Page 96 of Champagne Fizz

“You were expecting me to be easier, huh? To pop like a bottle of champagne?”

He sucks on my bottom lip. “For the record, you’re the one making jokes right now.”

I laugh. “Maybe it’s what helps me to stay in control.”

“Is that what’s happening right now?” He nibbles my chin. “Are you controlling your reaction? Not giving in?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, breathless. “All I want is to give into you, Simon.”

“Damn, you’re incredible,” he says genuinely. “You—your body—your …”

I kiss him again, because he’s rambling, and his intoxicating hands are gliding up my spine. He kisses me harder, and his fingers knead into my clothes.

He wants more. He’s desperate for it.

“Not here,” I whisper, and he nods knowing this alleyway is too public for anything more than a hot make-out session.

“I’m going to make a suggestion,” he says in a low tone, “but it’s going to sound like a joke.”

“Okay?” I say tentatively.

“It isn’t a joke,” he clarifies, kissing the ridge of my chin. “So here it is: I think we should go swimming.”

“Swimming?” I pull back, wrinkling my brow.

Water.

Waves.

Salty ocean on my skin.

It’s Hawaii, I suppose this is a normal suggestion.

“Do you own a bikini?” he asks.

My body surges with a new streak of lust, and I laugh nervously. “Do I own a—! Do I strike you as the kind of person who would own a bikini?”

“You live in Hawaii,” he replies, his Superman arms still holding me firmly around the waist. “Isn’t owning a bikini the same as having the perfect pair of jeans, or a little black dress?”

“Have you ever seen me in jeans?” I toss back.

“No,” he says, realizing my point. “So, you’re saying—?”

“I own a bathing suit,” I defend. “It just …” It looks like something from the 1800s, when the termbathing suitmeant that fabric covered most of your body.

“It’s conservative?” Simon offers.

“By modern-day standards,” I admit. “I don’t think I need to explain the logistics of that decision. Do I?”

“No, I get it.” Simon squeezes my hips with a sweet neediness like he has to remind himself he’s actually still holding me. “But the logistics of me asking are less innocent. As far as I can surmise, a bikini is the closest thing to walking around naked that’s publicly acceptable—”

“Hence, I don’t own one.”

“Right, but hear me out,” he lowers his tone, making my stomach twist. “Eventually, I’m going to get you naked and—”

I swallow a whimper.

Usnaked.

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