Page 46 of Never Been Shipped

He lifted his hands to play an air guitar, banging his head as if to an unheard beat.

“I would’ve kicked that bike guy’s ass,” Ryder said, which was unfortunately also a familiar rant, just not one that Micah found as cute. At least he hadn’t seemed to clock her sudden touchiness with John, which was a small blessing. Ryder had always been disproportionately, unattractively competitive, and she knew nothing would bring it out more than seeing her and John together, even though Ryder had zero claim on anything she did anymore.

“As much as I’m loving the opportunity to relive aGuitar Herocompetition from over a decade ago,” Frankie said, “are we going to hit up the casino, or what? Some of us want to wake up early enough tomorrow to actually enjoy the beach.”

“Hey, I want to enjoy the beach,” Steve said, like he was somehow affronted by even the implication that he wouldn’t. “But I got a bit of gambling in me first.”

“I’ll get mauled in there,” Ryder said, which was probablytruebut still managed to emphasize where he felt he ranked in comparison to Steve and Frankie.

Frankie turned from him without justifying that with a response. “Micah already said she’s out,” they said, directing the words to John. “How about you?”

The way his gaze slid to hers made her remember what he’dsaid earlier.There’s something I have to talk to you about.It had sounded specific. It had sounded bad.

“I’ll probably just turn in,” he said.

“Looks like it’s just me and you, Steve,” Frankie said. “Let’s go do some damage.”

Once the others split off to go their separate ways—Steve and Frankie toward the casino and Ryder toward she-didn’t-care-where—Micah was left with John. The shuffleboard court had mostly cleared out, but there were still a few people hanging around. Luckily, there was a roped-off section where they could head back toward their deck without anyone following them, and Micah started walking in that direction, figuring that John would stay a few steps behind until they’d reached somewhere more private.

What she didn’t expect was that the minute they’d rounded the corner, he slid his hand up her wrist, gripping her forearm to pull her into an alcove. And then his hands were on her face, in her hair, and he was kissing her, god, he was fuckingkissingher.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Every kiss withMicah counted, as far as John was concerned.

There’d been that first one, when they were too young and inexperienced to even know what they were doing. A single press of the lips, that terrifying, thrilling touch of tongues.

Then there’d been their kisses earlier that night, which had been hot and dirty and just a little aggressive, like they were both still fighting something with each other, with themselves. He hadn’t wanted to kiss Micah so much as he’d wanted to consume her, to take in everything she was offering and give it back to her in a way that let her know that he was hers, that she washis.

But this one was different. It was deliberate. It was slow and aching and everything John had wanted to say all night but hadn’t been able to. He pressed his fingers to Micah’s jaw, to her cheeks, to the line of her throat. She tasted vaguely of cherries—it was probably her lip balm—and when she finally stopped to take a breath he was right there to swallow it.

“I thought,” she said, panting around the words, “we were supposed to be talking.”

“I can multitask,” he said, his breath hot against her ear as he kissed the sensitive skin behind it. “Let’s talk.”

He was supposed to be bringing up band business with her, convincing her to do some sort of reunion tour that everyone else apparently wanted, but in that moment he couldn’t think of anything he cared less about. Then she’d said she wanted to talk, and he’d wondered if it was going to be aboutthis, whatever was happening between them, if she’d say she regretted it or that it couldn’t happen again. But then she’d pressed her finger to his lips, and suddenly the idea oftalkinghad flown right out of his head.

Micah tilted her head back, giving him more access to her throat. When she laughed, he could feel the vibration of it against his mouth.

“Have you always been like this?” she asked.

Always like what?If she meant the way he’d been back in her room, the way he’d told her what to do, how to touch herself, then the answer was no. He’d never been like that before. If she meant the way he was now, grabbing this moment for a public display of affection like they were two teenagers in high school again, then no, he’d never been like that, either.

But if she meant had he been likethis, hungry and desperate for more of her, then the answer was yes. Always yes.

“Have you?” he asked.

She took his hand, sliding it up her rib cage to press it against her bare breast, her nipple hard against his palm. He’d suspected she wasn’t wearing anything underneath her shirt when he’d seen her in it, had had a vision of her at one point bendingto pick up one of the discs off the court, giving him a view right down the front. He’d been able to picture it so clearly—the soft curve of her breasts as they hung down, the sharp point of her nipples from the cold—that he’d had to close his eyes and tell himself to get it together.

She was sliding her own hands up inside his shirt now, clenching the muscles of his back while she arched into him. “Earlier tonight,” she said, “you were going to apologize for this. But I don’t need it. I’m not sorry.”

“I’m not sorry, either,” he said, nuzzling into the warm space between her neck and her shoulder, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone, huffing a small laugh. “I was just going to apologize for finishing so fast.”

He felt her smile against his forehead. “Don’t. I was flattered.”

“And for coming on your stomach,” he said. “Without asking first.”

---