The Beach

by R.S. Grey

  The waiter arrives then, dropping off our salads, and I use his presence to build my resolve. I don’t want to chicken out. I’m not a prude. If he’s curious, I’ll tell him.

  “No, I haven’t,” I say when we’re left alone again.

  I pick up my fork, excited by the array of fresh ingredients on my plate: jicama, mango, and cilantro, to name a few.

  “All right, if you could be any animal, what would it be?”

  I laugh, confused about how we went from sex on the first date to a question about animals.

  I peer up at him from beneath my brows. “Are you going easy on me now?”

  “Maybe. I’m just not sure you want to play the way I want to.”

  I think over his words for a moment, surprised that they raise my hackles. I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves just because I’m Natalie’s friend.

  “Ask me whatever you want to ask, Noah. I’m game.” I lean forward. “In fact, I’ll take a turn. Tell me, have you ever had a sexy dream?”

  He laughs. “Who hasn’t?”

  “About me?”

  His smile dies on his lips and there’s a long, agonizing silence as he mulls the question over.

  “Are you sure you want to ask that?”

  “Now who doesn’t want to play the game?” I ask with a cocky little smile as I fork a bite of salad into my mouth.

  “Yes,” he says confidently as he watches me chew. “I’ve had plenty of dirty dreams about you.”

  Dirty dreams.

  I nearly gulp.

  “Now answer this: were you happy to find out we’d be alone here in Mexico?” he asks.

  Even though my question was more scandalous, his feels more intimate. Dreams can be written off—unconscious thoughts don’t necessarily mean anything—but if I reveal that I was happy to discover it’d be just us on this vacation, that’s as significant as admitting my entire schoolgirl crush on him once and for all.

  It’s not something I can easily take back once it’s out there, and even though it feels tempting to give in to the moment here in Mexico, I can’t help but wonder how things will settle when we get back to Boston. How will we face each other again once the cat’s out of the bag?

  Still, I don’t want to back down completely, so I circumvent the real answer and settle on a reply that’s less revolutionary.

  “I was intrigued.”

  “How?” he asks, leaning back and propping his elbows on the arms of his chair. It’s a confident pose, almost like he’s not currently asking me to bare my heart for him.

  “Intrigued to see how it would go with the two of us left alone.”

  “We’ve been alone before.”

  Believe me, I know. I have every instance catalogued in my mind.

  I swallow and look away. “Sure—briefly.”

  He hums in thought. “You seem scared right now.”

  “Of you?” My tone implies it’s an insane insinuation.

  “Of us.”

  Four

  As promised, the restaurant transitions to more of a club atmosphere once our entrees are cleared and Noah is paying the check. My offer to pay half the bill is refused, so I sit back and watch the live band start to play as tables get pushed to the side. Couples rise up from their seats and take to the sandy dance floor, moving slowly and sensually, much more so than I’m used to seeing in the States. It’s like no one cares that they’re in public. Their only concern is the person in their arms. There’s something to be admired about that.

  Noah and I haven’t talked much since we stopped playing our game. I refused to admit that I was scared of us, and I refused to delve deeper into what he meant by the insinuation. I think he took the hint and backed off, but now I feel bad.

  We’ve only been here for a day, and already I feel like so much is changing.

  I’m not sure I’m ready.

  I’m not sure I can handle the fact that Noah Martin might want me as much as I want him after all the years of suffering I’ve had to endure under the false assumption that he barely knew I existed.

  We sit, watching the dancers, and I drink my glass of wine slowly.

  A young guy at the bar catches my eye and smiles. I saw him earlier at a table with a few other guys. They looked like they were all on a friend trip together, but now he’s alone, keeping his attention on me.

  I don’t think I encourage his advances, but he still musters up the courage to walk over to our table, right in front of Noah, and ask me to dance.

  He puts his hand out for me to take and I’m shocked, honestly. I’ve had my fair share of attention from guys in the past, but it’s still flattering.

  I look to Noah and am surprised to see the murderous expression in his eyes. He’s never looked at me that way before and his attention is on the guy asking me to dance, but I take the hint all the same.

  “Sorry. I suck at dancing.”

  “It’s just for fun,” the guy prods.

  Noah leans forward. “She said no.”

  The guy scoffs as he steps back, focusing on me as he walks away. “If you change your mind…” He nods back toward the bar.

  I can’t look at Noah after he’s gone. I’m too embarrassed.

  His chair scoots back in the sand, and I peer over at him from underneath my lashes as he stands and loops around the table, blocking my view of the dance floor. He reaches down with his hand to take mine, and then he uses it to lift me up and off my chair.

  He leads me out to the dance floor, never once asking me if I want to go with him.

  It’s a good thing, too, because I’m not sure I’d have the courage to say yes, but now that we’re out here, now that he’s drawing me in close and wrapping his hands around my lower back, it’s like I don’t even have a choice in the matter.

  I like that.

  I like Noah taking something he wants because I’m too chickenshit to do it myself.

  He brings me up against his body so our chests brush together, then his head falls so his forehead touches mine. We sway back and forth as his hands curve lower, over my ass. He erases the last few inches of space between us and I gasp as our hips rock together, surprised by how needy I sound even to my own ears.

