Beckett nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “It is kind of crazy. This moment right now even. You could write about it in your next book.”
I couldn’t have suppressed my grin if I tried. I shrugged. “Who knows?” I replied. “Maybe I will.”
“I guess the pressure’s on, then,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“For what?”
“For me to make it as memorable as possible.”
“And how will you do that?” I asked.
He stopped walking and turned to face me. I could see the reflection of my face in his eyes. I tried not to stare too hard, lest I should become acutely aware of the involuntary expression of desire that had taken up residence in my features. “Can you swim?” he asked.
I nodded.
Beckett held his hand out to me, and I slid my fingers through his for the second time in twenty-four hours. “Come with me,” he said, a boyish smirk playing on his lips. He strode out into the warm salt water, and I watched his knees disappear into it, then his waist. I felt the water cool my skin, but it was ancillary, background noise compared to the heightened sensation of the fire at my fingertips. His grip on my palm was gentle enough to slide out of without force but firm enough to make it clear that if he wanted to, he could lift me up effortlessly. Instead, he pulled me into the calm, cobalt sea to bathe beside him. All the way up to our shoulders we walked, hand in hand. Finally, I let go of him so I could lean my head back to soak my hair, and he closed his eyes and ducked under the surface. When his head reemerged, he used both hands to wipe off his face.
“Is this your first time in the water since being here?” Beckett asked.
I nodded as I bit my lip, tasting the brine on my tongue.
He looked up to the sky.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Almost,” he said. He lowered his eyes to meet mine and stepped in closer. The water dripped from his eyelashes. A large hand slid onto my waist, then around to my lower back, pulling me in until there were mereinches between Beckett’s torso and mine. “I’d like to kiss you. Would that be okay?” he asked in a throaty tone.
The question gave me unspoken permission to place my hands on his skin in return. I closed my eyes, relishing the sensation of his back muscles under the pads of my fingers. I felt my head bob up and down and the sensory overload of the water, Beckett’s hands simultaneously pulling me all the way in to close the gap between our submerged bathing suits and running up my back to snake their way through the wet mop of hair at the nape of my neck. His lips met mine, the sun beat down, and I felt electricity light up my insides so intensely that I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d become bioluminescent. Beckett’s mouth moved with expert precision, opening and closing in time with mine, his curious tongue dancing with my own. I melted into him, the moment, the perfect music we made in that water that only our hearts could hear. Finally, our eyes opened slowly and he licked my upper lip with a grin.
“There,” he said.
“Hm?” I asked, dizzy and confused.
“I gave you something to write about.”
“Like a gift,” I said.
“Mm.” He leaned backward into the water. “I hope it was good enough.”
“I guess time will tell,” I replied. “I might need you to do it again, though. You know. So it stays with me all the way back to New York.”
“Anything for the craft.”
“Shake on it?” I asked, holding out my hand.
He took it, pulled me in again, and said, “Nah. We can do better than that.” Then he kissed me with the heat of a thousand suns.
Chapter 12
Looking back, I feel like that was the equivalent of claiming it.
Right?
Like when two kids are fighting over, I don’t know, board game pieces or something, one will cry out, “I call red!” and that means they’ve laid claim to the red piece. Simple as that.
I laid claim to this story.
Doesn’t matter now, though,I think to myself as I’m having a shower later that night. I want to wash this whole thing away—between Beckett and my mom—I wish I could just rinse all memories of Aruba down the shower drain with my conditioner.
