Page 37 of Saving Sophia

“Do not apologize for what you just did.” I captured her hand and put it over my heart. “Feel that?”

“It’s pounding,” she whispered.

“That’s right. No matter what conversations we should have, that kiss was amazing.” The corner of her mouth pulled into a tiny, shy smile that sped up the pounding in my chest all over again.

Someone pulled in behind us, so I pushed her gently back and pulled the seat belt over her, snapping the metal into place with a little click. I put the car into gear and steered us back onto the main road toward the cabin. She didn’t say another word, but that little smile remained. Just like the sweet taste of her happiness on my lips.

* * *

SOPHIA

Amazing.

I kissed the most perfect guy on the planet, and he called it amazing.

My body was floating, full of bubbles and confetti, my brain pinging wildly at all the little snapshots of the most perfect afternoon I’d ever experienced as I walked back into the cabin.

The the elk, the picnic, the waterfall, the amazing kiss.

So what if he wanted to have a conversation? So what if it was complicated? So what if there were safewords involved?

My Kindle had more than one book with that sort of relationship in it. Captain John Harlow, the incredibly sexy but stern pirate in A Ruthless Choice, wouldn’t even offer Ruthie a safeword before having his way with her. And to be honest, that made my tummy twitch in all kinds of dark and delicious ways. I just never considered a safeword relationship as a real-life possibility.

I slipped into the bathroom to clean up after the picnic while he made a few calls for work. A shower would give me time to think before I had to face him again.

I turned on the water and adjusted the temperature. The walls of the shower were covered in natural rocks in a million shades of pebbled grays and blues, and the water cascaded out from a rainfall shower head above. I caught a few drops on my fingers and ran them over the smooth stones.

He said he didn’t do casual. Was he saying he wanted a relationship? I just met him, but we had spent a lot of time together these past two days, and he never made me feel uncomfortable or unsafe. He listened. He made me feel special. My hand left the wall of rocks and found my locket, rubbing the familiar letters with my thumb.

I shook my head and dropped it back against my neck, refusing the old familiar thoughts away.

What kind of relationship did he want? I tugged off my clothes and stepped into the steamy heat of the shower.

Not nearly as scary as you’re imagining.

I could imagine … things, and I could read about … things, but could I do … things? That magical, amazing kiss had been a fluke. An overflow of happiness that shut off my tongue and shoved me into blind action.

I squeezed out a big dollop of shampoo and rubbed it into my hair, luxuriating in the rich, berry-scented suds.

I wasn’t a virgin. I had a boyfriend in high school who took that off my hands amidst a lot of fumbling, awkward elbows, and friction. It had been more embarrassing than erotic.

I even had a one-night stand once, after tequila made me stop caring what silly nonsense might come out of my mouth. We danced and laughed and went back to his place, and I felt rebellious and grown-up. I didn’t remember much of the sex, but the next morning, back to my normal self without tequila’s blur, I made a very awkward exit, and he didn’t try to stop me.

Ethan made me feel so different from any of that.

I lathered up a bath pouf with soap and started scrubbing, remembering his arms tightening around me, pulling me closer and urging me on when we kissed. It had given me butterflies. Serious butterflies. Really tingly, lower-than-my-tummy butterflies.

The water poured down around me, just like the waterfall had poured down into the lake. When I kissed him, his goatee tickled my chin, his lips parted mine, and I barely tasted his tongue before I pulled away. He’d wanted to kiss me before, too, on the picnic blanket. He could have pushed me down, tossed my stupid sandwich into the lake, and shoved my legs apart with his knee. I would not have resisted.

“Mine,” he would growl when his hand took possession of my body, a finger slipping inside and curling up to stroke the spot that made my eyes squeeze shut with pleasure. “No,” he would correct me. “Look at me.”

Those gray eyes of his, lit with amber flames, would pin me down and hold me open, exposed, and vulnerable to him.

“Please,” I’d whisper as his fingers moved faster, pushing me further.

“Beg,” he would command, lowering his head, tracing the ridge of my throat with his tongue, tickling my collarbone, kissing down the curves of my body.

I panted into the steam, my hands enacting my fantasy, my legs straining at the need rising up, my toes clenching the rough pebbled shower floor.

---