When in Rome(69)

“Noah!” I reprimand sternly while sloshing water at his face. “You can’t say stuff like that!”

He chuckles, twisting away. “Why not?”

“Because you yourself said we have to stop flirting. And…you’re flirting! While you’re practically naked! In the water!”

I wish he wouldn’t smile at me like that. I wish he wouldn’t swim closer. I wish I could think clearly enough to swim away. But I can’t. I continue to weakly slosh water at him until he’s close enough to wrap his hand around my wrist. I want to whimper at the sight of him. Strong jaw, moody mouth, green eyes, wet hair. And the feel of him…it’s unreal.

His smile is gone now. Neither of us are amused. I watch him swallow—eyebrows pulled together like he’s in pain. “I’m trying so hard to stay away,” he says in a low rasp. His eyes track over my face and now the pull between us feels crushing. Unbearable. “And I’m failing.”

My heart rate is sky high, and it’s not from treading water. It’s because he tugs me closer and my soft curves press against his hard lines. He wraps an arm around my waist with nothing but complete intention. I suspected all Noah’s muscles weren’t just for show, and I was right. Taking my legs, he guides me to wrap them around him and hold on to his neck as he treads water for us both. Lifeguard, indeed. One of his hands lifts above the water to gently push my bangs to the side of my face. Those eyes, the same bright green as the trees lining the lake, drop to my mouth.

Slowly he swims us toward the sandy bank. I know why we’re headed there and my entire body cries out for me to stay quiet. Keep my lips zipped and don’t ruin this moment. But I can’t do that to him.

“Noah,” I whisper, struggling to make myself say it. “Nothing has changed. I’ll still have to leave.”

He doesn’t stop swimming. “I know. I’m okay with it if you are?”

I nod quietly then and hold on until his feet make purchase with the sandy bank, giving him the support he needs to hold me without treading water. The sunshine combined with Noah’s gaze sweeping over my skin is scorching. He pulls me tightly against his body and I hold on tighter around his neck. It’s heaven and torture rolled into one. His mouth hovers over mine, his breath whispering promises against my lips. I adjust impatiently and press my fingers into the heavy slopes of his shoulders because he won’t kiss me yet and I’m feeling greedy. His smile is soft and taunting as he clearly enjoys drawing this out—proving that he doesn’t just show restraint with his words, he shows it with his body.

I, however, have no restraint because it’s been too long since we kissed. I’m also not sure I’ve ever been kissed or held like this by a man I liked this much. I cinch my legs tightly around his torso, making him grunt a laugh. I angle my face for the optimal kiss. If you’re going to do it, do it. His eyes turn absolutely black now. One of his hands splays out against my back and the other moves up to grasp the side of my jaw. His hold is as possessive as mine.

I hold my breath as his lips close the gap and press into mine. Bliss. Wonder. Magic. The soft scratch of his facial hair is a match strike against my senses. Tactile evidence that he’s real and his skin is colliding with mine. My heart kicks frantically against my ribs, and my skin is set ablaze with pleasure and desire. As if it’s possible, I hold him tighter. His hands press into my back, my hips, my thighs. Not frantic, but measured and intentional—just like Noah. Our mouths explore this new intimacy in unhurried caresses. His tongue teases my lips and I surrender willingly. I make a soft noise that lands somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and it spurs his hands into a more thorough exploration, sending a tingle through every part of me. We find that unique rhythm of kissing that feels like surrendering to a riptide. It’s dangerous and there’s nothing to do but let it build and carry you wherever it wants.

He tilts his head and I match his angle. I retreat and he follows. He retreats and I follow. His touch brands me, carves his name everywhere, and I hold on to him like letting go would mean certain death. Kissing Noah is more than I bargained for. It’s more than I could have hoped—and it convinces me of something that it shouldn’t: we’re good together.

His wonderful calloused hands slide up the soft skin of my back as he lifts my shirt off my body and I raise my hands in the air to aid him. I’m wearing a simple, cotton, navy bralette, and although I’ve always felt insecure about the small size of my chest, Noah looks at me as if I hold the keys to the world. As if I am so precious and desirable that he is afraid to touch me.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles, while kissing me softly down the line of my throat and over my collarbones. He trembles as he holds me and I don’t think it’s because he’s getting tired. And suddenly, this all feels too much. I let go. One of us needs to be thinking straight, and now I’m angry it has to be me. But I won’t let this get too carried away and turn into something that even remotely resembles heartache in the end. A kiss is one thing—but more is off the table.

When our mouths separate, I take in his rugged face and swollen lips. I trace the line of his strong jaw and neck and collarbones with my finger. He must see the pain in my face—the turmoil boiling below my skin—because the delicious bite of his fingers softens. His hold on me loosens and he pinches his eyes shut, breathing deeply before opening them. “This was not a good idea, was it?” His eyes linger over my mouth again like he’s a fraction of a second away from continuing what we started. The look in his eyes says he would carry me up on that bank and make love to me here and now if I gave him the okay.