Page 132 of What You Wish For

I was still staring at him with burning, self-righteous eyes.

But whatever he saw in that moment seemed to break his anger. He sighed—almost deflated—and his posture shifted, and then he started sloshing back toward me through the waves. “I feel things,” he said, his voice hoarse and quieter now, a little breathless from all the shouting, his gaze unwavering on mine.

He kept pushing toward me. His pace didn’t slow—just step after step through the water in his sopping wet clothes like he might not stop at all.

I stood my ground.

The anticipation of it was as physical as if it were a gust of wind—impossibly fast but in slow motion at the exact same time, and I held absolutely still—my gaze fastened to his, my whole body alert and humming, seeing him clearly now, too, for what felt like the first time.

He felt things.

He’d just shouted that at me, but I could feel it now.

He was angry, and aching, and lost, and lonely. Exactly like the rest of us.

Also, he was totally ripped, with his drenched white oxford grasping and clinging to his torso.

So there was that.

I’ve never felt such intense anticipation—wanting him to hurry up and get to me, hoping like hell I was reading him right, longing to be closer to him so badly. Feeling like I finally understood him at last.

Duncan made it to where I was, and then he stopped short.

We stared at each other, wet and breathless, until I could only think of one thing left to do.

I took the final steps that separated us, and I reached up, clasped both my hands behind his neck, and then brought his mouth to mine. In that same smooth motion, as our bodies collided, he clamped his arms around my waist and pulled me close.

I could write a book about that one moment in my life: the pressure and drag of my wet clothes against my skin. The breathlessness of exertion and surprise. The tug of the waves at my calves. The feel of his chest against mine—cold with salt water and warm with body heat at the same time. The sense of safety I felt inside his arms. The ravenousness of his hands as he ran them all up and down, almost like they would never find a way to touch me that would be enough.

The relief of being connected at last.

The only sounds were the rush of waves and breath and air. Just motion and touch and closeness.

We kissed each other in the water for a long time.

Though I’m not sure “kissed” is the right word.

“Devoured” might work better.

Or “consumed.”

Or we might need to invent a new word.

I reached up, pressed myself closer, and kissed him harder. Whatever he was starving for, I wanted him to have. Because I was starving, too.

I brushed my tongue against his. I traced my fingers into the velvet of the back of his hair. I breathed him in. I pressed as close to him as I could get. I could feel his heart beating through his rib cage, and I wondered if he could feel mine, too.

I was cold, but I didn’t care. I was sticky with seawater, but it was fine. Somebody wolf-whistled us from up on the seawall, but we ignored it.

Whatever he was doing, I did it right back. I clutched him just as tightly as he was clutching me. We were cold, and still dripping wet, but his mouth was warm, and his chest and the tightness of the way he was holding me seemed to steady my trembling. He was like the only solid thing in the world. I wanted to melt into him.

I wanted to never, ever stop.

And just as I had that feeling, he stopped—and pulled back.

“The first time I saw you, I knew you were going to be trouble for me.”

“You did?”

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