Saugatuck Summer (Saugatuck, #1)(16)

“Well, is there anything else you’re good at?”

There was swimming, but I was never going to be Olympic class, so once I was done competing in college, I was going to hit the end of the road there, unless I wanted to coach. Which I really didn’t. In my experience, coaches came in two varieties: Those who had made it and settled into coaching afterward to rest on their laurels, and those who weren’t good enough to make it and bitterly resigned themselves to coaching as their Plan B.

“Not anything I think I could really make a career out of. Let’s talk about something else, because I’m feeling pretty f*cking good tonight and I want to keep it that way.”

“Okay.” Jace set his empty bottle aside, and his gaze swept over me with intent. Just like that, we were back to the sexy. My pulse leapt and my jeans got tighter. “Tell me why you’re feeling good tonight.”

I flashed him a flirty grin, drawling out my words ponderously. “Wellll . . . I’m feeling good because . . . I’m twenty-one, and I’m damn fine to look at, and there’s a sexy guy across from me waiting for the right moment to take me to his room and blow my mind.”

His smile broadened. “Setting your expectations a little high, aren’t you? How do you know you won’t be disappointed?”

“The same way you know.” I wasn’t smiling now. I was deadly earnest, needing to know if this synergy going on was all in my mind, or if he was feeling it, too.

His own smile faded a little as well, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment of the point. “So, do you think the right moment might be soon?” he asked softly.

I swallowed hard, my heart beating so fast in my chest that I could barely breathe. “God, I hope so.”

He stared at me a moment longer, and then he moved. Slowly. Giving me plenty of time to back away. He shifted up and left his chaise, stepping over to mine, and caught my hand, lacing our fingers together. His other hand slid along my jaw, drawing my face up for a kiss.

It started as the same gentle brush with which he’d greeted me, but this time it felt like he was asking permission. His tongue stroked my bottom lip and I opened to it, inviting it inside. We sort of . . . sank into each other. My hands gripped his waist and bunched in the silk of his shirt, tugging him closer. He tasted better than anyone who’d been drinking beer ought to, and he smelled amazing. Like . . . I don’t know . . . cinnamon and woodsmoke, and maybe a little like the stuff from the fog machines alongside the dance floor. It was all subtle, so I was having a hard time figuring out exactly what it was, but it definitely worked for him.

We were both shaking with arousal, but he kissed me like we had all the time in the world. Which really, I suppose we did, since it was still pretty early, but God I felt like we’d been teasing ourselves with this for hours.

When he pulled away, his eyes no longer danced wickedly. They burned, dark and intent.

“Come on.”





Gone is the sense of safety

I’m on the edge of a cliff

I’m tossing my love over

Listening for the sound of impact

—Casey Stratton, “Projector”

I flowed to my feet without any conscious effort, drawn inexorably by the pressure of his gentle tug on my hand. He led me away from the pool, weaving through the crowds to one of the larger cottages. Unlocking the door, he gestured me inside and pointed to the apartment-sized fridge in the kitchenette.

“Another beer?”

I shook my head, then stepped close to him and pressed him back against the wall for another kiss. Not forcefully—just enough to give us something to lean on if our knees weakened. If we’d been asking permission before, this time we were stating intent. A little rougher, a little less patient, a little more demanding. We groped and grasped for handholds on each other’s hips or ass or back. Whatever we could reach.

I kissed my way past the start of his tattoos to the point where they disappeared under the collar of his shirt. He moaned and went pliant for a moment, letting me explore. The sweat-damp skin of his neck was rich and salty and spicy under my tongue.

“Can I ask a favor of you before we go any further?” he managed after a moment.

“Hmmm?” There was salt in the hollow above his collarbone, warm on my tongue.

“May I take your picture?”

Like a needle scratching along a record, I zipped to a halt. “What?”

He licked his lips, smiling at my sudden unease, his eyes dancing again. “I swear to God it’s not as sleazy as it sounds. I think I might like to paint you sometime, but obviously you won’t be able to model for me. So I wondered if I could take some photos to use as references.”

I chuckled uneasily. “Is this how you start all your hookups?”

“No, I promise it’s not.” His head rocked toward his shoulder, tilting enticingly. “So?”

“Okay . . .” I answered slowly, still thrown off my stride. “Um . . . where?”

“In here.” He took me by the hand and led me into one of the two bedrooms. A suitcase was open on the luggage rack, camera gear was spread out on the dresser, and a sketch pad occupied the middle of the bed. I barely had time to do more than glance at the pencil drawings on it before he flipped it shut and moved to the desk.

Seeing it reassured me a bit. It looked like he really was an artist.