Chapter 2 #2
I spin around, and Logan is walking toward the bar. He's changed out of the shorts and t-shirt from earlier into dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is still messy, but there's something different about him now.
The effect on my body is immediate and embarrassing. Heat pools low in my belly, my pulse jumps, and every nerve ending suddenly wakes up. He's not even touching me, and I can feel him.
And if I'm being honest with myself, I want to feel him.
"Hannah." His eyes rake over me in the polka dot bikini, slow and appreciative. "You look..."
"Like I'm about to win a surf contest in 1965?"
Logan smirks. "More like trouble. The very best kind of trouble."
Eli makes a noise that might be a laugh or might be a gag. "Jesus, you two. Get a room."
"Actually," Logan says, sliding onto the stool next to mine, "I was thinking we could dance first."
"I-I don't dance. And why aren't you on theme?"
"I have to look like the organizer. Also, don't worry." Logan stands and extends his hand to me. "I'm good enough for both of us."
"This should be entertaining," Eli says, and then, because he's apparently the devil, adds, "Hannah, just so you know, Logan's definition of 'good enough' includes that time he tried to dip a girl and dropped her in the sand."
I snort, and the Shirley Temple goes up my nose. Logan shoots Eli a look that could kill, but Eli just grins wider.
"Are you going to take my hand," Logan says to me, "or are you going to let Eli destroy what's left of my reputation?"
I look at his outstretched hand, then at Eli's grin, then back at Logan's face, and take his hand. Just like the time we touched earlier, a bolt of heat sears through me, and I almost squirm with how my pussy clenches around nothing.
God, look at me. Very mature.
The music is upbeat when we reach the makeshift dance floor—some surf rock number that makes me think of beach movies and convertibles. Logan wasn't lying about being good enough for both of us. His hand settles at my waist, and he guides me into the rhythm.
He spins me, and I laugh as my hair whips around my face. When I spin back into his arms, he grins. "See? Not so terrible."
"I never said it was terrible. I said I don't dance."
"What's the difference?"
"I don't dance because I'm bad at it. There's a difference between bad and terrible."
He spins me again, catching me closer this time. "You're not bad at anything."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
The song shifts to something slower, and the energy on the dance floor changes. Couples move closer together, the laughter quiets to murmurs, and suddenly Logan's arms are around me properly, and we're swaying more than dancing.
I have to tilt my head back to look at him, but from this angle, I can see the line of his jaw, the way his eyes have gone darker in the low light. His hand spreads wide across the small of my back, and the heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric of my cover-up.
"Penny for your thoughts," he tells me.
"Just that life is funny sometimes. The other day, I was in my cubicle. Now, I'm dancing with a stranger at a themed party on an island, and it's the most fun I've had in months."
"Stranger?" His hand tightens on my back. "I thought we were past that."
"Are we?"
Instead of answering, he kisses me. Right there on the dance floor, in front of everyone, slow and deliberate and thorough. His mouth is warm and tastes like mint, and when his tongue brushes against mine, heat shoots straight down my spine and settles between my thighs.
Logan breaks the kiss. "My place or yours?"
The smart answer is neither. The smart answer is that I just met him today, that I'm leaving in a week, that this is moving too fast, and I should slow down and think about what I'm doing. "I've always wanted to have sex underneath the stars."
"Say no more."
Logan finds a beach towel from somewhere behind the bar, and we walk down the beach away from Shore Thing's lights and music. The sand is cool under my bare feet, and the sound of waves gets louder as we move away from the party.
He leads me to a spot that's sheltered by rocks on one side, private but not isolated. When he spreads the towel on the sand, we both stop and look at each other.
This is happening. We both know it, and there's a beat—a pause— where the weight of that settles between us. I feel my throat swallow. But it's not nervous energy—it's anticipation. Hunger that's been building all day is finally about to break.
Logan reaches for me first, his hands framing my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with a roughness that sends sparks everywhere. The smell of sand and beach clings to his skin, and I inhale deeply.
"You sure about this?"
My heart pounds, a frantic little drum saying yes yes yes even as my practical brain tries one last protest. I've got seven days here, tops.
This is the type of mistake that feels too good to regret.
I tug my cover-up over my head and toss it behind him.
"Are you going to keep asking, or are you going to kiss me? "
His laugh is low and rough. "Bossy. I like that."
Logan's mouth crushes against mine again, hot and demanding. His hands slide down to the ties of my polka-dot bikini top, fingers grazing the sides of my breasts, and when he pulls back to look at me, eyes dark and questioning, I nod hard.
The top falls away, and his sharp intake of breath ghosts over my nipples.
"Jesus, Hannah. You're so fucking beautiful."