Uncharted(53)

He pushes me back against the bank and stretches out over me, delicious weight pressing me into the earth. Our mouths never break contact. Our hands never pause. There is not a shred of hesitation in the way we trace and memorize each other. Not a single beat of awkwardness.

There is only joy. Heart-pounding, euphoria-inducing joy.

In these stolen, sun-streaked moments on the shore, being kissed as I’ve never been kissed before, I taste true happiness for the first time in my life. My heart fills to bursting as I’m hit with the sensation of something very right finally falling into place, after an eternity of breathless expectation.

We belong together.

It’s as simple as that. We are a perfect match, his hard edges absorbing my soft ones as my hands splay out across his skin. He buries his face in my neck as I trace the muscled planes of his back with hurried fingertips, exploring all the bits I’ve dreamed about from afar. It’s been sweet torture, wondering about the taste of his lips, the feel of his hips digging into mine, the sound of his groans when I stroke my hands low across his abdomen, tracing the thin strip of hair that leads down into his shorts. My imagination is not half as satisfying as the real thing.

My fingertips are skimming the elastic strap of his black boxers when his mouth rips itself from mine.

“Stop.” He’s on his feet before I can blink, backing away from me like I’m a bomb with ten seconds left on the timer until detonation. “We have to stop this.”

I scramble up, eyes locked on his, confusion clawing at my insides.

“What? Why?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are on my bare chest, scanning my naked body up and down. The expression on his face is full of such acute torture, I feel my heart skip a beat; he’s in physical pain, not being able to touch me.

“Beck…” I whisper. “If this is about my age… I’ll be eighteen in a few days. The Fourth of July. Frankly, I don’t think it should matter how damn old I am—”

“It’s not your age.” His voice is so tight, I could pluck his words from the air and snap them in two.

“Then what?”

He stares at me across the bank, tension emanating from his skin like steam off the water. There’s an unreadable expression on his face, but I know him well enough to recognize the pain brimming over in his eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“You can tell me anything.”

His fists clench and unclench rhythmically at his sides.

“Beck…” I take two steps toward him, certain if I can just put my arms around him again, this — whatever it is — will all be cleared up. Certain there’s nothing in the world that can keep us apart, now that we’ve finally smashed the wall between us into dust. “Beck, please, whatever this is about… we’ll fix it.”

He cuts me off before I can take a third step. His words are the sharpest blades, cutting the world out from beneath my feet until everything I thought I knew shifts to something unrecognizable.

“I’m married.”



Married.

Married.

I can’t stop saying it. Can’t stop thinking it. Can’t stop feeling it twisting around inside my stomach like a poisonous snake, its venom spreading a little farther through my system with each passing moment.

Married. Married. Married.

I murmur it under my breath like a curse, until it loses all meaning. I can feel his eyes on me as I pace back and forth, dress whipping around my legs, feet creating divots in the sand with each furious stride. I’m angry at him for not telling me, angrier at myself for not figuring it out sooner.

And heartbroken beyond belief that I’ve fallen in love with a man who wasn’t free to claim.

Were there signs?

Did I miss them somehow?

I rack my brain for any indications he gave me that he was someone’s husband, but come up short. I’m certain he never mentioned any woman, even in passing. Not a mom or a sister or even a distant female cousin. I would’ve remembered.

Then, of course, there’s the small fact that he doesn’t wear a wedding band. The only time the subject of marriage ever arose was the day he overheard me talking to Ian about the perfect life. I’d said maybe a passionless existence with the perfect husband, house, and kids would be preferable to life on a deserted island… and he’d snapped something back at me.

What was it he said?

I wouldn’t put my money on that, princess.

“Violet—”

“Shut up.” I cut him off, throwing out a hand to silence him. I don’t want to hear his explanations. I don’t even want to look at him. The only thing I truly want to do is hurl a coconut straight at his head.

“If you’d just let me—”

“SHUT. UP.”

He falls silent.

I pace some more, trying to sort out my emotions. It’s hard to focus on anything with his eyes tracking my every step. I feel them like a physical weight, skating across my skin in a featherlight caress. It was difficult enough to ignore him before today. After our ten — or was it twenty? — minute make-out session, earlier, I fear I’ll never be able to focus on a damn thing again. The memory of his mouth is inked permanently on my brain. I can’t expunge him. He’s embedded deep under my skin, an irreversible tattoo.