A sigh. “Maybe being here will jog things for you. That’s what I was thinking. You grew up here. And when you said you needed to get away, I thought,Why not Spain? See if she remembers anything.”
“It seems you were right. I don’t know if I’ll remember anything else, but even if that’s all I remember, it will be worth it. Knowing my parents loved each other, and me... ?” I let go of the balcony railing and press my fingers between Logan’s. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
He just laughs. “Youdidn’t bring anything. I packed for us, remember?”
He tosses the suitcase on the bed, opens it, rifles through the stacked rolls of clothes until he finds a pair of bright orange swim trunks, and then again until he comes up with two different bathing suits for me. One is a white one-piece, and the other is a rather skimpy pink-and-blue two-piece, little more than a few pieces of string and patches of fabric.
I hold up the two piece. “Really, Logan?”
He shrugs. “I told her a one-piece and a two-piece. Didn’t pick ’em, remember?” His eyes light up. “You could try it on for me, though, right? You don’t have to wear it out if you don’t want to.”
“I’m pregnant, remember?” I suddenly don’t want to put on either.
“Babe. You’re not showing at all.” He takes the bikini from me, tosses it into the suitcase. “But don’t worry about it. You’re gorgeous, no matter what you wear or don’t wear. We’re here to relax and get away from all the bullshit, so don’t stress about the bathing suit.”
He kisses me, a quick peck, and then grabs his trunks and moves toward the bathroom, peeling off his T-shirt on the way.
I watch, shamelessly, as he pees, then shucks his jeans and underwear. He does all this in the bathroom, but with the door open, so I’m able to watch in the reflection of the mirror. He turns as he’s pulling up the trunks, just in time for me to watch as certain portions of his anatomy vanish. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at him, I realize.
I strip, tossing my clothes on the bed. Eyes on Logan, his on me. His hands find me, when I’m naked.
“Start that, Logan, and we’ll never get to the beach.”
“It’ll still be there in an hour or two,” he murmurs, palming my ass and kissing me on the jaw.
“True . . .”
And then, somehow, my fingers find the strings of his trunks and are tugging the knot apart, and then he’s naked with me. Pushing me backward to the bed, lifting my knees over his shoulders, mouth to my core.
I writhe off the bed, wrapping my legs around him, pulling him closer. I’m greedy for what his tongue can do to me, and soon I’m riding his tongue and fingers through one orgasm, two... I’m nearing a third when I finally manage to pull himaway, pull him up, pull him over me, lift my hips to his. We find each other, him sliding inside me smoothly, slowly, as if our bodies were puzzle-made for each other.
As he moves, I kiss his jaw, his cheekbone, his temple. My fingers slide up his face, up the right side, encounter the leather of his eyepatch. I brush it away, toss it aside. Feather kisses up his right cheekbone, to his temple. Over his empty eye socket. Telling him without words that he is beautiful, even thus. Especially thus.
He moves harder when I kiss him like that, so I bring my heels up to my buttocks and lie still, let him move above me, let him have me as he wishes to have me, and I focus my attention on touching and kissing his face, his neck, his shoulders, his jaw, sliding my fingertips over his skin, stubble skritching under my nails.
When I feel his rhythm falter, when I feel him tighten and throb within me, when I feel him surging hard and rough and wild, I press my lips to his ear and whisper his name, again and again and again, and then I whisperI love youin the other ear. I palm his buttocks and urge him to move harder, pull him against me, hook my legs around his back and move against him.
I do not come with him.
I don’t want to.
I want to only feel him, take him.
He has given me so much, loved me so unconditionally, accepted me, forgiven me, taught me to beme.
He comes hard, grunting against my breasts. I carve my fingers through his hair and hold his mouth against my nipple and pull him to my lips and kiss him as he comes, bite his lip and suck his breath into my lungs and cling to his neck and writhe beneath him to milk his orgasm until he’s limp above me, giving me his weight.
“Jesus, Isabel.” He is gasping, still, his face on my chest, between my breasts. I love his weight on me, thus. “You rock my world harder every single time we do that.”
“You haven’t just rocked my world, Logan. You have utterly changed me. You have rescued me.”
“Love don’t quit, baby.”
“No, I’m realizing that it does not.” I move beneath him, and he slides off me, pulls me against his chest, as if to cuddle. I have other ideas. “The beach, Logan. I want to swim.”
I do, very much. The sea is calling to me. I want to feel the sand in my toes, the wind in my hair, the water around my ankles.
“Let’s go, then.”
