I arched my brows. “Yeah, well, you can’t have everything.”
“Hm.”
For a moment we lay on our towels, listening to the surf. I heard the opening of a cap, the distinctive squeeze of a bottle, then Ethan: “Sunscreen my back?”
My eyes whipped open. “Are you kidding me? Speak of manipulative!”
He gave me an innocent look. “My hands don’t reach.”
“You’ve managed okay so far.”
He pulled a sad moue. “I got burned the other day, and the sun’s really bright right now.”
“Then put your shirt back on.”
He held out the yellow bottle pleadingly. “Skin cancer is serious business.”
“Again! Shirt back on!” My gaze dropped to the gleaming expanse of his golden skin, as though I’d ever not been excruciatingly aware of it, before managing to focus on the glittering ocean.
He spoke in a falsely sympathetic tone. “What’s wrong?”
He was baiting me, and it worked. Glaring, I grabbed the sunscreen from his hand and squirted the lotion into mine. “Turn around.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
I smoothed the lotion onto his back, moving my hands in slow circles across his shoulder blades and down the length of his spine. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it,” he teased. He craned his neck to see me. “What about you? You probably washed away your first round.”
“I actually didn’t put on a first round.”
“Then youdefinitelyneed more.” He pivoted so he faced me.
“Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.”
“For what?” he asked, eyes wide. “I just want to help you, too, escape skin cancer.”
“Hmph,” I said, but I turned, because I also rather desperately wanted an excuse for his hands to be on my body.
He massaged the sunscreen into my back. My head dropped forward.
He stopped.
“Wait, no,” I cried. “You can’t start a massage and then stop.”
He laughed, low in his throat. “I thought I was putting sunscreen on you. Not giving you a massage.”
“Pleeease.” Sometimes I had strength of mind, but not whenmassages were involved. I wiggled my shoulders and looked back hopefully.
“Fine.” He sounded more amused than anything else. “Since you asked so nicely.”
I dropped my chin down to my chest. Victory. Luxury. “Thank you.”
His hands roamed over my back, pressing deep in the small of it, thumbs drawing along my spine. One hand came up to massage the knots at the base of my neck, and I let out an involuntary groan.
“Lie down,” he said softly, and I knew it was a bad idea, a very bad idea. But the responsible corner of my brain was far away and not very loud and so I ignored it and lay on my stomach. Ethan’s knees settled on either side of me, and he leaned into the massage. I felt like I was melting into the sand.
And I knew it was just a massage. It was supposed to relax me. But the longer it went, the less relaxed I was. Instead, a hunger grew deep inside, a craving I was unable to ignore.
