Out of it.
On top of me.
Under my mouth.
Anywhere she’ll let me have her.
But instead, I just stand there like an idiot, swallowing back a groan, fists clenched at my sides like I’m holding myself together with twine.
She glances back, lips wet, brows raised, like she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing to me.
I exhale hard and mutter, “Goddamn.”
I should look away. I should turn around and give her privacy.
But I don’t.
I watch her like I’m starving and she’s the last damn thing on earth worth devouring.
“Oh my God,” she calls out, treading water effortlessly. “This is amazing!”
I find myself smiling despite the cluster of confusing emotions sitting in my chest somewhere between a mixture of relief and anxiety. “Glad you approve.”
“Seriously, Grant, the water's perfect.” She flips onto her back, floating with an ease that speaks to her years of training. “Thank you for this. I know it wasn't easy.”
The simple acknowledgment hits me harder than any elaborate gratitude could have. “You're welcome,” I manage.
For the next half hour, I sit on the riverbank, half in hell, half in awe, mesmerized as Mia cuts through the water with powerful strokes. Her body is a marvel of strength and grace, muscles flexing beneath glistening skin as she completes lap after lap between the boundaries she's set for herself.
When she finally emerges, water streaming down her body, I have to remind myself to breathe again. Her sports bra hasbecome nearly transparent, clinging to her breasts in a way that makes it impossible not to notice the hardened peaks of her nipples. Droplets cascade down her toned stomach, disappearing into the waistband of her panties.
“See something you like, Taylor?” she asks, catching me staring.
I don't bother denying it. “Several things, actually.”
She laughs to herself, this soft, breathy sound that’s nothing short of a damninvitation. My spine goes rigid. My mouth? Bone dry. I rub the back of my neck, the skin hot from more than just the sun.
She turns to float on her back, breasts pushing against her sports bra—now sheer and practically see-through. Water spills from her chest like temptation itself. I drag a palm down my thigh, clenching my fingers into my knee to keep themsomewheresafe. Anywhere but where they want to be.
“God, I missed this.” She says, completely oblivious to my mental torment.
I nod. “Looks like you never left.”
She swims over, water beading on her skin. “Swim with me,” she whispers, holding out a hand.
“Maybe another time,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile when my body involuntarily stiffens. My chest aches. From the want. From the fear. From the war going on inside me every time I look at her and feel like a man again—and a boy drowning in guilt all over again all at the same time.
She notices. Of course she does.
“Grant, you don’t have to,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to push.”
But she’s not pushing. Not really. She’s offering. Quiet and safe.
I stand. Walk to the edge. The water laps at my boots.
One step. That’s all she’s asking.
I hover at the edge. My boot lifts, hesitates. The water ripples below me, black and endless and filled with too many ghosts.
