Chapter 12 Mila
Chapter 12
Mila
I decide not to chase Fin for the sake of my dignity. Same goes for my hat, and I drop down to the sand and fold my legs to my chest.
He can have the bed. It doesn’t matter where I sleep. I probably won’t get a wink anyway. Not when he’s sleeping just one wall away.
I watch the water splash and glisten as he jogs out, then wades deeper and deeper before diving under the surface with the grace of a selkie.
Mila, mate. You may as well face facts: you are going to fuck him.
“No. No, I’m not,” I mutter, arguing with the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Ronny’s again.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that I don’t remember the first time, though it does seem telling how I almost orgasmed when he placed his hand on my thigh. A slight exaggeration, but it did feel nice. It made me all fluttery. I hate to admit it, but it was as though my body recognized his touch.
I’m so relieved he agreed to keep this whole thing between us, though I felt a twinge of guilt when he said his friends would blame him if they got wind of things. And my heart gave a little pinch when he said I could blame him too.
Fin DeWitt is a perplexity. He’s so annoyingly confident, but I think that admission might’ve been a flash of his soft underbelly. It was almost as though he’d been worn by people’s opinions of him.
The man shaved off his ’stache for you—shaved it off to kiss you! And he shaved off his hair because—
I give my head a shake, cutting off that train of thought. I’m not going to have sex with him, I silently intone as I aggressively tug the sides of my sarong over my bare legs. Even if he did both of those things for me. Whether he did it to please me or because he wanted to kiss me or get me naked, it doesn’t matter.
He can be vulnerable, and he can be sweet. He can have more charisma, more rizz, than anyone else I know. He can make my head swim with desire and my skin prickle with longing, but it makes no difference. I’m just not having sex with him.
Who are you trying to persuade? You remember that prick Adam, right? How he made you feel?
Oh, piss off, not-Ronny!
I can resist. I just need to remember that the longing I feel is often the craving to put my fist in his face. Or maybe his kidneys. His face is too lovely to spoil.
“Come on in!”
My head jerks up at Fin’s voice. Sunlight glistening from his wet chest, his smile wide and free. He’s so easy on the eyes. Nice to kiss too.
Plus, he has a very pretty dick.
I groan, pressing my forehead to my knees. Why, oh why, has my psyche placed Ronny in the driving seat of my train of thought?
“The water is glorious!”
I sigh, because it was warm on my toes and it looks so inviting.
I watch as Fin throws himself backward into the deep water, commencing a perfect-looking backstroke. His strong arms work with perfect timing, the sun and water creating a glorious effect on his body.
I’m a bit of a water baby myself—I always have been. Last year, when things weren’t quite so hectic, I even did a bit of wild swimming. I should be in there, splashing around and enjoying myself. Instead of watching from the sidelines. Or the sand, I suppose, as I dig my toes in deeper.
I was so excited to get this gig, not just in monetary terms, though mostly those terms. It had been a few years since I last experienced a few days in the sun. I was looking forward to a day or two of having fun.
As though my toes pushed into the sand isn’t enough of a wedge against the water’s calling, I begin to scoop up handfuls, depositing them around my feet and ankles.
The truth is, I would be in the water right now if I wasn’t experiencing regret in my packing choices. I didn’t have money to buy new clothes for this trip, but I did have a few things I’d bought last year and put away for my honeymoon.
Before Adam decided to drop me like a hot pie.
The swimsuit I’m wearing is ... honeymoon appropriate. Very revealing would be another way to phrase it. A plunging neckline, cutout sides, and cut so high in the leg that a wedgie feels just one wrong step away. It’s the real reason I pulled out that awful cover-up, which I brought to use in the place of a beach towel more than anything else.
Fin was right. It does look like a circus tent. But it covered my swimsuit better than I thought the sarong would.
I peel the fabric away from my thigh to examine the other issue with my sarong. My thigh is smudged blue from where I washed my hands and splashed it with water, causing the dye to run.
I cast my eyes to the ocean once more, my stomach somersaulting as Fin jogs toward me, wet and glistening.
James Bond, Casino Royale , eat your heart out. Daniel Craig has nothing on him. He totally looks like he should be in a gladiator ring, wrestling lions or something.
“You don’t like the water.” It sounds more like a statement than a question as he reaches me. He glances down at my sand-covered feet, a tiny smile catching at the corner of his mouth.