  His eyes catch mine and it’s like a flame drags over me, heating every inch of my body.

  The music stays slow and romantic, the kind of rhythm you can’t help but emulate with your hips.

  My hands glide up his hard chest and then I wrap my arms around his neck.

  My silk dress feels like nothing as his hands glide up past my waist, higher around the edges of my chest. He squeezes like he can’t get enough and I tilt my chin up. It’s instinctive. I’ve never been this close to a man—moving my body in time with his—without kissing him.

  He responds right away, dropping his mouth so it hovers above mine.

  It’s an agonizing moment of longing, that pause he takes.

  It’s suspended torture that only ends the moment our lips touch.

  We’re just like the rest of the couples now—forgetting where we are, too caught up in the moment. Our kiss is a thousand years in the making and neither one of us is eager for it to end. He tilts his head and takes it deeper, sweeping his tongue across mine.

  His hands tighten on me and I stretch up onto my tiptoes to bring my body even more aligned with his.

  If we were alone, I have no doubt his hands would be sliding up the slits of my dress and brushing my panties aside. We’re kissing like we’re fucking, and I need him to continue more than I need my next breath.

  The song ends, and people clap.

  It’s that sound that finally breaks us apart.

  We don’t just take an inch, we take a few yards, stepping away from each other like we’re two magnets, scared to get irresistibly drawn together again.

  What was that, my expression says.

  He doesn’t look confused; he looks territorial.

  Hungry.

  What did he say earlier about being attracted to p
eople?

  It’s more in the way someone makes me feel. Electrified, excited…hungry.

  That’s how I know I’m in trouble.

  He drags a hand through his hair, seeming to gather himself enough to walk toward me, grab my hand, and tug me away from the restaurant.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here.”

  “You don’t have to walk so fast. You’re hurting me.”

  He slows his pace, barely. Still, I feel like I have to hustle to keep up with him. My wedges don’t help, and I beg him to stop so I can yank them off. Once they’re in my hand, I have no trouble keeping up with him.

  We reach the door of the villa and he unlocks it. A dark, quiet living room waits for us, and I immediately see everything through new sexy eyes. He could bend me over the back of that couch or prop me up against that TV stand. We could go at it against the sliding glass door or right outside, on our private beach terrace.

  I know he’s thinking the same. I know he’s about to haul me back up into his arms and finish what we started at the restaurant.

  Instead, he groans as if in pain, takes one look at me, and throws his hands up in the air.

  “I think you should go to bed, Lindsey.”

  BED?!

  Now? Is he kidding?

  “Why?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Instead, he steps toward me, grabs my shoulders, and starts to gently push me in the direction of my room. “I want you to go into your room and shut the door and lock it. Can you do that?”

  I shake my head as all the momentum of the last hour seeps out of me.

  “What—why?”

  “Because, Lindsey, I think you’re a good girl.”

  I’m not, I want to tell him.

  I left that girl behind in Boston.

  But it’s too late.

  I’m inside my room and he’s shutting the door as he leaves me in here.

  Without him.

  Five

  One thing is for certain: if I wasn’t his sister’s best friend, Noah and I would have had sex four times over last night. If we were just two strangers who had met at that restaurant and started to dance, we would have been tugging our clothes off and romping in the sand within forty-five minutes of saying hello.

  The issue is that Noah respects me too much. He doesn’t want to hurt me, and he likely doesn’t want to suffer the consequences of having a vacation fling with me, knowing we’ll have to face each other once we return to our normal lives in Boston.

  The thing is, this isn’t just his decision.

  What about what I want?

  Last night, as I slipped into my pajamas and brushed my teeth, my stomach ached with the feeling of missed opportunity. I debated going back out into the living room and pleading my case.

  I’m not a good girl!

  Look, I’ll show you!

  That’s when I would have performed some kind of sexy striptease, during which he’d fall to the floor in a puddle of lust while losing his mind, thus giving me the upper hand.

  Instead, I cracked open the mini bar in my room, snagged some overpriced peanut M&Ms, and tucked myself right into bed.

  I’m angry at myself for wimping out.

  Especially as I roll onto my side and face the ocean just in time to see Noah finishing his workout. He must have gone on a run already. He’s slick with sweat. Shirtless. Tan. He’s using the shallow ledge of the terrace to aid him with push-ups. It’s a hard job to lie in bed and watch his muscles ripple in the early morning sun. A hard, hard job. I reach for the rest of the M&Ms I didn’t finish last night and take in the show. He’s set up a yoga mat—probably found in some closet in the villa I haven’t bothered searching through—so he can continue with some crunches next. Yes, I think. Better make that six-pack an eight-pack.

  Another piece of chocolate melts in my mouth as he finishes a set and then stands, wiping sweat from his brow with a white towel.

  His eyes glance to my bedroom window and he catches me red-handed. (Literally—some red M&Ms have melted onto my fingers.) I immediately squeeze my eyes shut, praying the tint on the glass makes it impossible for him to see in and witness me spying on him, but a moment later when I pry one eye open, he’s still standing there, eyes on me, smiling.

