I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up #3)(48)

I have a system, a routine, a plan I usually follow with women, and she’s blowing that all to shreds. I’m usually a lot better at taking things slow, but not with Rian.

“Are you okay?” I ask, guttural and low.

“Yes.” It’s more raspy whisper than anything.

I scan the beach. Thankfully it’s still empty. We’re close to my brother’s place. Closer than we are to the rental. I fold back on my knees and shift the top of her dress so it covers her breasts. This is the second time I’ve fucked the hell out of this woman. In two days.

I ease out and adjust her panties—which I never bothered to take off—and her dress into place so she’s not flashing the world when she stands. It’s only after she’s covered that I slip the condom off, tie a knot in it and shove it in my pocket. Gross, yes. But better than leaving it for a bird to choke on and die. Or a toddler to pick up while making sand castles tomorrow.

“Come on, hotness.” I take her hands and pull her into a sitting position. As I stand, I bring her with me. The temperature has dropped significantly since the sun disappeared.

Rian shivers and crosses her arms over her chest, head bowed as I pick my shirt up off the ground and shake it out.

“Arms out, baby,” I murmur.

She peeks up.

“You’re shivering. Let’s get you inside and warmed up.”

“What about you?”

“I’m the asshole who fucked you on beach in May. I deserve to be cold.” She slips her arms into the sleeves. It’s huge on her, but at least it’s a barrier against the cool breeze coming off the water.

I grab her shoes and tuck her into my side, walking briskly up the beach. She has to jog to keep up, so I pause for a moment, dip down, tuck her knees into the crook of my arm and swing her up.

“What’re you doing? I’m too heavy!” Rian protests, but latches her arms around my neck and snuggles right in. If I’d been smart enough to wait until we were back at her place, we could be in a damn bed now.

“Hardly,” I scoff.

Clouds have started to roll in, and I have to wonder if we’re in for a storm tonight.

I jog toward my brother’s beach house. The three thousand square feet of open concept living space feels small with the two of us currently living here together. But once the master bedroom is renovated in the bungalow we purchased, I can always move in there while I finish the rest of the house. My condo in Manhattan is way too far to be a reasonable drive, so I haven’t been back in weeks. And I don’t really want to.

I have to set Rian down to unlock the door, but I wrap one arm around her, keeping her tight against my chest.

“God, I’m itchy,” she mumbles as she reaches down to scratch her calf, while holding onto my arm for balance.

I open the door and usher her inside. Most of the lights are off, apart from a small lamp in the living room. I guide her upstairs to my bedroom, which is also mostly dark, and as far away from my brother’s as it can possibly get. I don’t flick on a light until I reach my private bathroom.

We both hiss at the sudden brightness. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and I cross to the shower, turning on the water.

“What’re you doing?” Rian asks.

“Warming you up with a nice hot shower.” I turn around and pull my shirt over her head, sand fluttering to the floor around her feet.

She arches a brow. “Are you planning to join me?”

“How’re you going to get your back if I’m not in there with you?”

She braces a hand on the vanity and scratches her leg again. “Seriously, why am I so itchy?”

“It’s probably the sand.” Or the friction from the sand. I turn her around with the intention of unzipping her dress. “Oh shit.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” She meets my slightly horrified gaze in the mirror.

I clear my throat and try to make my eyes look less like they’re about to pop out of my head. “You’ve got a few bites.” A few is an understatement. Her shoulders to her mid-back and from mid-thigh to ankle are covered in tiny, angry bites. There have to be more than a hundred.

“What kind of bites? How many is a few?”

“Um, judging from the look of them, I’d say sand fleas.”

“Fleas?” Her shriek echoes in the confines of the bathroom. She spins so her back is facing the mirror and cranes her neck to see over her shoulder. Her mouth drops. “Oh my God! Oh my God. A few bites?”

“It’s not that bad.” It’s actually worse than that bad.

She checks out the back of her legs, which are a mass of tiny, raised red bumps. She reaches behind her, likely with the intention of scratching. I grab her hands and clasp them in mine. “Don’t do that. It’ll make it worse.”

“But I’m so itchy. I need to get out of this dress. What if there are sand fleas stuck under it?” She starts hopping from one foot to the other.

“Let me help you out of it, then you can get into the shower. I have antihistamines and I’ll draw a bath. I have salts I use when I have allergic reactions. They’re holistic or whatever.” I don’t know why I’m explaining, other than I feel bad and I want to fix it. I also don’t want this to be the last time Rian and I have sex—selfish of me, I know.