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  “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he said at length, his tone deep and thoughtful, and then asked, “So you’re not sorry for what you said.”

  “No. I’m not sorry for what I said,” I responded immediately, telling the truth even though I could feel the heat of mortification climbing up my neck. “I take full responsibility for my actions and my words. I am to blame.”

  Yesterday, he’d asked me to be honest, for once. This was me being honest, for twice. Once last night, again today. No one could claim I wasn’t an overachiever at accepting responsibility.

  “Even the part where you said you loved me?” The question sounded equal parts curious and taunting. Or maybe not taunting. Maybe . . . defiant?

  I angled my chin. “Yes.”

  He angled his chin in a movement that mirrored mine. “That you’re still in love with me?”

  “Yes.” My voice cracked, I cleared my throat, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach, and repeated more firmly, “Yes.” Ugh. This is hard. So hard.

  “I see.” His chin lowered, his lush amber irises seemed to warm, maybe with amusement? “How about the part where you asked to listen to my heart?”

  I winced a little and, unable to hold his gaze any longer, I stepped away and dropped my eyes to the floor of the pool. I spotted my goggles. “Yep. I remember that, and I’m not sorry I said it, because it was true. And you wanted honesty. As such, there you go. I remember all of it. Thanks.”

  Why was he doing this? Was he trying to torment me? What was the point?

  “What about us kissing?”

  My head whipped up. “What?”

  What! WHAT!?! I missed us kissing? If I missed us kissing, I was going to be SO ANGR—

  “Calm down.” He moved closer, giving me a full smile now, looking like he was trying not to laugh. “I’m joking. We didn’t kiss.”

  A gush of air escaped me, my shoulders slumping, my forehead coming to my hand. Thank God. But also, darn.

  Abram’s eyes were on me. I felt them. I also felt the water push and swirl again. Between my fingers I saw he’d come closer.

  “Mona.”

  “Yes?” I shivered. The way he said my name, it was the auditory equivalent to being stroked.

  “Will you be brave with me?”

  My eyes stung, I shook my head, and I continued to be honest. “I’m so tired of being brave.”

  That seemed to give him pause. His hand came to my arm, curled around it gently, and smoothed down to my elbow, his palm hot against my chilled skin. Other than shaking his hand that first day, was this the first time we’d touched since Chicago? It felt like . . . it felt indescribable. A terrifying relief was the closest description I could summon.

  Abram tugged on my arm, bringing me closer, his other hand sliding against my cheek and lifting my chin. My fingers fell away from my face. I braced myself. I felt like I might crack, splinter from the hum of uncertainty and anticipation.

  I don’t know what I expected, but when our eyes locked, his were an odd combination of kind and covetous. “Then will you let me know you?”

  I pressed my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling. “Why? To what purpose?”

  The question seemed to amuse him. “I need someone to listen to my heart.” His face inched closer. “And it only wants to beat for you.”

  Wha—

  Bah!

  Argra!

  DAMN POET!

  It was no use. I couldn’t stop the tears. Wherever fear meets hope, that’s where I was. I wanted to believe him. I wanted it so very, very badly. But he’d been intensely angry with me just days ago. Too fast. This is all happening too fast. And I know better. He is a wildly famous musician! You will be just one of his many consorts!!

  “Are you going to hurt me?” I blurted, knowing I sounded broken. Gripping his wrist, I gave myself permission to enjoy the strength of him, the solid sturdiness, even if it ultimately turned out to be a lie. “Because if this is payback, you win. You win. Consider me punished. I surrender.”

  His eyes grew impossibly soft, concern etched itself between his eyebrows. “No.”

  No.

  What he really should have said was, Not yet. Because, eventually, he was going to leave, or I was going to leave, and it was going to hurt.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening. You said—” I sniffled, shaking my head, blinking against hot tears, “You said you regretted it. You said you weren’t—that you didn’t know me, and that you didn’t—”

  “Shh. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  Abram brought his other hand to my opposite cheek and pressed his forehead against mine, our stomachs, hips, and legs brushing, warm accidental touches that set my pulse racing. I couldn’t think.

