I shriek and swat his chest as he charges into the surf.
Connor’s laughter fills the air as he playfully plunks me down into the water.
“Fuckkkk!” I scream, splashing away. “This is . . . so . . .”
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. This water is glacial. I can’t breathe. My organs feel like they’re shutting down. We’re going to die of hypothermia . . . They’ll find our naked bodies washed up on the shore and wonder what kinky shit we were up to.
We must be in fucking Iceland not Ireland.
The shock sucks the air from my lungs and I burst up from the water, spluttering and smacking his laughing face. “You asshole!”
Okay . . .
I groan, adjusting to the cold. It’s not so bad now. I can handle this.
“You okay?” he asks, grinning like a fool.
“Just about,” I reply through gritted teeth, trying to keep them from chattering.
Connor runs his fingers through his wet hair, and like a man possessed, he dives under and resurfaces with a wild, boyish grin. “Feels amazing, yeah?”
“I hate you,” I growl, smacking the water, even as my chest does that fluttery thing that I’ve come to associate with Connor’s presence. I don’t want to give the merman the satisfaction of telling him he’s right.
Water droplets hang from his ridiculously long lashes, making him look like he’s shooting for the cover of some steamy “Gods of the Sea” calendar. Not that I’m complaining. Seeing Connor so carefree and relaxed does strange flippy things to my heart.
It’s as if Ireland has unveiled this other, more laid-back persona. He’s miles away from the grumpy boardroom beast I’ve grown accustomed to.
But let’s not kid ourselves; I know that side of him still lingers beneath the surface.
As yet another wave theatrically crashes over us, Connor wraps his arms around my shivering body. Despite the cold water and wind, I feel a surge of heat between my legs at being pressed against his hard muscles.
“You sure no one can see us?” I ask, attempting to keep my hair from slapping me in the face. I hope I look moreBaywatchbabe and less wet dog.
His eyes trace my lips hungrily.
“Positive.”
He lifts me up and wraps my legs around his waist, holding me tightly by the ass. I cling to his unfairly warm shoulders for dear life, breasts smashed against his hard chest, nipples poking out like pencils, and not in a good way.
Then he goes in for a kiss, way too passionate for swimming in the chilly Atlantic Ocean. I cling to his shoulders, as we drift further out.
“You can’t seriously be thinking of having sex here,” I manage to say between breaths.
He chuckles against my lips. “As much as I’d love to show off my superhuman stamina, even my dick can’t perform in these conditions.”
“Good, because I’m freezing,” I declare through chattering teeth, my voice an octave higher than usual. Christ, my bits are retreating inside themselves for warmth. “We need to get out of here before my nipples fall off and float to Canada.”
He wheezes out a laugh, breathless from the cold. “All right, brave girl. Let’s get you some lunch. We’ll find some of that seafood chowder you wanted to try.”
He leans in for another kiss, but movement on the beach catches my eye.
Is that . . . ?
“Hmm . . .” Squinting against the sun, I struggle to focus. It’s tough without my glasses.
My arousal is swiftly replaced by a growing sense of dread as I peer back at the shoreline.
Oh my god.
