I couldn’t find my edges, until the constant hum of vigilance I carried in my bones quieted into a single, certain note:yes.
Lightning spidered across the clouds, distant, just show. A breeze swept low across the water, lifting hair from my neck. His palm skimmed up my spine and the shiver that followed had nothing to do with temperature.
“Tell me no,” he said, forehead pressed to mine, breath rough. “Right now.”
“No,” I said obediently. Then: “To stopping.”
His laugh broke, wrecked and lovely. “Impossible woman.”
“Overrated word.” I slid my hands to his hips, feeling all that contained strength. “You keep pretending you’re made of restraint.”
He leaned in, voice gone dark. “That’s not pretense. It’s survival.”
“Then stop holding back,” I breathed. “Show me what happens when you don’t.”
He kissed me like a man abandoning caution. Sand sucked over our feet. The next wave hit mid-thigh. I gasped and he swallowed the sound, lifting me on instinct so water didn’t knock us off balance. It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. My arms locked around his shoulders, my legs cinched his waist, and suddenly there wasn’t anywhere else to be.
His name was a plea, a dare, a prayer. “Lucas?—”
“God, help me,” he muttered, and walked us backward toward the beach, never once breaking the kiss. Every step was a promise—careful, steady, like he was carrying something precious he had every intention of keeping.
We collapsed onto the slope above the swash line, panting, laughing breathlessly when a stray wave chased us and soaked us again, anyway.
“We’re very bad at staying dry,” I said, pushing wet hair from my face.
“Occupational hazard.” He was smiling—really smiling now—and it did things to me that should’ve come with a warning label. “Next time, I’ll issue you a poncho.”
“You think there’s going to be a next time?”
He looked at me like a verdict. “Yeah.”
A fat raindrop landed on my collarbone. We both glanced up at the same time.
“Don’t say it,” I warned. “If you say the word ‘omen’ or ‘sign’—”
“Was going to say ‘cover,’” he said, dead serious. Then another drop hit, then ten. In seconds the sky unzipped, warm rain coming down in sheets, soaking us faster than the ocean had.
We started laughing—ridiculous, delighted, a little wild. He tipped his head back and let it pelt his face, water slicking his hair to his skull, jaw carved dark in the storm light. He looked like the man you call when your world is burning—and the man who might light the first match if he has to.
I shoved him in the chest. He didn’t budge.
“This is a terrible idea,” I said over the roar.
“Most of the best ones are,” he said, hands skimming under the wet cling of my dress, palms hot.
“Predict the interruption,” I challenged, bringing my mouth back to his ear. “Go on. Last time, it was Hannah. Time before that, a bar brawl. So what stops us now?”
“Lightning,” he said, wicked. “Or me remembering I’m on your payroll.”
I caught his bottom lip lightly between my teeth. “I think Dominion Hall can spare you for a personal day.”
His breath hitched. “You shouldn’t even know that name.”
“I hear things,” I said, because I did now. “And I’m very motivated.”
He swore softly, a word that sounded like surrender and strategy colliding.
