Birds of California(55)

“Get in the water, duchess.”

Fiona scowls at him for another moment, the skepticism written all over her face like possibly she thinks Ashton Kutcher is about to pop his head out of an upstairs window and announce a punking. Finally she pulls off her tank top, then shimmies out of her denim shorts and slips into the water, barely making a splash. She surfaces a moment later, her hair wet, water sticking to her eyelashes and beading on the smooth skin of her breasts above her bra.

Sam stares at her openmouthed for a second, then almost trips over his own feet in his hurry to get his pants off.

Fiona lifts an eyebrow. “Oh,” she teases, “now you’re wearing underwear, I see.”

“Is this just going to be hilarious to you forever, no matter what I do?”

“I’m sorry!” Fiona laughs. “I’m not trying to shame you out of walking around in your natural state like God made you—”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, and cannonballs into the deep end.

They float on their backs for a while, a warm wind rustling the palm trees and a dragonfly buzzing idly on the patio. “I love being in the water,” Fiona admits quietly. “I used to be on the swim team at my middle school, before I quit.”

Sam glances over at her. “The swim team?”

“Middle school.”

“You ever think about going back?”

“To middle school? I’m probably a little bit too tall.”

“Wokka wokka wokka.” He rights himself. “You got your GED, didn’t you? You could go to college.”

Fiona snorts. “Do I look like Elle Woods to you?”

“You’re smart,” he says with a shrug.

He’s expecting some snotty reply in response but instead Fiona tilts her head to the side. “Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome. It’s true.”

“I’d want to do it right,” she confesses, “if I did it. Like, a real campus, going to the library, taking boring required classes. The whole thing.”

From the way she says it he can tell that she’s pictured it before. “Drama major?”

“English,” she says immediately, then smiles. “Minor in drama.”

“You could,” he says again.

“Maybe.”

“No maybe.” He wants to tell her that he thinks she could do anything she wanted to, star in an Emmy-winning TV show or found a company or run for president. He wants to tell her she makes him feel like he could do anything, too. Instead he closes the distance between them and curls his hand around her waist under the water, pulling her close. “I just want to kiss you,” he promises softly, which is a lie; every time he looks at her he wants too many things to name. “I’m not going to do anything else.”

Fiona smiles. “Well, that’s too bad,” she says, then pushes him up against the side of the pool and shoves his boxer briefs down over his hips.

Sam breathes in, all the blood in his body immediately rushing to his dick. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Not putting a move on you,” she deadpans, wrapping her fingers around him and stroking. Sam bucks up into her hand. He lets out a quiet groan as she touches him, his eyes slipping closed at the rush of pleasure.

“Nice try,” Fiona says immediately, letting go and stepping back. “Look at me.”

Sam’s eyes fly open again, his gaze locking on hers.

“Good,” she says softly, and goes back to what she was doing.

She takes her time about it, experimenting—learning what he likes, Sam realizes belatedly, like maybe this is a thing she intends to do again in the future. The thought of it has him fisting his hands in her hair. “Please,” he mutters. “Fiona. Please.”

Fiona smiles, teasing. “Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

Fiona doesn’t stop. It’s technically not even sex and still it’s one of the most intimate moments of Sam’s entire life: her touch warm and steady, her eyes flecked with hazel and gold. He feels like she can see the tissue underneath his skin. “Fee,” he murmurs finally, wanting to warn her. “I’m gonna—”

Fiona smirks. “That’s the plan,” she says, and keeps going.

Sam keeps his eyes on hers for as long as he can manage before his forehead falls forward onto her shoulders, his breathing dense and ragged against her ear. Fiona rubs the back of his neck until he’s finished, the hot wind rustling the leaves of the palm trees high above them.





Chapter Fifteen


Fiona


They get back to Fiona’s just at the shadows are starting to get longer—the sunlight taking on that golden, late-afternoon toastiness and the outlines of the palm trees going a deep, moody blue. “So, um,” he says as the car idles in the driveway, looking suddenly bashful. “I guess I’ll text you? I mean, if you want—?”

Fiona presses her lips together to keep from laughing. Her hair is wet from the pool, the weight of it damp against her shoulder. Her mouth is still swollen and stinging, a low sweet ache throbbing between her legs. “Sure,” she says, casual as she can manage. “That’d be fine.” Then she fists her hand in his T-shirt and yanks him close for a kiss.