  “Mona, I don’t know you, not really. You keep everyone at an arm’s length. But you’ve given me glimpses, scraps, and they’ve only made me hungry for more.”

  His right hand slid down my jaw to my neck, curling around the back of it; his left hand smoothed over my shoulder, to my arm, and gripped my waist, pulling me to him evocatively; one of his legs moved against mine, bracketing it, and he angled his body such that all those accidental touches now felt powerfully purposeful.

  I felt myself shake with the effort to hold still, but not because I wanted to push him again. For once, for the very first time, I was surrounded and overwhelmed by another person and my instinct was to draw him closer, ever nearer, sink into him, merge our bodies together, accept his strength and cocoon myself within.

  Abram’s nose nuzzled mine, his lips brushed my lips with the faintest of touches, and he whispered, “Let me in.”

  15

  Fluid Dynamics

  *Abram*

  She was shaking.

  The plan had been to find her and kiss the hell out of her. But she was cold, and shaking, and crying, and it wrecked me.

  I made a new plan. I wrapped my arms around her, my intention was to hold her for as long as she’d allow, but Mona surprised me by lifting her chin and pressing her lips to mine.

  Fuck. . . YES.

  Without inhaling, my lungs filled, and I heard a single note between my ears, perfectly pitched, traveling down my spine and heating every nerve ending with carnal, electric want. I’d wanted this for so long, it seemed there’d never been a time I hadn’t thought about it, fantasized about this moment with her.

  Her hands gripped my sides, her nails digging into me, anchoring me, as though to ensure that—should I withdraw—I wouldn’t leave unscathed. As punishment? I found I didn’t care, or couldn’t, because her lips parted and I wanted in.

  My tongue swept inside. She moaned, sucking, swallowing, her mouth slick and soft and fiery hot. I moved instinctively, walking her backward, charging forward as though I could enter her this way, gain access to the furtive parts of her through strength and force. And she, rather than stumble backward, jumped slightly and wrapped her legs around my waist.

  Fuck, I was hard. My mouth alternately devoured and sipped her. So hard. My body selfishly sought relief as her back met with the wall of the pool. I rocked against the apex of her legs, spreading her wider, and she tilted her head back to gasp, shivering again.

  But then her mouth immediately returned, fused to mine, and she tilted her pelvis—up and down—using me, rubbing herself on my cock through the layers of our bathing suits.

  This is insane.

  A spark turned inferno. My skin hindered me. I grew frustrated by the constraints of my body. It only imprisoned, subjugated and diminished this transcendent craving, reducing the wonder of it to something merely carnal, physical.

  Her breath hitched and she broke away to suck in air while her body chased friction, bouncing clumsily, riding the length of my shaft as sparks and flares and bursts of hot promise ignited at the base of my spine.

  But I wasn’t inside her, and I wanted in, every barrier removed. I wanted inside her, all her secret places. I wanted her open, exposed, bare, and hot, and wet, and
panting . . . and I pictured her that way. Even with my hands on her now, even with her clothed pussy sliding over my dick encased in my board shorts, I saw her naked, reclined, reaching for me, wanting me to be inside. That’s what I saw. Not this imperfect, clumsy, hurried grasping.

  This is insane.

  A corner of my mind told me that this wasn’t part of the plan. I’d hoped for a sweet moment, a step toward something lasting. Not this lascivious spiral we’d been sucked into, humping like mindless animals.

  But maybe that’s what we were.

  Everything about this—how she grabbed me, how hot I burned, her nails digging into my back and sides, scratching, biting at my mouth, how I rocked against her greedy strokes, held her confined, reached my hand beneath her swim shirt to grab and pinch and twist one of the softest parts of her body—was animalistic and base, depraved and instinctual. On a physical level, it felt fucking amazing. But . . .

  Is this what you want?

  She blinked at me, like she was startled, and I realized I’d said the words out loud to her, a question meant for myself.

