Uncharted(58)

I just about keel over when Beck tells me, at my age, he was a total nerd who never would’ve gotten close to a cheerleader like me unless he was taking a picture for the school paper. I wonder if the girls he went to high school with have followed his rather illustrious career… or seen what he looks like now…

If so, I bet they’re kicking themselves for being so uppity.

He talks about his work, his favorite pictures ever taken, his photojournalist heroes — Robert Capa, James Nachtwey, W. Eugene Smith. He tells me about his life growing up in the nation’s capital, grandson of a former Attorney General, and how his parents always expected he’d seize their many political ties with both hands. Their disappointment was great indeed when he became a photographer instead of the President of the United States. I assure him, if they can’t be proud of three Pulitzer Prizes, they’re the ones with the issue.

The one thing we never discuss is Monique.

As far as I’m concerned, dredging up details about his wife will only rock the boat we’ve thus far managed to keep on such a sunny course. Anything he says about his former French-model love is likely to make me feel insecure; anything I say runs the risk of stirring long-buried drama to the surface. So we avoid her completely, a tacit agreement that suits us both just fine.

The more days pass, the more comfortable we grow with each other; the more nights that slip by, the harder it becomes to pull away when dawn breaks. He’s still adamant that we wait for the right time to finally surrender to each other, body and soul… to consummate our relationship in that most final way… but I can feel his resolve crumbling as the desire between us crescendoes from a whisper to a scream.

There’s a magnetic current charging the air even when we’re a dozen feet away, separated by a stretch of white sand beach. Just the weight of his eyes on my body makes me want to writhe. Every time our hands brush, sparks electrify my skin, kindling a fire inside me that threatens to rage out of control.

One night in late August, as we lay beneath a bed of stars in our open-roofed hut, our kisses grow so fervent I think I might shatter from just the press of his lips, the scrape of his teeth, the rasp of his stubble against my cheeks as his mouth trails down to the valley between my breasts. I hear him sigh painfully and know what’s coming — he’s about to pull away. My body is already tensing with the ache of impending separation.

No, I think, a firm denial. Not tonight. Not again.

Before he can stop me, my palms shove up against his shoulders and I buck, flipping him onto his back in one smooth motion. Straddling his waist, I take control, wrapping his wrists in my hands as I slam my mouth down on his. My hips slide back until his length is nestled perfectly between the junction of my thighs, so hard it makes my eyes water with sheer desire.

“Violet,” he growls against my lips, a warning. “We decided to wait…”

“No, you decided. And my patience has officially…” My hips roll deliciously and we both gasp at the feeling. “…expired.”

His forehead hits mine as he wrestles his wrists from my grasp. A few seconds later, he cups my cheeks gently with both hands. Our breaths mingle. “Your patience will be rewarded,” he pants softly. “I promise.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“So, like, in ten minutes? Tomorrow? How soon is soon?”

His laugh is laced with torment. “You are going to kill me.”

“That’s the idea.”

“If I’m dead, you’ll never get what you want.”

A sound of discontent rumbles from my mouth. “Did you take a vow of celibacy or something? Please tell me. I’m beginning to think you’re a monk.”

“Not a monk. A saint,” he mutters. “Or, at least, a man with the self-control of one.”

“Please… feel free to be less saintly.” I undulate my hips again, rubbing against his length until I see stars. “…and…” I gasp into his mouth. “A little more sinful.”

“Do you want me to go sleep on the beach?” he threatens, fingertips digging into my hips to keep them still. “Keep that up, and I’ll have no choice.”

With a grumble, I slide off his chest and roll away from him, creating a buffer of cool air between our heated bodies. I’m quaking with lust, aftershocks of an almost-orgasm rolling through me in mini waves of pleasure. I was close. Teetering on the brink.

I could feel it.

Beck lets me sulk for about thirty seconds before he reaches out and hauls me against his side. My head rests against his chest as he loops one powerful thigh over both of mine. His arm hooks around my back as my hands tuck beneath his armpit, tracing the indentations of his ribcage. The sharp sting of disappointment fades as he strokes my hair and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. I let my eyes drift closed and remind myself he’s not dragging this out for his own benefit. Hell, he’s suffering a perpetual state of blue-balls because he truly believes it’s what’s best for me.

Because he loves me.

There’s a smile on my face as I drift into slumber.



The howl of the wind wakes us.

Like a pack of wild dogs, it sweeps off the water and up the beach with stunning force, a precursor to a far greater threat. Beck’s wild eyes meet mine in the dark as we stumble from our cabin into camp. His hand wraps around mine, keeping me tethered to him as the frigid wind whips into our faces. It blows hard enough that I have to shield my eyes in the crook of an elbow, hard enough that the nearby palm trees creak precariously with each gust.