She only giggled, her hands moving through the water as she continued to stare out into the ocean, obediently not looking as he eased into the water. He wished she’d look, though. He wanted her to gaze at him with wondering eyes, to check out his package like she had that morning in the hotel room.
Then again, considering that he was probably shriveling thanks to the cold, it was likely for the best that she didn’t check out his stuff. Yet.
“You’re a horrible, horrible little tease,” he growled under his breath, wading out to her. The water grew deeper, now at his waist, and when the tide rolled back, it sucked and pulled at his legs, and panic stirred in him again. “Come back,” he told her. “Don’t go out so fucking far.”
“This isn’t far,” she said lightly, dancing a few feet away. “I’m barely at chest height.”
“Yes, but I’m shorter than you,” he said. “I might drown if I go out that far.”
She turned around and splashed him, scowling.
He put up his hands to block the icy water, chuckling. “That got your attention.”
“Cruel man,” she said in a tone of voice that implied he was anything but. Hell, just that teasing note in her voice made his dick get all hard again, icy water or not.
“You’re the cruel one—trying to drown me in the water here.” He skated a hand over the surface. “Do sharks swim at night? Do we need to worry about that shit? What about riptides?”
“It’s fine,” she soothed. “Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”
“I fucking hate the water,” he grumbled. “Fucking hate it. Can’t believe you’re making me come out here.”
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” She moved toward him a few feet, close enough that he could see the amusement shining in her eyes, and the water lapping just below her breasts in that tiny string bikini. His gaze kept traveling downward, and he kept forcing it up again to be polite.
At this rate, he was going to need a medal for sainthood.
Something brushed against his foot, and he yelped and moved toward Marjorie in the water. “What the fuck was that?”
She giggled again. “That was my foot.”
“Christ, don’t do that again.” His heart was hammering in his chest.
“You really are scared, aren’t you?”
“I think I have PTSD from almost drowning last week. It doesn’t bother me too much until I’m out farther than ankle deep. Fuck, I don’t even like baths anymore. Just showers.”
“Poor baby,” she soothed in that teasing voice, and her arms moved to his neck and wrapped around him. “I’m right here. You can lean on me if you need to.”
“That so?” His hands went to her waist, caressing her skin just above the bikini bottom. He didn’t know what had brought out this playful side of Marjorie, but he was liking it. He drew her closer, and his mouth moved toward hers. “If you feel something jab you in the stomach, that’s not the Loch Ness Monster. Just my dick.”
She snorted with laughter a moment before her mouth went to his. Then, they were kissing.
Rob had learned something interesting about Marjorie this week—every kiss with her seemed to get better. Maybe she hadn’t had a lot of practice before, but now when their mouths met, she was as eager for him as he was for her. Her tongue swept into his mouth without him having to prompt her, and her lips were open and eager as they kissed and molded and meshed with one another. Her mouth tasted sweet, her tongue teasing, and he wanted to drown himself in the taste of her. Kissing Marjorie was an exquisite torture. Exquisite because he enjoyed kissing her more than he thought possible . . . and torture because he knew it would not go any further than that. His cock wasn’t listening, though. It was an optimist, and his dick was hard with anticipation, practically pressing against her soft belly under the water. He edged his hips back slightly so he wouldn’t alarm her by prodding her with it.
Tonight, as they kissed, her hands moved from his neck and smoothed down his shoulders, her long fingers caressing his skin. And he shuddered under that light, exploratory touch. “God damn, it feels good when you touch me, Marjorie,” he murmured against her lips.
“I like touching you,” she told him shyly, between little presses of her mouth to his. Her hands slid to his biceps and she squeezed them, testing the muscle there.
He groaned, his brain likening that exploratory little squeeze to her hands doing the same on his cock. Now he was aching with need, his pulse throbbing from her little touches.
“Rob,” she said, voice soft as she pressed her mouth against his upper lip, then the corners of his mouth.
“Hmm?” It was taking all his concentration not to grab her and force her hips against his cock, to have her soft, slippery flesh cradling him. Definitely bound for sainthood.
“How come we never do anything more than kiss?”
Ah, Jesus. “Because you’re a virgin, sweetheart. The last thing I want to do is freak you out or make you feel pressured.”
Her hands skimmed down his sides, up and down, tormenting him with their soft little motions. “What if . . . what if I took the lead on things?”
He stilled, composing himself. “What . . . did you have in mind?”
“I want to touch you,” she murmured against his mouth. “And I want you to touch me. Can we try second base?”
“Sweetheart, we can do anything you want. But you gotta remind me what second base is.” It’d been far too long since he’d dated someone that referred to bases. “And if second base is anal, the answer is unequivocally ‘yes.’”