Oh yeah. The view alone makes every burning muscle and drop of sweat worthwhile. When I tell him so, he chuckles again—that low, rumbling sound that I’m starting to crave without understanding why. It vibrates somewhere in my chest, settling warm and heavy.
Following his lead, I kick off my sneakers. But when he stands and peels his shirt overhead, I freeze, fingers pinching my own fabric.
Whoa.
I knew this guy was big, but this is… my mouth goes dry. The broad expanse of his back greets me—skin tanned golden from countless hours outdoors, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat from the hike. A scattering of freckles trails down his spine like a path I suddenly want to follow with my fingertips. He’s flawless. But it’s more than that.
He’s hot. The kind of hot that makes something low in my belly tighten and pulse.
When he turns, revealing his front, I realize I’m in way over my head. His chest is all smooth muscle and warm skin, with a light dusting of hair that trails down his stomach and disappears beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. My fingers itch to follow that line. How am I supposed to pull off my shirt and feel even an ounce of confidence when he looks like he stepped out of a magazine I’d secretly flip through alone at night? The way I packed was with the assumption that I’d be alone out here, with only birds as witnesses.
He catches my hesitation, one bushy eyebrow lifting. “What is it?”
Heat floods me all at once—face, chest, and that deeper place between my thighs that stirs to life whenever he looks at me too long. I clutch my shirt and start pulling. “Nothing, really.” Shaking my head, I turn away, stripping off the fabric. I give him my back to avoid knowing if he’s watching, then push off my shorts.
The two-piece underneath was a lovely decision for the summer heat. But even with the fluttery fabric teasing my stomach, I feel so exposed. So seen.
Behind me, silence. Not even breathing from my company. I turn slowly, already dreading what I’ll find.
Abel hasn’t moved. He’s staring—no, devouring me with his eyes. My heart lurches into my throat at the hunger written across his face. His lips part slightly, like he’s forgotten tobreathe, and his pupils have blown so wide his green eyes look almost black. There’s no mistaking it for anything else. That look is pure hunger, a sensation I’ve never had pointed in my direction before.
It’s unreal, but at the same time, addicting. Suddenly, I don’t want him to look away. I want him to close the space between us and do something about the soldering heat swirling around in my gut.
As if catching himself, he spins on his heel, tearing that heavy gaze away.
I must not look that bad. Though maybe I imagined it. Yeah. That has to be it.
While he fiddles with his pack to pull out water to rehydrate, I do the same. But the fresh memory of his expression burns behind my eyes. And between my thighs, a steady pulse is still going at it, one I can’t ignore.
I hunt down my sunscreen, knowing I’ve sweated through my first layer. Once I’m covered, I’ll cool off in the water. It’s a good plan.
Spreading cream across my chest, belly, and thighs, I’m secretly jealous that Abel doesn’t bother. Living up here, he must have built immunity to the sun. Unlike me, my cheeks already sting pink, and without protection, I’ll spend this trip looking like a lobster.
But there’s one spot I can’t reach. I turn toward him, heart hammering. “Without making it weird, could you…” I gesture to my back.
He looks between the sunscreen and where I’m pointing, almost startled. For a breathless moment, I consider brushing it off and attempting the impossible twist. Then he steps forward, large palm outstretched.
The moment I drop the tube into his hand, I’m already imagining his fingers on my skin. That pulse between my thighs throbs harder. Look at me trying to chase down trouble.
My hair’s already tied back, but a few strands are tickling the base of my neck. Most are out of his way. When I have to raise the fluttery fabric to expose my lower back, his palms make contact, and I have to fight not to jerk—not from the cold, but from the heatwave that shoots through me.
“I appreciate this, thank you. Awkward angles and all that, you know?” I’m chattering nervously, but it’s better than sighing as his hands drift lower.
He grunts, barely responsive, but his touch lingers, and I lean into it.
The first time I’ve ever let a man touch me like this, and it’s so limited. Deep down, disappointment aches—I want him elsewhere. I want it so bad it hurts.
“Lift your arms for me, Tatum.”
I obey, and his fingers slide against my ribs. Instead of tickling, a different sound escapes me—not quite a moan, but a satisfied sigh that borders on something more.
He pauses, hearing it. Then, he does it again on purpose to see if the same outcome occurs. It does.
A soft groan fills the air. I can’t tell which of us made it.
“Did you get your stomach?” His voice has dropped, gone thick and low in that way that makes my knees weak.
I did. But I shake my head anyway because at this point, I feel like I’m gone. So gone for this man’s touch.
