I check out the offending attacker. “Some lethal seaweed you got there, huh?”

She glances at the green slippery leaves in her hand and frowns, then looks down at me, still half lying in the water. My pants and shirt are soaked through the back. Her jeans are wet, and her shirt is splotchy with water.

She cringes and bites her lip, one hand planted on my chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know, if you wanted to get your hands on me, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t need to pretend you were being eaten by the plankton.”

“That wasn’t … I didn’t mean to…” She doesn’t make a move to get up, despite the way the tide rushes in rhythmic sweeps every few seconds, covering her calves and licking at my elbows.

Now that I have her this close and unguarded, I’m fully prepared to take advantage of the situation. I sit up in a rush, upsetting her balance once again. She grabs my shoulders as I bring a knee up to prevent her from toppling backward, and wind an arm around her waist.

We’re face-to-face. Her eyes lock on mine, full lips parted. I want to know what they feel like. I want to find out if she kisses like she’s fighting or submitting. Or maybe both.

I brush her cheek with mine, breathing her in, mouths close but not touching She stills. I wonder what’s going through her head in that suspended moment. Whatever the conflict, she must resign herself because the hand on my chest slides into the wet hair at the nape of my neck and she turns in instead of away, nipping at my bottom lip.

First kisses are powerful. This imperfect situation has all the right components. Romantic with a setting sun backdrop and a beach—not ideal that I’m mostly soaking wet, but definitely memorable.

Her lips part in expectation, but I don’t claim her mouth. Not yet. Instead, I sweep my lips along the edge of her jaw. She shivers, fingers flexing against the back of my neck, nails biting in as she tips her head back, exposing the long, gentle line of her throat. I run my nose down the expanse and press my lips against the sensitive space where her neck meets her shoulder.

Threading my fingers through the long silky strands, I cup the back of her head so I can adjust the angle. I nibble along her throat until my lips are almost at her ear and suck on the sensitive skin there, smiling at her soft gasp.

“Rian.”

She makes a sound, more of a moan than anything, really.

“I’d like to kiss that pretty mouth of yours.”

I get another moan, this one lower, and she attempts to turn toward me.

I duck my head, lips moving along her collarbone and up the other side of her throat. Then I follow the edge of her jaw, slow, soft brushes interspersed with light nibbles the closer I get to her chin.

She must realize I’m not rushing this, because she stops trying to twist her head toward my mouth. Instead, she readjusts her position, settling her weight on my thighs, edging closer until her chest meets mine. One hand stays against the nape of my neck, while the other begins to wander, sliding down my bicep. I feel a slight squeeze before it drifts along my forearm to where my hand rests on the dip in her waist.

Her pinkie slips under mine, possibly in a subtle attempt to encourage me to touch more of her. While that’s definitely something I want to do—eventually—I also don’t want her attention divided.

I want her wanting.

Drawing out the anticipation heightens the experience, it’s a sensual torment, a sensory override. I need her focus on my mouth, on where it is and where she wants it to be.

When I finally get to her chin, I bite, not hard, but enough that she sucks in a breath. I tip her head down and flick my tongue out, skimming her top lip. Her hand tightens on the back of my neck again and I loosen my fingers in her hair. As soon as I do, our mouths connect like two meteors colliding.

Any thought I had of finessing my way through this disappears when Rian sucks my bottom lip between hers, dragging her teeth across the skin. She presses her body against me, legs spreading wider in the sand as she shifts forward.

I’m achingly hard. I’ve been halfway there since dinner. And suddenly I have friction to complement the hardness. She runs an aggressive palm up my arm and over my shoulder, fingers back in my hair. She angles her head to the side, opening wider, tongue searching for mine.

I wonder what sex with this woman would be like. Definitely not soft, she’s too much of a battle in the middle of a storm. When I finally stroke inside the warm softness of her mouth, she groans and tries to bite my tongue.

She clambers up when I retract, both hands on my shoulders in an attempt to push me back. So I grip her waist and flip her over. She sucks in a shocked gasp when she finds herself on her back in the sand and the surf.

“What the heck!” She pushes on my chest with one hand, the other arm hooks around my neck, as if she’s fighting to force me back up but keep me close at the same time. “I’m soaked!”

“Oh yeah?” I settle between her thighs, and she stops pushing away as soon as she feels me there.

“That wasn’t very nice.” A tremor runs through her.

“The part where I saved you from the dangerous seaweed, or the part where you dragged me into the water? Or are you referring to me kissing you? Because I thought that was very, very nice, actually.” I glance up when I hear voices in the distance. I didn’t realize we’d already made it back to beach house sixty-nine. It’s only a hundred feet away, to the right.

“The part where you made me as wet as you are.”

She rolls her eyes as soon as the grin starts to form on my lips. I dip down and brush them over hers again. Her knees press hard against my hips, arms tightening around my neck.

Those voices grow steadily louder.

“Hold on.” I push up until I’m on my knees. She keeps her grip on my neck, but she doesn’t react quickly enough to keep her legs around my waist.

“I hear people,” she whispers.

I unhook her arms, turn around and crouch down. “Hop on.”

“What?”

“Hop on. I’ll carry you back.” There’s a moment of hesitation before she climbs up and links her ankles at my waist. I nab the takeout, my messenger bag—which thankfully didn’t get wet—and our shoes, and jog across the beach.

It’s mostly dark inside the house, apart from the light on the second-story deck and a faint glow coming from the kitchen.

“Do you think your sister locked the sliding door?” I ask when we reach the stairs to the deck.

“Unlikely, and I know I didn’t,” she replies, her expression chagrined.

“It’s a pretty safe beach and there’s an alarm system in the house. I’ll show you how to arm it.” I’d forgotten earlier, too preoccupied with her unexpected appearance.

She’s right, the door is unlocked. The air conditioning hits us when we step inside and Rian shivers.

I survey the living room, tidy apart from the rumpled blanket on the couch. “Where’s your sister?”

“She was sleeping when I left, and she wouldn’t go anywhere without letting me know.” She meets my questioning gaze with a hot one of her own, despite the fact that her teeth are chattering.

“We should get you out of those wet clothes.”

“What about your wet clothes?” Her grin turns saucy.

“We should get me out of them too, I suppose.” I hadn’t planned on taking this much further than a kiss, but my hard-on seems to have other plans.