Page 32 of Buried Roots

12

The Plunge

Icatchhiseyesnagging on my bra for a split second before landing on my face. When he stands, he doesn’t budge forward. “So, right. No swimming suits?”

“Birthday suits will do just fine.”

“‘Will do just fine?’ Listen to you talking like a local already.” He chuckles. “You’re just trying to see me naked.”

“Damn right. You get to see me naked too.” Keeping up the show, I whip off my bra, tossing it on the ground.

Owen gasps, like I knocked the air straight out of his chest. This time, his eyes stick like glue to my breasts.

I give his hand a tug, and I don’t have to pull to get him to move.

We get to the dock, the water sloshing against it, and I focus on that sound to ease the nerves bubbling inside me. I may be playing it cool on the outside, but it’s a facade. Inside, my nervousness is intensifying by the second.

But I’m committed to it, so I slide my jeans and underwear off in one swift motion before leaping into the lake.

The cold water hitting my skin freezes my breath as I break into shivers. Popping above the surface, I cry out, “Holy shit!” I can see Owen’s face in the moonlight, but I can’t read his expression.

His tone is croaky when he says, “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“You’re right—the waterisjust fine. Don’t be a chicken.”

“A chicken? I’ve never understood that expression. You know, chickens are ballsy.”

I laugh. “Nice try with a topic shift. Stop procrastinating.”

He whips off his shirt, and I don’t blink so I can study him with all the intensity my vision will allow in the darkness. He looks like a statue, a chiseled centerpiece of a fountain in Rome, reflecting in the moonlight.

He flips around before sliding off his jeans.

“I’m closing my eyes,” I say, which isn’t a lie. They’re closed, just not all the way. There’s not a chance I’m missing this.

And although it’s just a glimpse, it’s everything. Not only is his ass round and muscular, but I think there’s a large beauty mark, just left of his tail-bone, which makes it perfectly imperfect.

In a flash, he turns, then hesitates.

There he stands before me, in all his glory, and it’s magnificent. I can’t gather a breath as I take in every inch of his chest, his long, muscular legs, and the rest of him.

My chest and thighs tingle in response.

Then he jumps.

When his head pops up, he gasps, “Shit!” His dark hair is wet, slick, and it takes everything in me not to swim over and run my fingers through it before letting my hand roam down his chest.

But I don’t. My boldness is waning, but now, Owen’s seems to take off because through chattering teeth, he says, “So, what now, sport?” He swims over. “What are you gonna do with me?”

I want to say, “everything” because he really is the total package. But this is too fast, so I laugh before I say, “I can’t believe you’ve never done this. You’re the onefromhere.“ I paddle deeper, into a pocket of cool water. “But, okay, my doe-eyed apprentice. Now, we dip.”

I’m speaking as if this is always so easy for me, but it’s only so easy at this moment. Here, in Violet Moon. With Owen. Away from my carefully constructed real world.

Owen follows behind, showing off with some fancy stroke he has, which shouldn’t surprise me. I’m sure swimming is part of his exercise regimen to keep his well-oiled machine running pristinely.

As he floats, I catch his eyes roaming toward my chest. I take my fingers and point upward as to direct his view back up.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” he says. “I know you cheated.”

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