Page 9 of A Real Good Bad Thing

“Let me guess. You got in a knife fight in an alley, fending off enemy spies. No. That’s not it. You’ve gone rogue, and the CIA is after you. Or better yet, the knife slipped while gutting a fish after one too many beers, since I’m guessing you’re here on a fishing trip.”

He pointed at me approvingly after my last words. “I am.”

I mimed tossing a basketball. “She shoots, she scores! But is that how you cut your forearm though?” Then I shook my head. I was prying about something potentially personal. Scars were personal. “Never mind. Tell me more about your fishing trip. But remember, mermaids love all sea creatures.”

“Then, I should probably tell you about the non-fishing parts of my vacation,” he said, nodding to my glass, nearly empty. “But first things first. Can I get you another whiskey?”

“It’s iced tea, actually, and I’m trying to cut back, so I’m all good.”

He didn’t get another drink, either, but we moved to one end of the bar where it was deliciously dark and a little bit private. We chatted more about the islands, though he never told me the cool story about his scar, and I never told him why I had the starfish on my belly—because the water truly felt like a friend, because the water felt like where I belonged. But that was fine. There were more interesting topics to discuss.

“I swear, I’ve never seen a more beautiful sunset than here,” I said.

“The tropics do have a lock on beautiful ways to end the day,” he said.

“The sunrise isn’t so bad either,” I added.

“I’m getting the sense you like spending time by the beach.”

“What gave it away? The tan? Or my super-chill vibe,” I teased.

“Both. But also,” he began, then leaned in closer, “you smell like coconuts.”

He said it with a rumble that shot down my spine.

It made me want to hear that sound again.

Standing in the corner of the bar, enjoying the kind of privacy that comes with knowing next to no one in a room full of friends, I threw caution to the breeze. “Better make sure though,” I said, in an invitation.

And oh hell, he took it. He stepped closer, curled a big hand around my shoulder, and leaned in to indulge in a long inhale that made my stomach flip. He pulled back, paused, staring hotly at me. My breath caught. I was in his arms, poised for this moment to unspool into something else. A ribbon of heat raced through me as his gaze held me hostage. His green eyes blazed as he stared at me like he wanted to eat me up. That fierce look made me shudder. I breathed him in, and his skin smelled like sunshine and showers. He was hard everywhere. Arms, abs, legs.

His fingers curled around my shoulder, gripping me as Jack Johnson sang about banana pancakes and pretending it was the weekend.

“I have three things to tell you,” he whispered, his voice rough. “One, I want to kiss you. Two, I’m going to kiss you. Three, if you don’t want me to, say no—”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes and waited. In that second before his lips met mine, my mind raced with hope and worry. The hope that kissing a stranger in a bar would be worth it. I hadn’t been kissed well in a long while.

I wanted the kind of kiss that made your knees weak. That sent your heart fluttering. That spread warmth on a sweet, shivery path through your chest.

His lips met mine, and…oh.

Oh yes.

His were so damn soft, and full, and delicious. He took his time, exploring my mouth, brushing his lips over mine, tasting me. That tingly sensation sped up, shooting through my body like an injection of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He was snug against me and I savored the delicious press of his body as he swept his mouth across mine. The kiss deepened as he ran his fingertips down my bare arm. He dropped his hand to my lower back, angling me closer. Pulling me tighter. I roped my arms around his neck, curled my fingers into the ends of his hair, and pressed my own desperation against his lips.

With a groan, he yanked me even closer as he held my face in his hand, kissing so hard his stubble left a whiskery burn.

My mind spun wild with images. Pictures of this night turning into something else. Kisses under the stars. Hips, legs, lips moving together. Him wrapping me tighter in his caress, whispering all the sweet, dirty things he wanted to do to me. In the heat of his kiss, in the urgency of his touch, I had the raw materials to feed my imagination.

My heart raced. My blood pumped. I craved this stranger fiercely. We had no history. We had no past. We only had the same agenda.

To spend the night together.

He backed me up against the wall next to the dartboard, my spine hitting the wood with a thump. The sound of it was like a door shutting. Like the moment when a kiss turns fromwe’re trying this on for sizetothis kiss won’t stop at kissing. He cupped the back of my neck, and his other hand clasped my hip, yanking me against him, so I could feelhim.

---