“I do like to swim,” I answer, squinting up at him. Though his broad shoulders cast a shadow, it’s not where I need it to be. I wasn’t going to ask him where he hid my sunnies.
“So you just like to turn pink and sweaty.”
“Ladies don’t sweat. They glisten. Did you miss that lesson in health education?”
“I went to an all-boys boarding school. They didn’t seem too concerned about the mysteries of women.”
I pull a face—an expressive eyebrow lift. I’m sure it would be more effective if I could get them to work independently, but you’ve got to work with what you have. “You must’ve committed to an extensive period of ... independent study following school.”
He chuckles, ducking his head, but I don’t believe for one minute he’s bashful. Why is it the more charming he becomes, the more uncomfortable I feel?
Because you’re afraid you’ll give in, and not just to him.
“You like to swim but, what? You’re afraid of jellyfish? Sharks?”
“Are there sharks in there?”
His answer is to stare at me as though he might be trying to divine my thoughts.
“I don’t like my swimsuit, okay?” I shove my fingers under my knees and prop my chin to the top of them. “I thought about swimming in my sarong, but that didn’t feel s’right,” I mumble ridiculously. “S’wrong, s’right.”
“But no one’s gonna see. Private beach.” He holds his hands out as though inviting me to check for myself. “You can swim naked if you like.”
“You wish,” I mutter. Then, “And you’ll see.”
“So keep the sarong.”
“And look like a Smurf?” My toes break their sand shackles as I pull the fabric away from my thigh to show him the blue stain.
“Whoa.”
“What?” At the strength of his reaction, I glance down and swiftly pull the dark, flowery fabric back. Hell. I just flashed him a whole lot of hip, cleavage, and maybe even a bit of side boob. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Who’s complaining?” His answer sounds a little throaty. “I had you pegged as a one-piece kind of girl.”
“It is a one-piece. Pervert,” I add with a frown.
“Oh, no.” He gives a slow shake of his head. “That’s more like a half piece.”
“There you go being ungentlemanly again.”
“On the contrary, it was a compliment. Good job,” he adds, ridiculously holding up two thumbs.
“And you think the sun will turn me pink,” I mutter.
“Compliments embarrass you?”
“Compliments make me feel weird.” As my confession hits the air, I wish I could swallow it back. I’ve never been the kind of person who is comfortable with praise. Probably because I didn’t get a lot of it growing up. Compliments weren’t necessary to survival, and survival was what life was about for a while.
The past aside, Fin’s compliments make me feel all squirmy inside. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the way he looks at me. Like he wants to devour me. I also secretly enjoy the things he says, which aren’t exactly a Mr. Darcy kind of admiration.
But I’ve heard worse things.
“ Do you think you should be eating carbs so close to the wedding? ”
Go forth and multiply, Adam Wainwright.
“ You know I’m only looking out for you, right? You wouldn’t like your dress to be too tight on our big day. ”
I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off.
Fin might not be perfect, but he would never be so crass.
His nostrils flare, and I steel myself against what he’s about to say. That I’m being stupid or fishing for compliments, or whatever it is that’s making him pull that face.
“You’re fun and smart, and you have excellent taste,” he says, still frowning. “And I don’t just mean in husbands, because the way you dressed the pavilion for our wedding was the best I’ve ever seen it look.”
“What?” I interrupt with little effect.
“We had the most beautiful wedding, even if it wasn’t meant for us. And that was all your doing.”
“It’s my job.”
“You care, Mila. You care about people, and you care about their feelings. You’re kind and you have a big heart. Look at the way you absolved Sarai of her recklessness.”
“I don’t think—”
“And you’ve been kind to me. Once or twice.” Amusement flickers in his expression. “You’re smart and you’re diligent, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
“What are you doing?” I think my skin is trying to creep back to the subcutaneous layer.
“You’re conscientious and a little contentious, and in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I’m voting for you to be on the committee of leaders. I fully expect you to have those rotting corpses doing your bidding in days.”
I squint up at him again. “Are you on drugs? Because if you’re not, you might want to consider it.”
“I’m not done. Your ass is heavenly, your hair moves like snakes, your smile is infectious, and your laughter hits me right here.” His conclusion is a fist tap to his chest. He doesn’t offer anything else.
We stare at each other in silence. And I don’t know what to think, let alone say.
Thanks for seeing through me just enough to pull me out of my own head ? Or maybe Thanks for being so weird you make me feel normal .
