Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(67)
“That’s sweet, if a bit voyeuristic.”
“Not at all,” he said, putting his hand over his heart in a wounded display. “I don’t have X-ray vision and can’t see through your bedroom curtains. I assure you, all is completely innocent.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Though when the windows are open, I can hear Cara’s canary singing.”
She laughed. “We all do.”
“It’s that neighbor thing again,” he said in a more serious tone. “You’re so close. And yet . . .” He let the familiar phrase dangle.
She felt the change in tone thicken the air between them. They were back here . . . the reason why they’d strolled from the sea to this small studio. He was waiting for her decision. Linnea took a small breath.
“I’m here now.”
His eyes kindled and he set his wineglass on a nearby table. Without speaking he reached out for her glass, and likewise set it down. She wasn’t the least bit nervous. She felt comfortable here, in this place, with him. It felt right.
He took her hand again, the same hand he’d held on the long beach walk. In a flash the memories converged—the connection she’d felt matching the rhythm of her step to his, bumping hips and shoulders, the sound of his voice against the rumble of the waves, the feeling that they could keep on walking all night. He brought her hand to his lips, looking into her eyes, then turned it over and kissed the palm. Linnea sucked in her breath. She’d never realized how sensitive that patch of skin was. Then he let his fingers slide up her arm to cup her face. He smiled at her, a smile of promise and reassurance.
She smiled back, coy, flirtatious, her eyes signaling yes.
His head slowly lowered, his gaze holding hers until, at last, his lips met hers. This second kiss was more assured, more demanding. A moan rose in her throat, and again she leaned into him, surrendering.
Once more he took her hand, and led her to the back corner of the studio. Under a dramatic round window and a mural of dolphins arching was an antique sleigh bed made of beautiful mahogany with ball-and-claw feet. The bed was unmade, the pillows dented with the memory of his head.
Her fingers nimbly undid the covered buttons of her pale-pink blouse. He stood motionless watching her, his arms hanging at his sides. When she was finished, he stepped closer to bring his fingers to her shoulders and slide the blouse away. Then, in a rush, he pulled his own shirt off over his head and reached again for her.
“Wait,” she whispered against his lips.
He froze, uncertain.
“Turn off the lights,” she said, yearning for the moonlight.
He took a few steps away to flick off the lights. Instantly the room was once again flooded with silver light. Looking at him now, standing motionless with his finely muscled chest creating shadows, he was like a marvelous statue carved from a single piece of marble.
“Linnea?” He asked so much in saying her name.
“John.” Her answer spoke volumes.
He stepped forward, wrapping her in his arms. This kiss ignited a fire that went beyond foreplay. Now they lunged for each other, tearing off clothes, kissing bare skin revealed. They fell back onto the bed, never for a second releasing each other. His hands trembled as they rounded bare shoulders, slid along the curves of her back, then up again.
In the moonlight Linnea felt part of the mural, floating in the sea. As the kisses deepened, she felt the smaller waves hit. She let them glide over her, gasping for breath. Higher they rose, steeper and steeper. She felt herself paddling hard, moving forward with strong, deliberate strokes, closer to the breaker. His lips were everywhere, his hands holding her firmly, guiding her to catch the wave. Suddenly she felt it coming. She moved faster, pacing herself to his cues. When the great wave hit, she let go, and with a gasp, she caught the wave. She was riding high, soaring, letting the wave take her home.
Chapter Sixteen
Twenty inches under the sand, the hatchlings begin to pip, or break out of their eggs, using a small temporary tooth called a caruncle. They work together to rise up like an elevator. Once at the top, they remain for a number of days and absorb their yolk, which is attached by an umbilical to their abdomen. Often called the lunch pail, this yolk will provide them the much-needed energy for their first few days when they make their way from the nest to offshore waters.
A TRIPLE-DIGIT JULY HEAT wave hit Charleston, and the turtle team discovered that the nests were hatching early, some as early as forty-seven days. And as always, whispers of warm water fueled fears of hurricanes.
On the first day the heat wave broke, dropping to the low nineties, Linnea hopped into her Mini Cooper and met her brother for lunch at Saffron Café on East Bay, not far from the family business. It was part bakery, part restaurant, and they’d eaten there for as long as she could remember. Linnea welcomed the blast of air-conditioning as she stepped into the café. Cooper was already there, flagging her down from a table by the window. He was dressed in a faded dress shirt and black jeans, his effort at respectability at the office, and his dark hair was longer than usual, curling around his ears. He already had a tray full of food.
She grabbed a tray and hurried down the refrigerated section, pulling out a dish of Saffron’s delicious hummus and pita and an iced tea, then paid for it and met Cooper at the table.
Cooper rose as she approached and kissed her cheek. “Nice outfit.”