I nod, breathless. “How did you know this was here?”
“Bryce mentioned it when we were looking at the trail map. Said there might be a cave behind the fall.”
I move further in, placing a hand against the cold rock wall to steady myself. The alcove is removed enough from the pool that the others can’t see us unless they swim right up to the waterfall, and the rush of water creates a blanket of white noise that makes our voices barely audible to each other, let alone anyone outside.
“So,” Slade says, leaning against the opposite wall. “How’s the hangover?”
“Better. Thanks again for the breakfast intervention.”
“You needed protein and fat. Best cure.”
“Med school?”
His mouth quirks. “Life. Teaches you about hangovers one way or another.”
Water drips from his curls, tracing a path down his jaw. I watch its progress, transfixed, before forcing my gaze away.
“Listen, about last night—”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do. I was drunk. And I…I’m sorry for falling into your bed and…” The words stick in my throat. “For kissing you. That was out of line.”
Slade studies me, his expression unreadable. “No harm done.”
“No harm—? Slade, Ikissedyou. A guy I barely know. Astraightguy.” I rake a hand through my wet hair. “That’s pretty fucking harmful to my dignity, at least.”
“I didn’t mind.” His voice drops lower, the words almost lost beneath the roar of the waterfall.
I stare at him. “What?”
“I said, I didn’t mind.” He pushes off from the wall, moving closer. “In fact, I enjoyed it.”
The air between us shifts, grows heavy. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can hear it even over the surrounding noise.
“You—” I swallow. “You didn’t kiss me back.”
“You were drunk, Owen.” He says my name with a precision that sends a shiver through me. “I don’t take advantage of drunk people.”
“So if I had been sober…”
“If you had been sober.” He moves closer still until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I would have kissed you back.”
My brain short-circuits. This can’t be happening. Slade is straight. I’m straight. This isn’t—we aren’t—
His hand comes up, fingers gripping my chin with gentle firmness, tilting my face up toward his. “You’re not drunk now.”
It’s not a question, but I shake my head anyway, as much as his grip allows. “No.”
“Good.”
Then his mouth is on mine, and every single one of my thoughts scatters. His lips are firm, insistent, nothing like the passive reception of my clumsy drunk kiss. This is deliberate. Claiming. His free hand slides around to the small of my back, pulling me closer until our chests press together, skin to skin.
I make a sound—half surprise, half something else—that gets swallowed by his mouth. For a moment, I’m frozen, unable to process what’s happening. Then something inside me breaks loose, and I’m kissing him back, hands coming up to grip his shoulders.
He tastes of mint and rain. His beard scrapes against my chin, a sensation that sends sparks shooting down my spine. This is nothing like kissing a woman. Nothing like the careful kisses I shared with Maia. This is raw, primal, electric.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. His hand moves from my chin to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my wet hair, grip tightening just enough to make me gasp.