  I flexed my muscles, tensing, thrusting against her open legs. She shuddered.

  I repeated, “Is this what you want? For us?” I massaged her breast, circling the peek mercilessly with my thumb. “You wanna fuck?”

  Her eyes dazed, a puff of breath leaving her, she whimpered, and she said, “No,” like it cost her, like she wasn’t sure.

  But a no is always a no.

  I swallowed, torn between relief and brutal frustration, and relaxed my hold. We were both breathing hard, and the effort required to remove my hands from her glorious skin felt like slicing my body in half. But I did. Reminding myself that I wanted in helped, made stepping away easier as her legs slipped from around my waist. I backed away, my hands on my hips. I wanted to conquer and be conquered, to be broken and reassembled using her pieces.

  I retreated. For now.

  Looking at her from across the pool, watching her suck in air, gripping the edge, her gaze still dazed and hot and conflicted, I knew taking Mona now wouldn’t do a damn thing other than make us feel good—really fucking good—for one moment. I didn’t want one of her moments, I wanted all of them. I wanted an invasion, not a visit.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked abruptly, her searching eyes moving over me.

  I cleared my throat. “I probably shouldn’t say.”

  That made her frown, so I quickly added, “It involves you being very naked.”

  Her frown cleared, and the side of her mouth twitched. “Very naked? As opposed to just a little naked?”

  I wasn’t ready to smile, because my dick hated me, and I spoke to stall, just for the sake of speaking. “Yep. My cousin’s friend was a lingerie model at some ridiculous shop in the Northeast, and one time she told me there are stages of naked.”

  Mona’s eyebrows pulled together, but not in a frown. “Stages of naked? What stage is fully naked? I mean, with no clothes?” She sounded curious.

  “Stage five.”

  Her eyes moved up and to the right, to some spot over my head. “Then what’s stage one?”

  Sexy lingerie.

  I cleared my throat again and shook my head, needing to clear it. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Why? Is it bad?”

  “No.”

  “Will I hate it?”

  “I hope not.”

  That made her smile. “I think I figured it out.”

  I laughed, shaking my head again. Her smile widened and she wrapped her arms around herself, like she was cold. We needed to get out of this pool. Surreptitiously, I tucked my erection up and to the side, into the waist of my shorts, and tried not to wince at the action. I didn’t want it tenting my wet suit. She’d already felt it, so I didn’t think Mona needed to see how she affected that part of me.

  Also, I didn’t need my dick leading the way.

  “Come on.” I waded toward her gingerly, cock throbbing from how I’d concealed it, my hand outstretched, my voice rough. “Let’s go.”

  She glanced between me and my fingers, stepping forward to grab them. “Why?”

  “You’re still cold.”

  “I don’t feel cold,” she muttered.

  “Your skin is cold.” It was. Her fingers were chilled where they tangled with mine. “Let’s go warm you up.” Tugging, I led her to the pool steps, careful to stay in front of her just in case my erection slid free of the waistband.

  “Where are we going? The hot tub?”

  My steps faltered and my balls ached. “Hot tub?” What the hell? Was that my voice?

  “Yes. Right over there.”

  I swallowed around the thick band of lust and glanced at the hot tub, but only allowed myself a glance. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to get the resultant image of Mona out of my brain, and tonight’s lyrics would be brought to you by the words horny, hot, and tub. For an unknown reason, I felt like punching something.

  “Bad idea,” I rasped.

  She studied me, her gaze beautifully earnest. “If you don’t like the one in here, I have one in my room too.”

  Oh God. “What?” And what the fuck is wrong with my voice?

  “It’s actually on the balcony, not in the room.”

  My body quickly pocketed this information, hoarding the knowledge for later, just in case we were to find ourselves in her room and struggling with boredom. By the end of the day tomorrow. Torture.

  “I was thinking more like hot tea, or hot chocolate.” I made my voice deeper to disguise the strain of speaking while my brain fought a losing battle against my imagination. “Something warm to drink.”

