Horribly inconvenient erection notwithstanding, Fin felt good. He felt alive. He felt a thousand per cent better than he had when he was standing in that garage with the tokens of his father’s life scattered all around him. And he had her to thank for that.
Rolling up onto his side, his bent elbow supporting his head, he looked down into her face and smiled at her as her gaze shifted from the sky to meet his. Ignoring the unhelpful distraction of her flattened palm pressed to her chest, he said, ‘Thank you. I seem to be saying that a lot today.’
‘You are,’ she said on a murmur, her tone teasing once again, ‘but can you ever really say it enough?’
Fin honked out a laugh and, just like when they’d been kids in one of their hysterical moods when any minuscule thing would trigger another fit of the giggles, they were laughing again.
‘Stop,’ she protested, the hand on her chest moving to her belly, the one on the ball finally letting go to clutch at his sleeve. ‘My stomach hurts.’
Given these episodes had usually ended in a belly ache, it was a familiar refrain.God, he’d missed this. Missedher. Why had it been so long between drinks for them?
It took another ten seconds or so for them to quieten, their gazes locked as they grabbed for breath, their chests rising and falling in a husky kind of simpatico. The echo of their laughter swirled between them but, as their breathing slowed and their smiles faded, it morphed into a warm kind of buzz, which was less companionable, more…heady.
And much harder to write off as a moment of nostalgia between old friends.
Fin’s heart rate picked up again instead of settling, washing through his ears to a thick sludgy beat. He was aware of the steady drum of it through every pulse point, as aware of it as he was of her hand on his sleeve, of his body wash on her skin, of the heavy ache in his balls.
Her brow crinkled. ‘Fin?’
It was breathy. A whisper, really. And a question. Like she could feel this disturbing shift between them and didn’t understand it either. It could have been a warning, he supposed, but his ability to decipher nuance had departed south several minutes ago along with most of the blood from his brain.
There was still something working upstairs, however. Or maybe a wiser angel warning him to stop. Pull away. Pull away, Fin.Now.But there was another voice whispering the opposite, and pretty fucking loudly, too.
Get closer. Move in, Fin. Kiss her, Fin. Do it. Do itnow.
You know you want to.
And he did want to, god help him, he did, the urge rising up inside him on a blinding rush of desire. Even though it didn’t make sense and it was probably a bad idea. None of that mattered right now. There was just Sweeney looking at him, her face flushed, her pupils dilated, her mouth parting.
God, that mouth…
In one quick swoop, he claimed it, pressing his lips to hers hard and sure as his pulse roared in his head and his heart rattled his ribs and he dragged air in and out of his lungs. It wasn’t like the spin-the-bottle kiss or the mistletoe kiss, both of which had been hesitant and performative.
They had no audience here by the lake. This kiss was just for them.
For long moments, Fin’s mouth held hers, time slowing as they lay stock still, their husky breathing the only active thing between them until she moved. Just slightly. Shifting her head a little as if to adjust the angle, her mouth softening the merest fraction, but it was all Fin needed as signals from his lips to his brain blazed to life, flicking on one after the other, leaping like flame along a line of fuel until he was burning up.
On a groan, his lips moved too, opening over hers—not tentative or coaxing. Decisive. Leading. Marching to the heated drumbeat in his blood.
Sweeney, Sweeney. Sweeney. He was kissingSweeney.
Fin had never in his life thought about how Sweeney’s mouth might taste. Not even when he’d leaned in to take it both times they’d already kissed. But if he’d been forced to guess, he would have said sweet and minty fresh.
Like toothpaste. And bubblegum.
But it wasn’t. The faint trace of beer still on her breath reminded him they weren’t twelve anymore. They were adults and she walked and talked and looked like one. She also smelled and tasted like one. Like creamy Guinness and dark chocolate.
All the things that, taken too often, would kill a person.
And he needed more. Of them. Of her. Hunting her mouth with every twist and turn of their heads, every demanding thump of his heart, his hand fisting in the silky strands of hair at her nape, using the hold to plunder her mouth deeper. His groin throbbed and his balls ached and he was breathing so hard, his senses so full of her that he was fuckinglight-headed, but if he was going to pass out from anything, kissing Sweeney was a hell of a way to go.
Mindlessly needing to get closer, his top leg slid over hers, his knee parting her thighs, planting firmly between them on the sand. She cried out at the very intimate stimulus, her hand sliding to the wrist anchored near her ear and grabbing hold.
There was no tug or squeeze or anything that registered as resistance but itdidregister, slicing through his sexual fog with the blunt force of a rusty machete.
Breaking away, Fin blinked down at her, inspecting her face as his sluggish thoughts tried to assemble in some kind of order. Her mouth was lush and wet, which didn’t make for very easy assembling, and she was breathing hard—as was he. Their combined breathing fogged the air between them, thick and husky. With that and the hard throb of his heartbeat, he could barely hear himself think.
Not that there wasn’t a whole world of communication passing between them as they stared at each other. Like,okay, that happened. And,wow, wasn’t expecting that. Also,what the fuck do we do now?
