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‘There’s no one around but me and you.’ He leaned closer, then reached out to remove her headset, close enough that his breath found her temple. Warm, reassuring, him. His voice, between beats of the slowing rotors, was hoarse, reaching deep inside her. ‘And I’ve already seen you naked.’

He didn’t back away. He just hovered there, his face a few inches from hers, the heat of his gaze making it impossible to breathe. She huffed and puffed, trying to think straight.

‘Tate,’ she murmured, as if he might understand, or help her in some way.

‘Swim with me, Sarah.’ But there was something in his voice that told her he was talking about more than just a swim, and yet she went with him anyway, willingly, needily, desperate with all of her body.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TWO SIDES OF Tate Carrigan were in staunch opposition to one another. Scrap that. He was at war, with his good side wanting to rip his bad side to shreds, and vice versa. Decency demanded he turn away while she stripped out of her clothes, but the chasming attraction he felt made it impossible to take his eyes off her as she caught at the bottom of her singlet and started to lift it over her stomach. Skin as clear as the air out here, stomach still flat, despite the life burgeoning there. His mouth was dry, the back of his neck tingling as he found that—to hell with good intentions—he physically couldn’t wrest his gaze away.

Her eyes lifted to his, catching him staring, and a gentle pink flushed her cheeks. He waited, breath held, wondering if she’d turn her back, but she didn’t. Her lips parted, soft and moist, as her fingers crept higher, inching the top towards her breasts, hesitating there a moment so he almost groaned.

‘I’m…not wearing a bra,’ she explained, the pink in her cheeks turning bright red. ‘I was just planning to be around the house,’ she added, as though it were necessary. He somehow managed to nod his head once, as though he were agreeing with her statement, when, deep down, he was just silently pleading with her to keep going. Both times they’d slept together had been born out of madness. Out of an argument, tensions simmering to breaking point, until physical release had seemed like the only option.

This was different. This was them, with their eyes open, walking towards something else. Something new. He didn’t stop to think that through, to wonder what—if anything—it meant. He didn’t have the brain cells to spare.

The cotton lifted over the swell of her breasts, just the underside, so his breath hissed out between his teeth. He wanted to storm over, closing the distance with his long stride, taking charge, letting his hands do what hers were. Pushing up that damned shirt, and feeling the weight of her breasts in his palms. But there was something so irresistible about this slow, determined striptease, something that made every part of him fire.

She closed her eyes as the shirt crested fully over her breasts, then blinked them open as she removed it completely, her dark hair lifting in the same motion, then falling as a curtain over her shoulders, half covering the breasts he’d been yearning to see.

Then, with that same slowness, her fingers inched lower, to the waistband of her shorts, unfastening the cord there, her teeth digging into her lower lip as she nudged the fabric lower, and lower, before kicking them off completely, revealing a delicate scrap of lace. He couldn’t bite back the groan now; it tore through him like thunder in a storm.

She stood there, on the banks of the water, huge eyes latched to his, expression inscrutable, cheeks flushed. His whole body reverberated with an ancient need to reach out and take, to forget all about the damned watering hole and make love to her here, against the soft grass that grew at its edges.

‘Your turn,’ she said.

He heard the challenge, and volleyed it back. He lifted his hand, crooking his finger slowly, watching her the whole time, so he saw the moment comprehension dawned. Then she was walking, barefoot, towards him, until she was close enough that he caught a hint of her sweet fragrance: a combination of perfume and hair shampoo.

Her fingers were shaking a little as she undid his buttons, so, as with the removal of her shirt, it was way too slow for Tate’s liking. But if it was torture—and it felt like that—it was the best, purest kind, because he knew pleasure was close at hand, too. The relief of that couldn’t be underestimated.

Finally, she separated the sides of the shirt, moving her hands to his bare shoulders and pushing the fabric off completely, balling it in one hand before tossing it distractedly to where her clothes were sitting, on a grass patch with dappled shade.

Her hands moved to his jeans next, unfastening yet another button. But when it came to the fly, and she worked it down, another groan burst from him, followed by a sharp curse, because he was so goddamned hard that the slightest bit of contact was almost painful.

Her eyes flew to his, stilling where they were. He nodded once—all he was capable of—encouraging her to keep going. Please, he added, silently.

She sucked in a shaking breath as she pushed the zip all the way down, then moved her hands to his hips and inside the denim waistband, pushing the jeans lower, down his thighs, so he could step out of them. Standing before her in just his briefs, he stared down at her, the same challenge in his gaze as he’d felt earlier.

‘You’re not finished.’

Now it was Sarah’s turn to groan. Where his was deep and guttural, hers was more of a plea, throttled in her throat. She kept her eyes on his as she felt for the elastic waist of his briefs and began to push them down, the glide of the fabric over his arousal almost too much to bear. Finally, her eyes dropped lower, to the jut of his hardness, and the heat in her cheeks spread to her whole face.

‘I thought we came here to swim,’ she murmured, dropping his boxers at the same time as stepping forward, so their bodies were brushing, his cock straining against her, as if begging them to stop talking and get down to business.

‘Is that what you want to do, Sarah?’

She glanced up at him, eyes roaming his face.

‘Because we can swim, if you’d prefer…’

‘Or?’ she whispered.

A smile without humour twisted his lips. He had a sense that he was lost at sea, and sinking fast. ‘Or we can do what we both can’t stop thinking about.’

Her lips parted, uncertainty on her features. But to hell with it: one of them had to admit what was going on between them. It was just sex; it didn’t change a damn thing about their agreement.

‘And what’s that?’