“We have food. We have shelter. All we need to do is wait to be rescued. If it’ll make you feel better, we can make an SOS on the sand.”
She stepped forward into the surf, letting it wash over her ankles, and her eyes closed in pure bliss. She tilted her head back, letting her tangled hair whip in the breeze.
He didn’t feel the same urge to step into the surf that she did, but his gaze followed her intently as she soaked up the sunshine and enjoyed the water.
Her eyes opened after a minute. “Should we go back and get swimsuits?”
“Why?”
Brontë grinned at him. “To swim?”
Logan picked up a piece of driftwood heading in her direction and tossed it away. He didn’t see the point in going back to the hotel just for a change of clothing. “There’s no one here but me, Brontë.”
She bit her lip, studying him for a moment. “You’re right.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for courage, and then pulled off her bra. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”
Damn. He’d just been suggesting that she could swim in her underwear, not that they should skinny-dip. Of course, now that she was taking the initiative, would he correct her on that?
Hell, no. Carpe diem, he told himself, and then grinned. Brontë would have approved of the thought.
***
This was the bravest, stupidest thing Brontë had ever done. She tossed her bra onto the sand, her heart pounding in her breast, and didn’t look at Logan as she shucked her panties and kicked off her water shoes. Instead, she concentrated on the water, as if standing naked on the beach were something she did every single flipping day.
The truth was, this was an experiment. And it would either go really well or really badly.
But she’d seen him looking at her. And he wasn’t giving her the looks that an uninterested man would give her. The looks he gave her were hot, scorching with interest. As if he were waiting for something to happen before making his move. What that would be, she had no idea.
And she was getting tired of waiting for him. After he’d caressed her lip the night before as they ate, she’d been unable to think about anything but kissing Logan. Sleeping with Logan. Sharing this remote, tropical paradise with Logan and having no one around but the two of them. Granted, a building destroyed by a hurricane wasn’t the most romantic setting, but Logan was gorgeous and attentive, and it had been a while since she’d been seeing anyone seriously, so why not grab the bull by the horns?
Standing on the beach, totally naked, she put her hands on her hips and tried to look at this in a positive way. Even if he thought she was a crazy woman, the sun felt warm on her skin, and she was going to enjoy the ocean for today at least. She headed into the surf up to her knees and reached down for a handful of water. It felt colder than she’d thought it would be, and she shivered a little, rubbing her arms.
Something splashed past her. Brontë froze in place, then glanced over just in time to see a pair of white buttocks disappear into the water as Logan made a shallow dive into the surf in a short distance away.
Damn it! He’d been naked, and she’d missed it? She resisted the urge to slap the water in frustration, moving deeper and then sinking into the water to cover her own nudity. He’d accepted her challenge, though. That was a good thing, though she had no idea what to do now that he had. Flirting really should not be this hard, Brontë, she told herself.
Logan surfaced a short distance away, flung his wet hair back, and then stood in the water. She noticed the surf went only to his waist. Correction—more like his hips. Low, low on his hips, his privates barely covered by the ripples of the waves.
Her cheeks heated as she couldn’t help but look over at him. Okay, the man definitely had a good body. He was toned and fit all over, his body slightly tanned as if he enjoyed the sun, but not too much. There was a tattoo of something on his biceps that she couldn’t make out from this distance. He didn’t seem like the type to get inked. He was a serious, almost stern sort of man, not a party boy who would get a tat when he was out with his buddies.
Intriguing. That didn’t fit the picture she had in her mind of Logan Hawkings, responsible manager. He’d seemed a little stuffier in her mind, but that tattoo added a new angle. She wasn’t quite sure who he was, and she liked that.
Brontë moved out a bit farther in the water, feeling extremely exposed without even a swimsuit on. The water brushed against her skin with gentle, silky caresses, and the sunlight touched her everywhere. It was a unique experience, this skinny-dipping thing. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it, though she’d gotten to see Logan’s ass, so that was a plus.
His gaze swung to her, and he began to move slowly toward her through the water. Brontë forced herself to hold her ground, instead of shying away like a nervous virgin. “Well, you’re definitely not a man who can resist a challenge,” she told him.
Logan grinned in her direction, and she sucked in a breath. The man was sexy when he was stern, but when he smiled? God. She could have sworn her girl parts had just given a squeal of delight in response.
He didn’t stop until he was right next to her. It was still only waist-deep, and if she stayed crouched down, she’d be more or less at eye level with his cock. Not exactly a power position. Of course, standing meant she’d show him her breasts, but hadn’t he already seen them when she’d stripped down on the beach?
Brontë steeled her courage and got to her feet, water cascading off of her body. She gave him a challenging look as if daring him to say something.
But he didn’t. He only stepped closer, his somber gaze intent on her face. He reached out to her, cupped the side of her neck, and she felt him subtly draw her toward him. She was helpless to pull away, fascinated by those dark eyes, and when the tips of her breasts brushed against his bare, wet chest, she gasped.
