She’s breathing erratically, watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
My hands blaze trails over her hips, her waist, her spine. I kiss her, a kiss that feels powerful in a way I’ve never experienced. I’ve moved from fiery devotion to absolute frustration to horniness that borders on embarrassing in the span of minutes.
It’s brain-melting.
I slow down, struggling to find even the most tenuous self-control because I want to enjoy kissing her, not barrel through it. She must understand, or want the same thing, because her body relaxes. She eases back, returns to me, eases back, swoops in again, teasing with lips and tongue and hands.
We dissolve into the sand.
When our fire fizzles out, I sit up.
I’m in over my head.
No, Piper’s not careless. She cares about her job, her sister, and her future. She cares about whatever happened with her best friend. She cares about minor stuff like mermaid books and acai bowls.
She cares deeply, maybe to her detriment.
And now she cares about me.
I need to get a handle on what’s happening between us, because August is closing in. I need to be certain I’m not going to tear a rift through her by leaving in a few weeks. But if she’s feeling anything close to what I’m feeling, I’m not sure that’s possible.
I fold her into a hug for my benefit as much as hers. Her scent washes over me: her rose-garden hair, her vanilla gloss, salt stirred up by the gulf air and our sprint.
I hold her close, breathing her in, changed in this colossal but indefinable way.
“Henry,” she whispers, her breath tickling my neck. “What are we going to do when it’s time for you to go back to Spokane?”
I bury my face in her curls.
I have no idea.
All I know is that I don’t want to go anywhere.
Piper
Tati’s in my way.
She’s standing at the counter with her I NEED MY SPACE!mug, separating me from my cereal. The mug is filled with coffee, and she’s spent about a century drizzling almond milk into it. She slowly swirls a spoon through the liquid, adds another drop of milk—aliteraldrop—and stirs again.
Yeah, she needs her space, but she’s alsolostin space.
“Scoot.” I hip check her.
She replaces the milk’s cap.
“I need that,” I tell her, gesturing toward my dry cereal.
“Oh, sorry.” She turns and puts the carton back into the fridge as I stand there, dumbfounded, empty hand suspended in the air.
“Jeez, Tati. What’s up with you?” I ask, claiming the milk.
“I’m tired.” She sips her coffee. “I was up late waiting for you.”
Usually, steam spews from her ears when I come in after curfew. Last night, Henry and I stayed on the beach until way after. But when he dropped me off at our apartment and waved tomy sister from the front door, she came over wrapped in Mom’s afghan and made a couple of minutes of affable small talk. Not a word about the late hour.
“Sorry I missed curfew,” I tell her now.
She sits at the table. She’s showered, wearing her bathrobe, her hair twisted up in towel. Even without her smooth bob and flawless makeup, she looks better than I do on my best day.