  “That sounds great. I guess I am a little cold,” she said, her lips now a shade of purple. “If I’m cold, I love anything hot.”

  “Me too,” I said, my voice rough.

  Something hot would be more than appreciated, it would be necessary, especially after the cold shower I was about to take.

  As she dried off, I wrapped my towel firmly around my waist, and then walked Mona to her room, relieved to find she’d brought a huge bathrobe to cover herself, and not just because she was cold.

  We agreed to meet in the kitchen, drink something hot, and talk.

  I didn’t care what we talked about, I just needed to hear her speak, about anything. I suspected the last time we’d had a meaningful, genuine conversation was after I’d taken her to Anderson’s Bookshop in Chicago. Now I wanted to know how much of that dinner conversation had been the real her, and how much had been Mona pretending to be Lisa.

  I wanted to believe she’d been 100 percent herself, but I didn’t know.

  Mona was already in the kitchen by the time I’d arrived, pulling spices out of the cabinet. She looked up as I walked in.

  “Hi,” she said, swallowed, and gave me a small smile.

  “Hey,” I said, giving her a much larger one, and crossed to her.

  I watched her carefully as I approached, how she reached for and gripped the counter behind her, how she tensed, but also lifted her chin, her eyes on my mouth.

  She wanted to be kissed? Wonderful. In fact, fantastic.

  Bending my neck, I gently slid our noses together—she’d liked that in the pool—and pressed my body and my lips to hers. Soft. So soft. Velvet and satin and heat.

  A tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying relaxed, and my mind quieted. Kissing her, I wanted more, but I also calmed. A new kind of restlessness surfaced. Anticipation.

  The goalposts were moving: Talking without anger. Honesty. Forgiveness. Touching. Kissing. What’s next? I couldn’t wait to find out.

  Immediately, she also relaxed, lips parting, and she sighed. Mona’s arms encircled my neck, and I kissed her again, this time catching her bottom lip lightly between my teeth. I licked it, loving how slippery and hot and delicious she tasted.

  She moaned—arching, pressing, straining—a hitching breath, a needy sound, and I knew it was time to back off.

  Removing
my hands from her body, I placed them on the counter behind her. But I wasn’t ready to cede our closeness. Lowering my face to her neck, I whispered, “What are you making?”

  “Hot chocolate,” she whispered in return, tilting her head to the side, exposing her soft neck to me, her hands sliding to my biceps. “Do you want some? Or do you want tea?”

  “Which do you prefer?” Unable to help myself, I placed a hungry kiss where her graceful shoulder met her equally graceful neck, inhaling something mild, and sweet like cream. “You smell good.”

  “It’s just soap.” She was still whispering, and every time I spoke against her skin her body arched in a lithe, reflexive movement. She continued, “And I love both tea and hot chocolate. But I have to be in the mood for hot chocolate, and I am, so I’m making it.”

  “I’ll have what you’re having.” I placed one more kiss just under her jaw, and then pushed myself away. She smelled too good, she felt too good, she tasted sublime. I could’ve spent all day with my nose in her neck, her body flexing and rubbing against mine. But the frenzy between us, the urge to touch and be touched, didn’t need to be stoked. We needed space, and conversation.

  Gathering a steadying breath, I turned from her, closed my eyes to gather myself, and reluctantly crossed to the stools at the end of the island.

  Place granite between you. Good idea.

  The stool creaked under my weight and I watched Mona move around the kitchen, a little wrinkle between her eyebrows. She pulled out a can opener and a can of sweetened condensed milk, setting both in front of me.

  “Will you open that, please?”

  “Sure.” I was happy to. “What’s this for?”

  “For the hot chocolate.” Mona placed a saucepan on the gas range, the burner clicking three times before catching.

  “You use sweetened condensed milk?”

  “Yes. I also use unsweetened cocoa powder, which is why I use the sweet milk. This isn’t my favorite hot chocolate recipe, but we have all the ingredients, so . . . ”

  “You have hot chocolate recipes?” I grinned. “What’s wrong with the powdered stuff?”