“For what it’s worth,” he said in a low, husky voice, “My suggestion was going to be that we swim in our underwear.”
“Oh,” she said weakly, her gaze dropping to the mouth that was mere inches away from her own. “I wasn’t sure—”
His mouth lowered on hers. She hadn’t expected to be kissed with such blatant intensity. He pulled her against him, his wet flesh brushing against hers, and she felt the long heat of his cock against her belly even as they kissed, letting her know exactly what he thought of the situation. Logan’s mouth was firm against her own, and he tasted sweet, like fruit. His tongue flicked against the seam of her mouth, urging her to open for him, and she was helpless to resist.
A low mew escaped her when his tongue plunged into her mouth, turning the kiss from an exploration into decadent conquering. It stroked against her own, confident, assertive, and bold.
Each thrust of his tongue told her what he’d be like in a relationship, in bed. He’d take control of her body and make her hum with desire. If she encouraged him even a little, he’d rise to the occasion. He wasn’t the type that would take no for an answer.
And she really didn’t want to say no at the moment.
He tasted so good. Even more than that, he felt good against her, sun-warmed and wet and hard. The waves caressed at their waists while Logan continued to kiss her as if nothing else in the world mattered, and her toes curled in response, desire surging deep inside her.
All he’d done was kiss her, but she felt keenly aware of every bit of his skin pressing against her own: her nipples brushing against the fine hairs of his chest, the press of his cock at her belly, his fingers on her neck as he held her close, his thumb stroking her jaw. His lips caressing her own. His tongue thrusting wickedly, as if suggesting much more than just a kiss.
After what seemed like an eternity, Logan pulled away, and Brontë staggered, her knees suddenly weak and useless. His hand went to her elbow to steady her, and he pulled her body against his.
She gazed down at his biceps, at the mysterious ta
ttoo. It was . . . well, it was rather hideous. The circular blob turned out to be a skull with a twisted two-dollar bill sticking out of the eye sockets. That was not what she’d expected to see on someone like Logan.
He leaned in for one more soft kiss, his tongue grazing her lips and distracting her from her study of his tattoo. “Was that what you wanted?”
That was a rather arrogant question. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her mind. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted until just now, actually.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I’m rather glad we’re alone on the beach,” she told him breathlessly.
He grinned, his expression confident and self-assured, and leaned in for another kiss.
Just then, a wave rose up. It slapped the two of them sideways, splashing them in the face and covering them with tendrils of seaweed.
They sputtered, breaking apart, and Brontë was hit with a fit of giggles as Logan pulled a handful of seaweed off his shoulder and flung it away from him in disgust. Logan looked over at her with a sour expression. “More nervous laughter?”
“No, this time I’m totally laughing at you,” she said, and yelped when he leapt to dunk her.
The spell was broken, and they started splashing each other and riding the waves, or simply floating in the water. It was nice to just play and relax, and even when she dunked Logan, it didn’t turn sexual again.
It was as if a question had been answered, and now Logan was content to wait for the right moment. Which made her feel a bit like prey being stalked by a predator. A very masculine, sexy predator that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to escape. She rather liked being his prey, and what did that say about her?
***
For the first time since going on vacation, Brontë spent a day in the sun and enjoyed every moment of it. She played in the waves, lay out on the sand, hunted for seashells, and laughed her ass off when Logan built the sorriest looking sand castle ever. They played like children all afternoon, right down to making sand angels and wrestling in the water.
Once out of the water, Brontë put her bra and boy shorts back on, not quite brave enough to run around stark naked. To her relief, Logan followed her lead, and they walked up and down the beach a few times examining debris floating in the water and talking. They were covered in sand and their underwear was more wet than dry, but they didn’t care.
Eventually, they grew tired of frolicking in the water, and Logan suggested they make the SOS signal.
“I suppose we should,” Brontë said mournfully, looking at the setting sun. She didn’t want the day to end.
He must have noticed her reluctance, because he regarded her for a long moment, then said, “There’s enough driftwood on the beach that we could build a fire and hang out here a few hours more.”
She brightened. “That sounds like a lovely idea.” Her stomach, however, ruined it by growling.
Logan’s lips twitched with amusement. “How about I work on the SOS and building a fire, and you go and get dry clothes and something to eat and drink?”
Brontë snapped her fingers at him. “Now that sounds like a plan. I’ll be right back.”
“Take the flashlight,” he told her, and picked up a heavy piece of driftwood, dragging it forward into the sand.
She did, and raced up the dune, spraying sand as she walked. She’d seen bottles of wine earlier and thought it might be pleasant to enjoy one on the beach. They had sticks of beef jerky taken from the gift shop, and she could probably find some cheese in the restaurant somewhere. Wine, cheese, and a quasi– beef product. Not bad. Of course, if they were going to have a fire, they should have s’mores. With that in mind, she went to the restaurant and raided the kitchen until she found exactly what she was looking for—graham crackers and marshmallows. With the foodstuff and a few bottles of water to round things out, along with a spare blanket that they’d left out to dry earlier, she headed back down to the beach.