“Right, so ...” I glance away, my insides a mess of conflicting emotions. I feel icky, but it’s a good kind of ick. A warm, gooey ick. And sweet, like caramel. I love that he said those things, even if some of them were plain ridiculous.
“Nice snakes,” he says out of nowhere. Amends, I suppose.
“Right,” I say again. “Thanks for the clarification.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you mind telling me why you said all that?” And maybe why my heart is dancing a rumba and my eyes are a tiny bit leaky.
“Desensitization.” He shrugs.
“To you?”
“To compliments. Let’s call it exposure therapy, DeWitt style.”
“You don’t even know me.” Not really.
“I know enough.”
I make a sound. Pfft! All air and derision.
“I’m decisive. I make my mind up about a person quickly, and I’m not often wrong. It’s what I do for a living.”
“What do you do?”
“Primarily investor liaison.”
“Sounds like another word for party boy .”
“Party man , smut muffin,” he chastises playfully.
I quite like that one, not that I’d admit it.
“Maven Inc. is a private-equity company. Real estate, property development, that kind of thing. Entertaining investors is a big part of that. Reading people is what I do, and I do it well.”
“A good judge of character.”
“I’m an excellent judge of character.”
“Excuse, would you mind moving that bushel over a little,” I say making a fishtail motion with my hand. “I think your light might be hiding behind it. Not. ”
“I think I’ll take my bushel with me back in the water.” He bends, ridiculously scooping up air. “You coming?”
The answer is yes, if he’s got anything to do with it, not-Ronny whispers.
I dip my head, then give the tiniest nod. “You first, though.”
“You’re right. I’ll probably get a better view from out there.”
“Wait.” Even as I say it, I know I’m playing into his hands. Taking one of them even as it’s thrust into my line of vision. Fin pulls me to my feet, and it takes everything inside me not to ask him to turn away. But that only would prolong the agony.
“No commenting,” I mutter, reaching behind my neck to loosen the knot of my sarong.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The fabric flutters in a sudden breeze, my fist at my waist the only thing stopping it from blowing away. Without speaking, Fin takes it.
“We should’ve brought towels,” I say as he balls the fabric and presses it into the pink fedora. We don’t need them, really, the late afternoon still warm. I’m just waffling, nervous and waiting for his eyes to rise. For him to say something. Anything.
“Come on.”
It’s what he eventually says, tugging me behind him and into the water.
I smile as we wade in, the warm water so inviting as it licks up my legs.
“Are there sharks? You didn’t answer me before.”
“Just reef sharks.”
“Do reef sharks have teeth?”
“They stay out on the reef and eat the fish. The reef is why there’s so little surf.”
“Miles of sky; endless beauty; calm, warm waters; and no sharks. Remind me, why do you live in London again?”
“Can’t have too much of a good thing.”
“Said no one ever.”
“And I didn’t say there were no sharks.” He turns his head to slide me a wicked grin.
“Just reef sharks,” I say. “Dwellers of the reef.”
“And bamboo sharks.”
“Which are obviously vegetarian,” I say hopefully. “Like pandas.”
“There’s a shelf,” he says as he turns to face me, his hands reaching for my waist. Behind him, I can see the water turns a deeper blue farther out.
“I’m okay. I’m a pretty experienced swimmer. I’ve even done a bit of wild swimming back home.”
“Sharks should be no problem for you. Not when you’ve dealt with water cold enough to turn your extremities blue. Not to mention floating condoms.”
“Ew!”
“And killer ducks.”
My hand lands on his shoulder quite naturally as he pulls me closer. I sense him push off from the ball of his foot, his back gliding through the water as I follow on my side. In my mind, I imagine myself as graceful as a ballerina, though the reality is probably nothing near that, even as my hands glide through the water.
“I forgot the hammerheads.” His lips wrap in the shape of a smile as he moves away from me. “Hammerhead sharks.”
“I think I’ve changed my mind,” I say, using my hands and feet to tread water, keeping me in one place.
“Don’t go.”
We’re suddenly back to touching, his hands on my waist, his eyes a mixture of storm clouds and silver.
“Jokes,” I whisper, resting my hands on his shoulders. Then I shriek as he pulls me under.
Bubbles, air pushed from my nose, before I burst from the water, slicking back my hair. Then I chase after him. We roll, hands touching, skin sliding against skin. We’re like a couple of carousing dolphins twirling, turning, playing.
