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I remember now. McCormick. An almost. A never was. A dream that didn’t happen.
“What would you say if I called you Aaron?”
I feel his smile then in the way he curves around me. “I’d say you aren’t yourself.”
I nod. That’s true. I’m not the me he knows.
“How about, if you ever want to know if I’m myself—the me of right now—just say ‘Fi’? And if I say yes, then that means I’m me and I want you to kiss me.”
“Fi?”
I nod, tilting my chin up to look at him. “Yes.”
His eyes light and the crash of the waves swells, sweeping over the shore. A gull flies overhead, a lone figure in the night sky.
“You want me to kiss you?” he asks, his eyes catching on my mouth.
My lips tingle as his gaze softens and strokes over my lips. “Yes,” I whisper.
He reaches up then, drawing his fingers over my cheek, his touch featherlight. I lean into his hand, turning my mouth to set a kiss over his fingertips.
“It will be okay,” I whisper as he reaches out and brushes his fingers across my lips. “I’m here. You’re here. It’ll be okay.”
The night is pregnant with desire, and the floral scent tangles between us. The air takes on a wavy, dreamlike feel. I’m floating, lost in the sensation of his fingers slowly tracing my lips.
I grab his wrist then and pull his hand free. He smiles and says, “This feels like a dream.”
“I know.”
And then I remember what he said before—how he told me he felt that if he didn’t kiss me he’d regret it for the rest of his life. He’s a man who has lived with regrets. It’s not something he would say lightly.
He has the same look in his eyes now. And so I lean forward, rocking in the cool sand, and grip his shoulders.
I kiss him. I taste the salt on his lips. I taste the tears he didn’t shed. I taste his regret. I taste his love.
He exhales a sharp, pained breath. And then he flips me beneath him, pressing me into the sand. He covers me. His clothing scrapes over me, and he captures my wrists with his hands and presses them into the sand.
His heat lines me, and the weight of him settling over me sends a liquid heat through my veins. He takes my mouth and kisses me. Gently. Softly. Like the breeze over a calm sea. Like he’s memorizing me and savoring me and thanking me.
But I don’t want him to thank me. I don’t want his softness.
I want to touch him, hold him. I want more.
I strain at his hands shackling my wrists. And then I rock my hips into him, the thin cotton of my nightdress scraping against the length of him, hard beneath his canvas shorts. He makes a surprised hum in his throat and releases my wrists. I reach out, sending my hands under his shirt to the heat of his skin.
The breath whooshes out of me as he rocks against me, hitting me perfectly, so that a bright light sparks through me. I gasp against his mouth and he catches it. He sends his tongue across my lips and then rocks into me again. The fabric between us scrapes and abrades. There’s an insistent growing ache pulsing where he’s rolling over me. The motion of his mouth matches the motion of his hips. He crests with the waves—a steady, luxurious rhythm that sends a warmth glowing over me.
I cling to him, sending my hands over him. Tasting him and touching him. And then, as I curl my fingers into his shoulders and wrap my legs around his hips, he raggedly whispers against my mouth, “Fi.”
The light sparks, and I crash against him as he takes my cries in his mouth.
“Yes. Yes.”
I come.
I come on the beach, under the silver-mooned sky, with the waves crashing over the sand and Aaron McCormick kissing me into senselessness.
I come from a kiss.
