Page 44 of The Viper
“Chronically,” I said. “Is it a problem?”
He scanned my face, then the horizon. “It might be,” he said quietly. “Not for me.”
We took the wooden walkway over the dunes, the boards warm beneath my bare feet even after dark. The ocean unfurled in front of us, pewter and restless, the line between water and sky blurred to a single dark seam. No crowds. No cameras. Onlythe steady drum of waves and the occasional cry of something wild that didn’t care we were there.
I stepped onto the packed sand and tipped my head back. “God, I missed this.”
“What?”
“Being a person.” I pointed at the water. “Back home, even the ocean asks for selfies.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh. The good kind—rare, surprised, untouched by habit.
“Come on,” I said, slipping my fingers around his. “If I don’t at least put my toes in, the beach police revoke my privileges.”
He didn’t argue. He could have—about shoes, about visibility, about smarter choices. He just let me pull him forward, our hands locked, a promise wrapped in a risk.
Water rushed around our ankles, cool as a dare. A wave licked higher, soaking the hem of my dress, and I gasped. He watched me like a man cataloging the ways a storm reveals itself—every shiver, every tilt toward the wind.
“I used to sneak out at night where we grew up,” I said, lifting my wet skirt in one fist. “Climb the neighbor’s fence, run to the public pool when it closed. Hannah would come with me. We’d jump in fully clothed so if our parents checked the cameras, they’d think we fell in by accident.” I grinned at the memory. “We thought we were brilliant.”
“You were,” he said with a laugh. “Criminal masterminds.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Not even a little.” He tipped his chin toward the ocean. “Still got the impulse.”
“I like the feeling of getting away with something.”
His gaze held mine. “Then stop picking men who are too easy to fool.”
How did he know?
The wave tugged again, stronger this time, curling around my calves. Thunder mumbled far out over the water, the sky pricking with heat lightning like someone testing a fuse.
“What about you?” I asked. “Did you break rules as a kid?”
“Constantly.” He said it like a confession and a badge. “And then I learned which ones to keep.”
“What are those?”
“The ones that keep the people I care about breathing.”
Something in my chest opened, messy and terrified. I stepped closer because distance felt rude.
“Lexi,” he warned softly, even as his hand found my waist.
“Don’t pretend you brought me here to teach me about rip currents.”
“I didn’t bring you here,” he said, voice dropping. “You asked.”
“Same difference,” I whispered.
He made a low sound and lowered his head, and I met him halfway because there was no universe where I wouldn’t. The kiss took me under in one pull—no warm-up, just heat. His hands slid up my back, anchoring me, pulling me flush, and the world steadied on that axis.
The ocean kept time for us. Rush. Break. Retreat. His mouth coaxed mine open with a patience that felt like power, tongue teasing, the kind of kiss that understood leverage and used it without apology. I curled my fingers into his T-shirt, dragging him closer, breathing him in.
“I shouldn’t,” he said against my mouth.
