I’ve thought about it constantly. His mouth. His hands. The way he looked at me in that boutique like he wanted to wreck every careful boundary I’d built.
His mouth hovers just above mine. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this.”
I should. Should push him away and swim back to shore and remember all the very good reasons I don’t do this.
Instead I grab his neck—sun-hot skin over corded muscle, the kind of strength you don’t get from gyms—and kiss him.
He groans into my mouth, low and rough, and then his hands are everywhere. His callused palms slide up my ribs, his thumbspressing into the soft skin just below my bikini top. His grip is firm, the kind of strength that comes from swinging axes and hauling logs, hands that know exactly how much pressure to apply. He pulls me against him and I feel every inch of hard muscle, the scrape of chest hair against my stomach, sun-warmed skin over iron.
I wrap my legs around his waist and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, one arm banding across my lower back to hold me steady against the current. His other hand slides into my hair, fisting the wet strands and angling my head exactly where he wants it. The kiss goes deeper, rougher, his beard scraping my jaw, my throat, everywhere his mouth goes.
He kisses like he works… deliberate, skilled, making sure every angle is right before applying more pressure. When his teeth catch my lower lip I gasp, and his grip tightens at my neck.
“Claire.” My name sounds wrecked, scraped raw from his chest.
A wave crashes over us. Salt water floods my nose, my mouth. We break apart sputtering, his arms still locked around me so I don’t go under.
I taste salt and Hunter and something deeper I can’t name. My lips feel swollen, scraped raw from his beard. When I open my eyes, his pupils are blown wide, nearly black in the afternoon sun. Water streams down his cut chest, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
“You okay?” He’s grinning, hair plastered to his forehead as he shakes it free.
“I’m fine.” I’m breathless and aching and very much not fine. “We should get back. Rehearsal dinner’s in two hours.”
“Right.” He doesn’t let go. “Claire—”
“Don’t.” I press my fingers to his mouth. “Whatever you’re about to say, just... don’t. Not yet.”
He kisses my fingertips. Releases me.
We swim back in silence. The beach stretches empty in both directions except for a couple walking their dog near the resort. Our footprints from earlier are already erased by the tide.
The rehearsal dinner is open-air, string lights overhead, steel drums playing something slow. I’m in a white sundress, hair still damp, trying very hard to focus on Esme instead of the man watching me from across the patio.
The restaurant overlooks the water, three sides open to the Caribbean breeze. Candles flicker on every table despite the string lights crisscrossing overhead. The steel drum band is set up on a small platform, and the scent of grilled fish and lime hangs in the air. Beyond the railing, waves foam white against black rocks.
Hunter’s in linen and a cream shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He hasn’t stopped looking at me since I arrived.
Franklin gives a speech about soulmates, and Esme cries. The bridesmaids make appropriate sounds while I stare at my bestie’s happiest moment.
Through it all, I feel Hunter’s eyes on me like a brand.
And part of me feels guilty, like I betrayed my best friend’s day. The other part of me knows she’d love this war of emotions playing underneath my skin.
After dinner, Hunter finds me on the path back to the rooms, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. I track the corded muscle of his forearms, the pink scar tissue beginning to fade.
“Walk with me.”
Not a question. I nod in agreement because what I have no control over my emotions at this point.
We take the path that winds along the cliff’s edge, away from the music and laughter. The moon is fat and low, turning the water silver. Night-blooming jasmine hangs thick in the air, sweet and comforting.
We end up on a stone bench overlooking the water. The bench sits at the edge of the resort property where manicured gardens give way to wild coastline. Bougainvillea climbs the stone wall behind us, hot pink against white stucco. Below, waves crash rhythmic and relentless, throwing spray high enough I taste salt on my lips.
“About earlier—” I start.
“I want you to come to my room tomorrow night.”
Direct. Unflinching. Exactly like him.
