I feel his hand on my hip squeeze me, and ever so slightly, his fingers press into the bare skin just above my bikini bottoms. Something warm grows in my belly, my senses immediately heightened. He smells like sunscreen and salt water. In the distance a seagull squawks.
He leans his face toward mine, erasing some of the small space that’s between us. I lean in as well, hovering there, just millimeters away, wanting—no, needing—him to erase all of it.
And then he does.
His lips land on mine, softly and tenderly. My eyes flutter shut and he increases the pressure, the hand not at my hip coming up to my chin as he cups my face, and our bodies instinctively turn toward each other like magnets, drawn together by some irresistible force.
We’re knee to knee now, our torsos smashed together, our arms around each other. His kisses go from soft and gentle to heated and needy, and I meet him with equal intensity. His hands are everywhere, at my back, on my neck, tangled in my hair.
One finds the base of my head, just like that first time we kissed outside his apartment, and he angles me back just slightly, giving him more access to my mouth. His tongue sweeps in and touches mine.
Our first kiss was a good one. But like in Notting Hill, it was sort of stilted and unexpected. This kiss right now is planned, thought out, desired.
The way Briggs holds me, how he tenderly explores my mouth with his, tells me he’s been thinking about doing this just as much as I have.
Kissing scenes in movies are never what they seem when you watch them on a screen. There are repeated takes and a whole room of people watching, making sure the lighting is perfect and that makeup hasn’t been removed or smeared. No kissing scene I’ve ever done has had any feeling behind it except that of a job, a role I was hired to play.
But this kiss with Briggs, out on the ocean with no one watching, no show to put on for cameras, and very much wanted, might just be the best kiss I’ve ever had.
We spend the next hour on the boat, intermittently talking and laughing and kissing and holding on to each other.
When Briggs fires up the boat to head back to Sunset Harbor, I briefly wonder if maybe we should go in the other direction, just leave and see where life takes us. It’s not really an option, even though I wish it were.
It’s dark by the time we get to the resort after docking the boat on the other side of the island and taking a leisurely walk back, hand in hand.
He stops us just before the entrance to the resort, our hands swinging between us, a beach bag full of our wet towels and other summer things slung over his shoulder. He looks at me and smiles and I give him one back.
A debate begins in my head. I could invite him up to my room. We just spent the late afternoon making out on a boat, and I would very much like to continue in my suite. To order room service and wear big fluffy white robes and just be together. I don’t want this day to be over.
“Do you . . . want to come up?” I ask, my voice sounding a lot like Julia Roberts’s character when she asks Hugh Grant’s character up to her room.
I know immediately as I say it, as soon as the words exit my mouth, that we shouldn’t. It’s too much. This is too new, whatever this is. But I want to. Who puts a time constraint on these things anyway? If I were going by what’s in the movies, we’d have already hopped into bed together, probably after that very first kiss. But this isn’t the movies and I’ve never been the type to do something like that. I like moving slowly; I always have.
Briggs lets out a breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s probably not a good idea.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “Totally. You’re totally right.”
Some hurt feelings settle into my gut, and it’s kind of unfounded because I’d just thought the same thing myself.
Briggs pulls me toward him. “You’re leaving at the end of the summer, and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, and if I go up there”—he looks up at the resort before looking down at me—“that makes things more complicated.”
“I only wanted to kiss you,” I say, giving him a little pout.
“And I’d like that, very much.” He reaches up and fusses with his hair. I’ve noticed he does that when he doesn’t have his glasses on to fidget with when he gets nervous.
“Yeah,” I say. “But it’s probably not the best idea.”
Briggs stares at me now, and I can see his mind racing with thoughts. “I . . . maybe . . .” He stops and runs his fingers through his hair again. “Maybe not.”
“Briggs Barnaby Dalton,” I say, leaning toward him, grabbing ahold of the white T-shirt he’s wearing. “Why do you have to be so sensible?”
“It’s a curse,” he says. “Also, Barnaby is not it.”
“Crap,” I say.
He chuckles as he pulls me into a hug, wrapping his arms around me. I lean fully into him, my face against his chest.
I pull back and look up at him. “Maybe just one more kiss, like one last one.”
His answer is to lean in and kiss me softly, our lips locking together.
“Hmm,” I say, pretending to ponder after we pull away. “I think I might need one more.”
This time I go up on my tiptoes and touch my lips to his a little longer than before.
I pull out of his embrace and take a step back. “Today gets a nine point five.”
“Ouch,” he says, mimicking being stabbed in the heart. “That hurts.”
I smile. “It was a perfect ten until you went and got all sensible on me.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Can I take it back?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s too late.”
He hangs his head in mock shame.
“Okay.” I turn toward the entrance to the resort, begrudgingly. “I’m going to actually leave now.”