“Monster!” I eventually say as we break the surface at the same time. “You pinched my bum!”
“Sharks,” he says, sliding water from his face. “One probably couldn’t resist a nibble.”
“You!” Using both hands, I drive a wave over him. I don’t know what devil possesses me next as I duck under the surface and yank at his shorts.
Oh, my days! I so wasn’t imagining things.
“I’m sorry,” I splutter as I surface. “I didn’t mean—”
“Mila,” he growls in reprimand.
I squeal, overcome with excitement and his darkened expression and the way his hands disappear as he yanks his shorts back into place. I use the pause in proceedings to duck under the surface and power away.
A quicksilver thrill courses over me as I glide through the water, making for the shore. I imagine him behind me, his fingers reaching for me, just inches away. Exhilaration floods my bloodstream, my fight-or-flight instinct fueling my swim as my legs power me through the ocean’s resistance. I’m a decent swimmer, though I don’t have Fin’s strength, but as something brushes my ankle, my excitement peaks. My heart beats wildly when it happens again. Then Fin pulls me back—pulls me under. Our eyes meet under the surface, air bubbles streaming from our noses before we break together.
“You pinched my bum!” I protest breathlessly as I swipe back my hair, the tips of my toes grazing the sea floor. “You deserved—”
He yanks my body closer, no small feat given the water’s resistance.
I gasp as our bodies connect.
“Fuck, Mila, you make me not want to be a gentleman.”
That is possibly the hottest thing I have ever heard. And this might be the hottest version of Fin, his gray eyes storm cloud dark and his expression hungry.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, ignoring the warning bells going off in my head. “What does that look like? You not being a gentleman. Seeing as you’ve such a strong sense of propriety, ordinarily.”
His chuckle sounds almost tortured, but that might be the result of me sliding the inside of my knee up his thigh. “No one likes a tease,” he utters, gripping it and holding it there.
“Which is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“What am I gonna do with you?”
“Leave me alone,” I whisper, sliding my finger around the glistening shell of his ear. A shiver-inducing caress.
“Not a chance.”
“Maybe stop looking at my boobs, then?”
“I’m not looking at your boobs. I’m looking at your swimsuit. Didn’t I tell you I have a kink for swimwear?”
“Kink?” I repeat, but not because I don’t understand. I just wondered if it would sound the same if I said it.
“A huge kink.”
I know something else that’s huge, not-Ronny whispers.
“There’s just something about the wet look that does it for me,” he adds.
“Does what, exactly?” Like I have to ask. Like I can’t feel what it does, thanks to the close press of our bodies.
“Revs my engine.”
“I’ll leave it out for you tonight, if you like. You can use it in your special alone time.”
He laughs, throwing back his head, exposing the strong line of his throat. Why does it seem erotic, that stretch of him? Skin and tendons, the muscles working with his swallow.
“It’s gotta be wet.”
“You can dunk it in the pool.”
“Wet hair too. It looks as sexy as fuck on you.”
“Better than snakes?”
“I like snakes.”
My eyes dip, along with his, and I watch as the tip of his forefinger glides over the soft swell of my breast.
“See how shiny your skin is?”
I nod but—holy moly—cool water, LYCRA, and nipples do not make a modest trinity. Quartet, if I include the main reason for their stiffness. I can’t seem to help myself as I repeat the stroking action across his glistening cheekbone. “You could sharpen knives on these.”
“What’s the necklace.” Is he interested, or is it just another reason to touch me? I’m not complaining, either way.
“My grandmother gave it to me when I was small. It’s to ward off trouble. Ill wishes and evil spirits.”
“Doesn’t work, huh?”
“Idiot,” I chuckle. My bloodstream feels like it’s been filled with champagne bubbles as he continues to finger my pendant.
Maybe you should ask him to finger—
Not-Ronny has such a mouth on her.
“These cheekbones are wasted on a man.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m jealous of your bone structure.”
“Your bone structure gives my bone structure,” he replies with perfect seriousness.
Mila girl. You might as well whip off your knickers and hit that good and hard!
“Swimsuit,” I say, correcting not-Ronny’s admonishment.
“ You make the swimsuit work. You’re built like a goddess, and you’re so beautiful, and I fucking hate that you don’t think I’m being serious when I say so.”
“I don’t—”
“You pull a face or roll your eyes. I’m not even sure you know you’re doing it.”
But he’s right. I brush off even the mildest of compliments.
When did I learn to dislike myself so much?