Liar.
You absolutely want to change your mind.
You want to run straight back to your villa and pretend this never happened.
But the only move I make is to set my small purse on the nightstand.
He crosses the space between us slowly. Like he’s giving me time to bolt if I need to.
When he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so gentle and yet familiar that it makes my chest ache.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
What I want is complicated.
What I want involves a time machine and different choices and a version of us that never imploded.
“I want you,” I admit. “Just for tonight. Just this.”
His thumb traces along my jawline. “That’s all?”
No. It’s not all. It’s never been all.
But I nod anyway because that’s the deal we made on the beach.
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hand slides into my hair and I melt against him.
His other hand finds my waist, thumb stroking circles through the thin fabric of my dress, and I’m already losing track of where I end and he begins.
Okay.
This is happening.
This is really happening.
“Come here,” he murmurs from the edge of his mouth, and guides me toward the bed.
I follow because apparently my legs still work, which is surprising.
He sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls me until I’m standing between his knees. His hands settle on my hips, and his thumbs stroke slow circles through the fabric of my dress.
“I want to try something,” he says, his voice a rasp. “If you’re okay with it.”
Here we go.
This is where he suggests something wild and you have to pretend you’re sophisticated enough to handle it.
“What?” I manage.
Instead of answering, he shifts me so I’m straddling his right thigh. The position forces my dress to ride up and I’m suddenly very aware that only thin cotton and my underwear separate us.
“Show me how you like it,” he says. Then his hands press down on my hips, guiding me into a slow grind against his thigh.
Oh.
Oh.
The friction is immediate and perfect and completely mortifying. Because apparently we’re doing fully clothed foreplay. Like teenagers.
