Just as my lungs start bargaining with God about becoming a better man, she moves.
Her fingers graze my ankle as I surge to the surface.
She jolts back. Goggles up. Chest heaving. Water dripping down her throat.
I am far too aware of every place it goes.
“You hesitated,” I say, spitting out a mouthful of chlorine.
“You were underwater for thirty seconds.”
She groans. Swims away. I follow because ignoring social cues is what I do.
Reaching the edge, she settles against the tile lip, water sheeting down her shoulders. I slide beside her and hook my arm over the wall.
“What if I needed CPR, Stopwatch?”
“I had a strong suspicion you didn’t.”
“Based on?”
“Your smirk. The same one you’re wearing now.”
My grin spreads wider, and I don’t even try to stop it.
Her gorgeous eyes flare, then turn lethal. “You are un-fucking-believable.”
She gives my chest a firm, defiant shove, splashing water between us.
She’s not retreating, not this time.
My grip finds her waist, hauling her flush against me in a rough, unapologetic motion. A sharp inhale escapes her parted lips. She’s stunned, but the protest dies on her tongue. Because her body? It wants to be here, pressed to mine, her palms splayed over my bare chest like she’s challenging me to take it further.
My body’s all in—eager, hard, and overdue.
Last night, she was soft, trusting, curled around me in her sleep.
But now?
Now she’s plastered to my front, and every inch of her is burning into me.
The air is quiet. Just the faint slosh of water against tile and the ocean rumbling somewhere beyond the deck.
Up close, she’s devastating. The pool light highlights the water clinging to her lashes, darkening her gaze into something complicated. Her eyes are searching for something that won’t settle. Her wet hair is slicked back, every feature unguarded.
A drop of water slides from her temple, clings to her cheekbone, traces the angle of her jaw.
I follow its descent. I want to chase it with my lips.
“You’d really let me die,” I say quietly. “To win the promotion.”
Her expression shifts. Not fury. Not amusement. Something far more dangerous.
“I’d let you die,” she says, “before I ever put my mouth on yours.”
I move closer. Taking my time. Giving her every chance to stop me.
Her hands stay flat against my chest, fingers spread wide. She’s either bracing herself or holding on.
