She cries out my name, her legs tightening around me as her own climax crashes over her, pulling me under with her. We cling. We shake. We don’t let go.
The world is a blur.
The dock. The moonlight. The water lapping at our feet.
I can’t stop touching her.
Still want more . . .
Chapter 17
Annabelle
The first thing I register is the pain.
A dull, throbbing ache pulsing at my temples like a slow, rhythmic drum. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and I’m 90 percent sure something died on my tongue overnight. Maybe tequila. Maybe my dignity.
The second thing I register?
Warmth. A solid, delicious source of it pressed against my back.
His hand.
Low on my stomach. Fingers splayed just under the hem of the shirt I don’t remember putting on—his shirt, based on the size, the worn fabric, and the faint whiff of cologne clinging to it.
His thumb strokes my skin. Slowly. Gently. Thoughtfully.
Mmm . . .
Suddenly the ache in my head doesn’t feel quite so pressing.
My eyes crack open, vision blurry and unfocused, the morning light bleeding around the edges of the curtains. The sheets smell like lake air and cedar and him, and when I shift slightly, our legs brush. My bare thigh slung over his.
We’re tangled. Completely, utterly tangled.
Last night comes flooding back in hazy, disjointed flashes: The dancing.
The laughing.
Tequila.
Pastor Dan.
Callum’s hands.
Hismouth.
The dock.
Cousin Evy.
I squeeze my eyes shut, groaning softly.
“Headache?” His voice is low and gravelly next to my ear. Sleepy and sexy and so deliciously deeper in the morning ...
“Mm,” I manage, not trusting myself with actual words.
He shifts closer, his nose brushing my shoulder as he kisses it, his hand still drawing slow, lazy circles across my skin. I should move. I should sit up. I should find some water and pretend to be a normal, functioning human.
