Between the Sheets by Liv Rancourt

awkward choice because the faded amber light reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes. “I don’t have a book to read. I was kind of …” I tugged gently on his shirt, right above where it tucked into his jeans. “Hoping you’d show me …” Nerves temporary disabled my ability to speak. I cleared my throat and pressed on. “Your tattoo is so amazing, and you said you had others.”
    He wrapped his hands around my waist and drew me closer to his body. “I don’t show them off to just every girl.”
    Though I couldn’t read his eyes, his firm hold and his half smile and the little gap between his lips told me he liked where I was headed. I slid my fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “Can we go to your cabin? In case Krista and Robbie have a fight and she has to crash here.”
    His smile broadened, but he didn’t give me an answer. The pause lasted long enough to make my heart stumble. Maybe I’d misjudged the situation, totally misinterpreted the cocoon of tension and heat wrapped around us whenever we were alone. All right, no. I’m not an idiot. The zoom-y sensations were real. There had to be some reason he was holding me off. I took a deep breath, struggling to say something lame to get us both off the hook.
    And then I held that breath, because his lips locked onto mine like I was a fountain and he was a thirsty, thirsty man. Holding me in place with a hand to the back of my head, he caught me in a torrent of fierce kisses, tearing at my lips, drowning me in sensation. I gasped, which gave him an opening, and his tongue found mine. I tasted smoke and promise and savory man, and I returned his energy with a dividend, cascades of pent-up emotion surging through the connection between us.
    When he finally broke the kiss, I sagged against him, my belly pressed against his, his hardness rubbing my thigh. “Your cabin, then?” It took me a couple of tries to get the words out, and when they came, my voice was a haggard whisper.
    He didn’t even bother answering, just clutched my hand and dragged me along the path. We stopped on his front porch.
    “How come you don’t have a roommate?” I asked, nerves making me pick at details.
    Randy fumbled with the key for a moment, then pushed open the creaky old door. “The guy from Roosevelt canceled.”
    He kicked off his shoes before going in, so I followed suit. Then we were inside, facing each other in the dusky twilight and saltwater air. His cabin had a dresser against the wall at the foot of one of the bunks and a small table under the window. We both sat, as if now that things were getting serious we needed a break before taking the plunge.
    “I’ve got some sodas in the cooler,” he said.
    “Could really use a shot.” I spoke mostly to myself, then pressed my palms together in front of my mouth when I remembered why he’d offered soda instead of something stronger.
    Resting his palms on the table, he gave me a rueful shrug. “Nope.”
    I covered his hands with my own. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with my nerves, then.”
    Rueful gave way to naughty, and he flipped his hands over to grasp mine. He only let go long enough to slide his glasses off and toss them on the table. He looked younger without them, stronger, as if he could see deeper without his wire-framed shield.
    “So you know my sordid story,” he said. The only other sound was the steady wash of the waves running over the beach. “What’s yours? You’re too pretty to be single.” He coughed a little after he spoke, clearing smoke out of his lungs.
    I coughed, too, or rather choked.
Too pretty to be single? Right.
“Creighton Kleig.”
    “Kleig? The piano guy?”
    “Yeah, you know him?”
    Randy shrugged. “I did a few gigs with him, before he left for L.A. He’s kind of an asshole.”
    “We were engaged.” I let the thought peter out.
    He rubbed a knuckle through the shadow of a beard on his chin. “Didn’t he, like, dump some girl at the altar?”
    “Well,