Logan spoke again. “It’s your move, Brontë.”
She stared at her hand captured in his. Shadows caressed his face, the breeze causing his hair to ruffle over his forehead, and she noticed the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. It had rasped against her skin as they’d kissed, but not hard enough to make her pull away. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted. Claim him. Or she could walk away from all of this and they’d just be friends. Camping companions. He was leaving it up to her.
She had no illusions as to what this was—they were alone on the beach. They were spending copious amounts of naked time together. He was handsome, and he must have thought her attractive. They could have wild, passionate sex for a night or two, or however long it took for them to be rescued. Then they’d part ways and she’d go back to work in Kansas City and he’d go back to work managing the hotel and their paths would never cross again.
It was the perfect situation for a no-strings fling. Except Brontë wasn’t good at the no-strings thing. That was for strangers, for people she would run into and never see after that night. Logan was different. She already knew a lot more about him than she did a lot of people. She liked him. Not that she normally didn’t like guys, but most of her relationships seemed to end on an ugly note, and she didn’t want that to happen with Logan. But if she turned him down, she’d never get the chance to experience just how wonderful making love to Logan might be.
“I want this,” she admitted in a soft voice, “but I don’t know how good I am at casual relationships.”
“We can worry about that once we’re rescued,” he told her, and leaned in to close the distance between them.
***
She was going to do this. They were going to do this. She was going to have a ridiculous, exciting, passionate fling with a man. Not just any man. Gorgeous, serious, totally alpha Logan Hawkings, who made her toes curl every time she looked at him. Who kissed like he’d invented it.
And here she was, in an ugly tourist T-shirt, with wild beach hair and not a touch of makeup. Maybe it wasn’t Brontë as much as it was that she was the only woman on the island? That was a sobering thought.
He touched his fingertips to her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Should I not have asked?”
“No, asking is good,” she said, and gave him a shy smile. “I’m just not exactly at my hottest at the moment.”
“Quote me something.”
She gave him an odd look and then laughed, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “‘Happiness depends upon ourselves.’ Aristotle.”
“See?” He whispered, leaning in to kiss at her neck. “Hearing you say that is so incredibly hot.”
She laughed again. “You’re a strange man.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all day.”
And that was enough to bolster her deflated ego. She leaned close to him, her gaze moving to his mouth. “Then kiss me?”
“You have to ask?” He leaned in closer.
“Asking’s good,” she murmured again, just as his lips met hers.
For the second time that day, she was swept away by his kiss. He had such an amazing mouth. She’d kissed plenty of men, but none of them had ever kissed her with such . . . blatant ownership. Logan’s mouth slanted over her own, his lips taking control first, followed by his tongue. She was helpless to resist, and parted her lips when his tongue brushed against her mouth. Then she was lost as his tongue thrust and rubbed against her own, the kiss moving from one of simple pleasure to something deeper. His fingertips played along her jawline as he kissed her, as if ready to hold her steady if they needed to.
His mouth continued to slant over hers, his tongue stroking deep until the world narrowed to Logan’s mouth on hers and Brontë was lost in the sensation. She’d barely noticed that she was now leaning heavily against him, his body supporting her weight. When he shifted, she nearly toppled and began to giggle.
“Careful,” he warned her. His voice was stern, but there was a crinkling around his eyes that told her he was amused. “It seems my kiss is rather dangerous.”
“Extremely,” she said breathlessly, resisting the urge to reach up and touch her lips. They felt swollen and soft and wet from his kiss. With her eyes on him, Brontë leaned back on their beach blanket. “In fact, I might need to lie down to get my bearings.”
Logan’s big body loomed over hers for a long moment, and then he lay down beside her, turning and propping up on one elbow to face her. “Better?”
She glanced over at him. His face was cast in shadow at this angle, but he was still delicious. From the big shoulders to the large hand that lay on the blanket, she loved the look of him. The beach itself made her feel a bit exposed, though. She stared up at the night sky and then turned her head, listening to the gentle sound of the waves as they hit the beach. “Should we go inside?”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Part of her wanted to stay out here in the open, by the beach. And part of her was totally panicked at the thought of making love out in the open. “I want to stay out here but it feels . . .”
“Wrong?”
“I was going to say naughty.”
One corner of his mouth curved up into a half smile. “And naughty is bad?”
She reached over to him and trailed a hand down his chest, feeling the light sprinkling of chest hair across his pectorals. “Actually, no. Now that I think about it, I rather like naughty. What about you?”
“I don’t have condoms out here. Unless you brought them.”
She was an idiot. A total, freaking idiot. She should have grabbed them when she was inside. She had her birth control pills . . . somewhere. But she was pretty sure she’d missed a few days and didn’t want to chance it. Condoms it was. “No, I didn’t bring any.”
“Then I can pull out.” He lifted her hand from his chest and began to nibble on her fingertips. “If you’re okay with that.”
His lips danced along her thumb and sent shivers up and down her spine. “I’m good with that. I’m clean, by the way.”
“So am I,” he said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go inside?”