“Because I’m trying to be the kind of man who doesn’t ruin an eighteen-year-old girl’s life before it even starts.”
I stepped closer. “What if I want to be ruined? Just a little. Just by you.”
His control snapped on a low curse.
He caught my face in both hands and kissed me.
Not rushed. Not frantic. Slow. Deep. Devastating.
His mouth moved over mine like he had all the time in the world, lips parting, tongue stroking in to taste me in long, lazy sweeps. I melted into him with a soft sound I didn’t recognize as my own. His teeth caught my lower lip, tugged gently, then soothed the sting with his tongue. One of his hands slid into my wet hair, angling my head exactly how he wanted it. The other stayed at my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek as he kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth.
I kissed him back the same way—exploring, learning. My hands found his chest, slick with seawater, and I mapped him slowly: the hard planes of his pectorals, the ridges of his abs, the way his muscles jumped under my fingertips. When my palms slid lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, he went very still.
“Destiny…”
I kept going.
My fingers brushed the waistband of his trunks, then lower, and I felt him.
Thick. Hard. Hot even through the wet fabric.
A shocked little gasp left me. He was so much bigger than I’d imagined, so rigid, pulsing against my palm when I curled my fingers around the shape of him. The blunt head nudged my hand as if seeking more contact. I stroked him once, tentative, fascinated by the way he throbbed, by the heat of him, by the low, broken sound that tore from his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my lips. “You can’t—baby, you can’t touch me like that.”
But he didn’t pull away. His hips rocked forward once, helplessly, pushing his cock more firmly into my hand.
I stroked him again, bolder now, and felt the way the head flared, the way a damp spot was already forming against the fabric. He was leaking for me. The knowledge sent a fresh rush of heat between my legs.
He kissed me harder, teeth scraping my jaw, tongue soothing the spot, then moved us backward until my calves hit the wet sand. We sank down together, him following me down, never breaking the kiss. Sand clung to my damp skin. The waves lapped at our legs.
He kissed his way down my throat, slow and thorough, teeth grazing the tendon there before his tongue smoothed over it. When he reached my breasts he paused, breathing hard, then tugged the bikini top aside with careful fingers. Moonlight spilled over my bare skin. He stared for one long second like he was trying to burn the sight into his memory, then lowered his head.
His mouth was hot and wet and perfect. He licked first—long, slow drags of his tongue around my nipple—then sucked, gentle at first, then deeper, teeth scraping lightly before he soothed the sting with soft laps. I arched beneath him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Every pull of his mouth sent an answering throb low in my belly, an empty ache I’d never felt this sharply before.
My hands roamed his back, his sides, then slipped between us again. I found him once more, hard and heavy and burning hot through his trunks. I rubbed the heel of my palm along his length and felt him twitch, felt the way the head nudged insistently against the fabric like it wanted inside.
He groaned into my breast and rocked his hips, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against my hand, then lower, settling fully between my thighs.
The first slow roll of his hips stole my breath.
The hard length of him pressed directly against my core through the thin layers of our swimsuits. The blunt head nudged right over my clit, dragging deliciously, then caught lower, pressing against my entrance through the fabric like it was tryingto push inside. The heat of him, the weight, the way he throbbed against me—it was almost too much and not nearly enough.
“Oh…” The sound was barely a whisper.
He did it again. Slow. Controlled. The thick ridge parted my folds through the bikini bottom, the head catching and nudging at my opening with every pass, the fabric growing slicker between us from my arousal and the seawater. It felt obscene. It felt incredible. It felt like sex and not sex at the same time, and the teasing friction was driving me out of my mind.
I lifted my hips to meet his next thrust, chasing the pressure. He hissed, forehead dropping to mine.
“Destiny… we can’t. I can’t take you like this. Not when I’m leaving tomorrow. Not when you’ve never?—”
“I don’t care,” I breathed, wrapping my legs around his hips, locking him closer. “Please. Just… keep doing that. It feels so good. You feel so good.”
He kissed me again—deep, messy, desperate—and started to move in earnest.
Slow, grinding rolls of his hips that dragged the hard length of his cock up and down my slit through the fabric, the head pressing and nudging and almost breaching with every pass. The wet fabric clung, dragged, created the most maddening friction. I could feel every inch of him—the thickness, the heat, the way the head flared and caught on my clit before sliding lower to press right where I was empty and aching.
My nails dug into his shoulders. My hips rose to meet every thrust. The pressure built fast, tight, terrifying in its intensity. I was so wet the fabric was soaked, making everything slicker, hotter, better. Each time the blunt head nudged against my entrance I gasped, hips jerking, wanting it to push through, wanting to feel him inside even though I knew we couldn’t.