  Ugh.

  I sit up and shove the blankets off my body so I can walk to the sliding glass door and unlock it. I push it aside a few inches and smile.

  “Restful morning?” he teases.

  I roll my eyes. “I know you probably think I’ve just been lazing around all morning, but I’ll have you know I woke up at the crack of dawn and worked out for like two hours before showering and getting back into bed.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Uh-huh. No one’s more dedicated to fitness than me.”

  “You’ve got an M&M wrapper stuck to your shirt.”

  I look down and, sure enough, the crinkly yellow wrapper is stuck to my pajama top, just over my left boob.

  I yank it off and toss it behind me.

  “Those were just for protein. Don’t be confused—I hate sweets.”

  “No, you don’t. You love to indulge.”

  The way he says it sends a ripple of desire down my spine.

  “Yes, well…on occasion.”

  “Join me for breakfast in a bit? On the terrace?”

  “Sure. Right after I shower.”

  “I thought you already had.”

  “I’m a very hygienic person, Noah.”

  Before he can tease me further, I slide the door closed and run for the shower.

  When I dress later, I toss aside any outfit that falls into the modest, family-friendly category. This is not the time to play coy. I just saw post-workout Noah in all his hunky glory, and he deserves to suffer the same fate.

  I meet him outside thirty minutes later wearing a bikini and a cover-up. I have no idea if we’ll be going swimming today, but considering we’re on the beach, chances are pretty good. I almost feel sorry for him when I look down at my boobs. They look very good today, and my cover-up offers a tantalizing glimpse of my body.

  I enjoy a private moment of triumph when he looks up at me as I walk out of the villa and his jaw goes slack for all of one millisecond before he regains his composure.

  “You’ll have to change after breakfast,” he says, eyes darting back to the food on the table as if he’s trying to give himself a moment to cool down.

  “Why?”

  Too much for you to handle?

  “We’re going out on an excursion with a guide from the hotel. There are ruins nearby that I read are worth checking out.”

  I smile, glad he took the time to research the trip like I did. I’d hoped we’d make it out to the Tulum ruins and meant to ask the receptionist about it yesterday, but I got distracted. By him.

  On the table, there’s an array of breakfast items: bagels and scrambled eggs, coffee cakes and fruit. I settle for some yogurt and fruit, watching as Noah lifts a piece of bacon to his mouth.

  I ask him if he’s ever toured ruins before and he tells me about a trek he did in college, down to Machu Picchu with his dad. It’s different than what we’ll be doing today. From what I’ve heard, the Tulum ruins are set up so it’s more of a walking tour and less of a dangerous journey through the jungle.

  When he went to Machu Picchu, Noah tells me he and his dad had to hike through dense vegetation with a guide on the way to the ruins. At night, they slept in tents and carried everything they’d need in big camping backpacks. There are easier ways to get there—namely by helicopter—but he wanted to do it the slow way. His dad took photos and documented their trip for a piece in The Times, and I tell him I’d like to read it when we get back to Boston.

  He nods. “I think I have a copy saved somewhere. It’s a cool article.”

  It’s hard not to be amazed by a guy like Noah. On paper, he’s intimidating. A handsome surgeon who’s well-traveled and well-read. A man who carries himself
with an air of confidence and who seems, at any given moment, to be in total control of the world around him.

  I wonder what he thinks of me.

  I carry my own accomplishments, but does he realize? Does he see me beyond my friendship with Natalie?

  I think of our conversation from dinner last night. His confession still makes my stomach squeeze tight.

  He’s had dirty dreams about me.

  There’s my answer—at least on some level, he wants me.

  So what’s holding him back?

  I consider the question as we finish breakfast and make our way to the lobby to go on our excursion. I’ve changed into shorts and a tank top with sensible sneakers and a baseball cap. Noah flicks the brim as we wait to board the bus behind the other guests from the hotel. We’re all heading out as a group.

  I thought I came prepared, but I didn’t anticipate Tulum’s tropical climate. Almost as soon as we make our way off of the bus and down the winding path toward the entrance of the preservation site, the sky opens up and torrential rain starts to pour down on us.

  Noah and I glance toward one another in utter defeat. I have no jacket, no poncho, and neither does he. He reaches down and takes my hand, and we start to run through the mud toward a dry spot under a canopy of trees.

  We laugh and shake off our limbs, trying in vain to dry ourselves off. Smart tourists pass us by with their huge umbrellas and rain boots. Noah and I groan about them to make ourselves feel better while we stand under the trees and wait out the storm.

  It doesn’t take long for the rain to stop. Almost as soon as it starts, it eases up, shifting to light sprinkles that drip off the heavy green fronds of the trees protecting us.

  I turn to Noah, and he shifts to look down at me.

  “You’re sopping wet,” I point out helpfully.

  He tips his lips up in an easy grin. “So are you.”

  As if to prove his point, he reaches out to grab my tank top in his hands so he can gather the material and wring it out. Water pools at my feet, but I don’t pay attention. I’m too focused on the feel of his fingers as they accidently skim my bare skin. He drops my shirt back in place and I look up at him.