While she’d been inside, the sun had set even lower, turning the orange skies into a deep, smoky purple. On the beach, she could see that Logan had spelled out a SOS in driftwood, and set up a pyramid of wood on the far end of the beach. She headed there and made it to his side just as the fire caught.
He glanced up at her with satisfaction as he got to his feet and continued to feed small pieces of wood into the burning pyramid. “You look great.”
She laughed at that, glancing down at her bare, sandy legs, clad only in aqua shoes. She was now wearing a lemon-yellow Bahamas T-shirt that was two sizes too big and went down to her thighs, and she was pretty sure that her hair was one big snarl. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I know. But you still look great.” The look he gave her was appreciative. “I’m glad you’re back.”
She hefted the wine bottle. “I brought drinks, food, and dessert.”
“I’m a lucky man.”
“And a flirt,” she teased back, but she couldn’t help smiling. “But I think that’s a forgivable offense.”
They spread the blanket on the ground and set up the food, taking bites out of the jerky, crackers, and cheese and drinking straight from the wine bottle.
The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the sky grew dark. Soon, the only light glittering for miles was their small fire. It made Brontë feel very small and alone, and she moved closer to Logan.
He mistook her gesture and passed the wine bottle again, glancing over at her. “Thirsty?”
She took another sip of wine, grimacing at the strong taste of the red. She’d grabbed the most expensive bottle—because hey, why not?—and it was rather strong. She was more of a boxed wine kind of girl anyhow. “Just thinking.”
“Thinking about?”
“How there’s no one around for miles.” She stared off into the dark skies and uncrossed her legs, stretching them out on the blanket. “And how that can sometimes be a little frightening.”
His hand went to her ankle, and he gave her a gentle squeeze before caressing her skin. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, and Brontë sucked in a breath. After a moment, Logan said, “Don’t be frightened. I’m right here next to you.”
“I’m glad,” she told him softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
“You’d probably still be in the elevator.”
She frowned. She didn’t like to think about that. If he hadn’t been here . . . she shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
His hand remained on her ankle, his thumb lightly gliding over the skin in a way that made her feel nervous and restless and aroused all at once. He wasn’t doing anything else, though, just touching her. She stared down at that hand and then blurted, “Do you want s’mores? You know, chocolate and graham crackers and marshmallows? They’re the perfect camping treat.”
He glanced at the fire, then at her on the blanket. “I suppose this is a lot like camping, isn’t it?”
“Right down to the campfire,” she said with a grin. “Do you have a stick for my marshmallow?”
As he turned away, she blushed hard, because that sounded incredibly dirty to her own ears. Do you have a stick for my marshmallow? My God, why don’t I just ask him to throw me down on the beach and harpoon me like he’s Ahab and I’m a sexy, sexy whale?
They speared two marshmallows on the same stick, and Logan thrust them into the flames of the fire. “So you’re one of those men, are you?” Brontë teased.
He glanced back at her. “One of what men?”
She gestured at the now-flaming marshmallows. “You’re willing to eat a little charcoal as long as it gets done faster.”
“Collateral damage,” he told her. “One expects that sort of thing when making a bold decision.”
“Very bold,” she said with a nod. “Could you blow out one of those bold decisions and put it on my cracker so I
can eat?”
He did, and she smooshed it with the chocolate, licking her fingers as she nibbled at the treat. He pushed his together and then popped the entire thing in his mouth, eating it in one large bite. The man didn’t do anything by halves, did he? She shook her head at him, grinning, and continued to nibble away at hers.
A large dollop of melted chocolate landed on her thumb. She regarded it for a moment and then lifted her hand, intent on licking it clean.
Logan’s hand caught hers before she could, and he moved her hand to his mouth and very gently sucked the chocolate off of her thumb. A low flutter started in her belly, and her pulse began to pound as his dark gaze shifted to her face.
“Speaking of bold decisions,” he murmured, and then ran his tongue along the pad of her thumb again. “Have you decided?”
“Decided?” she echoed, hating the quaver in her voice.
“You and I keep dancing around our attraction without ever really coming out and saying exactly what we’re thinking. I’m not like that, Brontë. I’m the kind of guy that wants to let you know exactly how I feel, but you keep running away.”
“I’m not running,” she protested, feeling breathless. “Tell me.”
“I’ll show you, then.” His gaze was intense as he watched her, and then it slid to her mouth, and she knew he was thinking about their kiss.
And now she was thinking about that kiss, too.
He leaned in and ever-so-lightly brushed his lips against hers. The movement was delicate but intense, a mere hint at what she could expect from him. And she wanted more, but he moved away and looked down at her, studying her face.
Logan spoke again. “It’s your move, Brontë.”
She stared at her hand captured in his. Shadows caressed his face, the breeze causing his hair to ruffle over his forehead, and she noticed the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. It had rasped against her skin as they’d kissed, but not hard enough to make her pull away. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted. Claim him. Or she could walk away from all of this and they’d just be friends. Camping companions. He was leaving it up to her.