win goes to whoever is farthest out after twenty strokes. Agreed?"
"Agreed. But let's make it thirty strokes. At least I'll be warmed up by then." The look he gave her was pure male arrogance. "If that's too much for you..."
"I think I can handle it. Thirty strokes it is." Willy rubbed her palms together in a gesture of confident anticipation, then snapped the towel away from his neck. After placing it in a straight starter line at their feet, she assumed a runner's stance and glanced up at him. "Ready?"
"You call it." He lined himself up beside her and trained his gaze on the Mediterranean water line.
"On your mark, get set... GO!" Willy shouted the last word and streaked for the sea, determined to make good on her boast.
In seconds they were in the water. When Willy's head came up after the thirty strokes, she looked for Taylor. If she'd won, she knew it was by a hairs-breadth. She looked back toward the beach but couldn't see him. Where was the man?
He came up from behind her with the grace of a dolphin, wrapping strong arms around her waist and spinning her to face him. "So? Are you prepared to eat a side order of crow with your pasta?"
He was gloating and enjoying every minute of it. The gloating didn't bother her, but his hands, resting lightly on her waist, did. Pulling from his hold, she backstroked a safe distance before looking at him. "You're not going to be an insufferable winner are you? Lording it over me every chance you get?"
With two easy strokes he was even with her, his hands again on her waist. "Maybe. I kind of like the idea of having something to lord over you. It's about time, don't you think?" When she started to move away again, he pulled her to him, deftly aligning her body against his.
When Willy's hands pressed against his chest in a silent but impotent plea for distance, he responded with a terse command. "Don't." And his grasp on her tightened.
"Taylor..." Her protest was weak, halting.
Their faces were inches apart. She watched, mesmerized, as a bead of water fell from his hair. Bronzed by the setting sun, the droplet forged a shiny trail down his cheek before stopping at the corner of his mouth to form a golden bead. She shook her head and looked at him. His eyes were dazzling—covetous, feasting on her openly and without apology.
"Taylor—"
"You said that."
"Let's go back, I'm getting... cold."
"No you're not. You're getting hot. And so am I." His gaze settled on her mouth, and she heard him drag air into his lungs. "I have to do it, you know," he said.
"Have to do what?" Dumbass. You know exactly what he has to do. And you want it. Oh, boy, do you want it.
"I have to kiss that glorious mouth of yours."
"Why?" she whispered. She knew the answer to that question, too, but she was slipping out of it, caught up in a whole new sensation, some kind of weird, soft and gooey melting going on inside her.
He grinned. "Because it's there."
At the first brush of his lips, she stilled in his arms. The fingers of her hands curled in his chest hair, and even the evening cool waters of the Mediterranean couldn't stop the heat eddying and swirling under her skin.
I don't want this. Yet her hands moved upward, shaping themselves to his neck, then upward again to the back of his head. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth to hers, his tongue probing, insisting, seeking entry with a sensual murmur.
This is a bad idea… Yet her lips parted, her tongue tasting his, tasting him for the first time. His thigh slipped between her legs and she straddled it, sliding up to his hard heat, pulled toward it by a force new and unknown to her. She rocked against him, twisted her hands in his thick dark hair.
She could drown in this man.
When water surged up her nose and over her head, she realized that's exactly what she was doing. And Taylor was going down with her. Sputtering and gasping for air, they broke the water's surface together.
"That was crazy. You're crazy," Willy coughed out. "We
"Agreed. But let's make it thirty strokes. At least I'll be warmed up by then." The look he gave her was pure male arrogance. "If that's too much for you..."
"I think I can handle it. Thirty strokes it is." Willy rubbed her palms together in a gesture of confident anticipation, then snapped the towel away from his neck. After placing it in a straight starter line at their feet, she assumed a runner's stance and glanced up at him. "Ready?"
"You call it." He lined himself up beside her and trained his gaze on the Mediterranean water line.
"On your mark, get set... GO!" Willy shouted the last word and streaked for the sea, determined to make good on her boast.
In seconds they were in the water. When Willy's head came up after the thirty strokes, she looked for Taylor. If she'd won, she knew it was by a hairs-breadth. She looked back toward the beach but couldn't see him. Where was the man?
He came up from behind her with the grace of a dolphin, wrapping strong arms around her waist and spinning her to face him. "So? Are you prepared to eat a side order of crow with your pasta?"
He was gloating and enjoying every minute of it. The gloating didn't bother her, but his hands, resting lightly on her waist, did. Pulling from his hold, she backstroked a safe distance before looking at him. "You're not going to be an insufferable winner are you? Lording it over me every chance you get?"
With two easy strokes he was even with her, his hands again on her waist. "Maybe. I kind of like the idea of having something to lord over you. It's about time, don't you think?" When she started to move away again, he pulled her to him, deftly aligning her body against his.
When Willy's hands pressed against his chest in a silent but impotent plea for distance, he responded with a terse command. "Don't." And his grasp on her tightened.
"Taylor..." Her protest was weak, halting.
Their faces were inches apart. She watched, mesmerized, as a bead of water fell from his hair. Bronzed by the setting sun, the droplet forged a shiny trail down his cheek before stopping at the corner of his mouth to form a golden bead. She shook her head and looked at him. His eyes were dazzling—covetous, feasting on her openly and without apology.
"Taylor—"
"You said that."
"Let's go back, I'm getting... cold."
"No you're not. You're getting hot. And so am I." His gaze settled on her mouth, and she heard him drag air into his lungs. "I have to do it, you know," he said.
"Have to do what?" Dumbass. You know exactly what he has to do. And you want it. Oh, boy, do you want it.
"I have to kiss that glorious mouth of yours."
"Why?" she whispered. She knew the answer to that question, too, but she was slipping out of it, caught up in a whole new sensation, some kind of weird, soft and gooey melting going on inside her.
He grinned. "Because it's there."
At the first brush of his lips, she stilled in his arms. The fingers of her hands curled in his chest hair, and even the evening cool waters of the Mediterranean couldn't stop the heat eddying and swirling under her skin.
I don't want this. Yet her hands moved upward, shaping themselves to his neck, then upward again to the back of his head. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth to hers, his tongue probing, insisting, seeking entry with a sensual murmur.
This is a bad idea… Yet her lips parted, her tongue tasting his, tasting him for the first time. His thigh slipped between her legs and she straddled it, sliding up to his hard heat, pulled toward it by a force new and unknown to her. She rocked against him, twisted her hands in his thick dark hair.
She could drown in this man.
When water surged up her nose and over her head, she realized that's exactly what she was doing. And Taylor was going down with her. Sputtering and gasping for air, they broke the water's surface together.
"That was crazy. You're crazy," Willy coughed out. "We
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