When she steps out, I nearly choke on the water.
Fuck.
She’d promised me swimming trunks.
Instead, she’s standing there in a red bikini that’s doing fuck-all to hide the fact that she’s got curves in every place a man’s hands want to be.
It’s not like I couldn’t see she was an attractive lass before. I’m not bloody blind.
And it’s not like I haven’t seen my fair share of women in bikinis. I’ve dated models who make a living looking good in half this much fabric, women who know exactly what they’re doing and how good they look doing it.
But Georgie… Christ. She’s standing there like she wants the deck to open up and swallow her whole, arms crossed over her chest in a hopeless attempt to cover what that bikini’s putting on display. Full breasts strain against thin triangles, porcelain skin begs to be touched, red draws the eye exactly where it shouldn’t go.
The bikini’s bold. She’s not. The contrast is wrecking me.
Her teeth worry at her bottom lip while her eyes search mine. The contrast strikes me hard—that nervous gesture while she stands there looking like sin—and heat floods through my veins.
The urge rises, dark and demanding. To order her to drop those protective arms. Tell her to turn slowly. Let me look my fill.
I wrench my gaze to the horizon, jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it.
She’s not doing anything wrong. She put on a bikini to go swimming. That’s it.
I’m the bastard standing here like some horny deckhand, noticing every inch I’ve no right to notice.
The self-disgust hits almost as hard as the unwanted arousal.
“Is the water very cold?” Her voice wavers on ‘cold,’ fingers fidgeting with the strings at her hip.
I clear my throat, not trusting myself to look her in the eye. “Bit bracing. You’ll get used to it.”
This was supposed to be a quick wildlife tour. Puffins. Seals. Dolphins. Back to shore.
Job done.
Not me standing here, fighting the urge to stare at Jake’s sister—ten bloody years younger than me—wearing a red scrap of nothing that’s making my cock thicken like I’ve got no sense of decency.
“Ready when you are,” I mutter, gruff.
“I just need to put some sunscreen on first.” She rummages through her bag, then glances up with a tentative smile. “It’s crazy how warm Skye gets now. I know climate change is important in the design of your hotels, with all the sustainability initiatives.”
She’s trying to make conversation, probably sensing that I’ve gone tense and distant. Usually, I’ve got plenty to say about environmental impact, and about the balance between tourism and conservation.
Right now, I can’t focus on anything except the way that bikini’s hugging her curves.
Her smile falters. “Are you sure you have time for this? If you need to get back…”
“I have time. Let’s get on with it.”
She nods, then starts smoothing sunscreen over her arms and legs. She twists awkwardly, trying to reach her back.
“I don’t suppose you could—” She stops mid-sentence, cheeks flaming. “Actually, forget it. I can manage.”
She tries again, nearly dropping the bottle in the process.
“Give me the bottle,” I cut in, already striding over before I can think better of it.
She hands it over, gathering her hair over one shoulder.
