Page 89 of A Shore Thing

For a second, he stared. Then he kissed her hard. He bent her backward, so that the weight of her wet hair dragged her head toward the water. She felt supple as a plant, as suffused with radiant energy, yet she drew it not from the sun, but from the questing heat of his mouth, the dark light of his eyes. He broke the kiss, and she sucked air into her lungs, hand flattening at the base of his throat. His pulse thundered through his jugular. He shared it, this storm of desire. Her excitement doubled. She stroked her palm down, over the solidity of his upper chest.

He caught her wrist. “Just there.” He met her eyes, smiling wickedly as she jerked a nod.

“And how is this?” he murmured, fingers sliding to the crease of her thigh, fanning across her lower belly and teasing through the curls. “Here?”

He stroked the slippery inner flesh. A liquid sensation rolled through her, thick and sweet as glycerin. She collapsed forward, pressed her forehead to his, gasping as his finger stirred impossible sensation.

“Quick?” he asked, demonstrating. “Or slow?”

“Both,” she gasped, but the slow strokes were torture, so a moment later she was moaning: “Quick, please. Quick.”

She pulsed, her body seeming to tighten and dissolve at the same time. With a cry, she began to undulate against him, unable to curb the pleasure rising within her. Movements, noises—they were beyond her control. He stood, lifting her with him, water sluicing down, and pulled her up into his arms. Suddenly, she was sprawled on her back on fluffy towels in the bed, and he was pressing her down, heavy and urgent, his tongue deep in her mouth, his hand buried between her thighs.

She almost wished she’d said slow, that she could soften and sustain the quivers moving down from her belly, but she’d waited so long, for him, for this feeling—unlike any she’d ever known. She couldn’t wait more. He had her on a knife’s edge, tense and wild, and she was going to scream if he wasn’t quicker, if he kept her there, if she couldn’t tip over into bliss.

“Kit.” His name was a plea. She moaned it as her spine arched, head pressing the mattress. He gave a purr of satisfaction and pulled back. Roughly, he hooked her legs over his shoulders, canted up her hips. She felt the tickle of his wet hair on her thighs, then his mouth latched, and she was lost. The whirlpool of pleasure sucked away all reason.

Sometime in the night, she woke up, alone in the bed, and for a few untethered moments, she didn’t know where she was. She bolted upright. Before memory returned, Griffith rejoined her, and with him a strange comfort, as though she’d found something, or been found herself.

20

“Behold!”

Griffith accelerated away from her, sprinting on his bicycle down the shady street.

“Behold what?” Muriel flew past primrose-covered villas, and out of the tunnel of elms, into the sunlight. He’d crossed a patch of grass and stopped to gaze down the steep slope at the shimmering blue of Falmouth Bay. He wore a crestfallen expression.

“The bay?” she asked, rolling up beside him. This was their first glimpse of it. They’d followed the coast around the Lizard, then swung inland at the Helford River, traveling the last miles to Falmouth through a verdant landscape of creeks and cornfields.

“It’s picturesque,” she offered. In his moody state, he was picturesque as well. Sulkiness did something unholy to his mouth. Warmth rushed through her, unrelated to the hours of continuous exercise.

Last night, that mouth had done unholy things to her.

She turned her flushed face into the breeze. “Is the inn nearby?”

He shook his head. “The inn’s by the harbor.”

“Then why are we here?”

“To hunt for seaweed on those rocks.” He made a desultory gesture.

“Erm.” She peered. The bay sloshed placidly below. “What rocks would those be?”

“Those magnificent, limpet-plastered rocks that you can’t see because they’re underwater.” He knuckled a lock of hair off his forehead, pushing it under his cap with a grimace. “Falmouth has several beaches. Swanpool and Gyllyngvase are big and sandy and crawling with families. This one, which I swear to you exists—at low tide, anyway—is particularly interesting to algologists. Algologists? Bugger. Algologist is hard to say, even if you’re not three sheets to the wind.”

“You brought us here to hunt for seaweed.” Suddenly, she was smiling, an over-wide, very silly smile. “What about the look on Deighton’s face?”

“I will relish it when I see it.” He shrugged. “But I realized I was far more eager to relish the look on your face. The look of delight when you beheld this…” The grimace returned. “This beach.”

She couldn’t contain herself. The boom of her laughter startled a seagull into flight. “You should see your own face. It’s utterly forlorn.”

“Is that so?” His brows lowered.

“Adorably forlorn,” she revised, and his brows lowered further.

“You find my face funny.” He leaned toward her, putting his face close to hers. “Or perhaps something is tickling the secret ticklish region of your body that I’ve mercifully made no attempt to locate.”

“Is that a threat?” she whispered. Before he could answer, she was pitching herself off her bicycle. He lunged, and she shrieked and ran parallel to the bay, weaving around the daisies. He gained on her quickly, so she changed tack, bounding down the slope to the lapping waves. Here the bay hadn’t swallowed the beach completely. She lurched along a narrow band of dry shingle, struggling to keep her footing. She heard his crunching steps, then his amused voice sounded in her ear.