Page 20 of Undertow

I definitely made the right call in playing the “broken artist.” I double down and project a hint of fear.

“Shaw, if something happened—if they did something to you—you need to report it.”

“Even if it could hurt me more?” I search her eyes, and her grip tightens on my arm.

“Especially then.”

I look away, partly for the act, but also to buy time. I’m not sure how far to take this. I wasn’t planning to get here so soon. I was counting on having more time to strategize.

Time for a distraction.

Our eyes lock again, and I’m encouraged when she steps closer. We’re almost touching now, less than six inches apart. Much too close for a virtual stranger.

Her gaze sinks to my mouth, and I suppress a flinch when she reaches up to trace my lips.

“You feel it don’t you,” she says softly.

“Feel what?” I reply in the same intimate tone.

“This weird chemistry we have.”

I blink back. “Is that what this is?”

“You’re the writer. What would you call it?”

Her coy smile sears through my blood. My lips burn from her touch.

“Dangerous.”

“Destiny,” she counters.

Deadly.

Our eyes explore the depths of the other in the electrified pause. This is what I wanted, right? This is the plan. Ignite her. Make her desperate for a taste. The prize is right there, willing and hungry. All it would take is the slightest encouragement. I’ve done this countless times, so why can’t I make the next move?

I don’t have to.

Her fingers thread into my hair as we come together with an urgent kiss that launches us somewhere else. A bed, a couch, anywhere but a public beach with a person you’ve known for an hour.

With a light moan, she dissolves into the kiss, her body melting into mine. Firm. Warm. Her soft curves press against my hard planes. Our hips tease and stroke each other as we guide them to the rhythm of our mouths. I have no clue what’s happening, but it doesn’t take long for my instinct to kick in.

I don’t even know what’s real and what’s an act as I angle her head to deepen the connection. Our tongues glide in lazy sweeps. Her grip becomes painful in my hair, until one hand lets go to slip beneath my shirt. Her palm curves around my side, her fingers diffusing fire over my skin like she already owns me.

I know lust well, but this is something else. Raw. Unhinged.

Wrong.

I pull away, staring at her in confusion.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

She blushes, but doesn’t let go. If anything, her hold on the waistband of my shorts tightens. I still have her head cradled in my hands. She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

“I don’t even know your name,” I lie.

“Julia,” she says faintly. “And I don’t know what just happened. I’m sorry. I’ve… never done that before.”

I study her closely. I don’t like that I can’t tell if she’s lying. I don’t like that I have to wonder if she’d lie.

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