Page 112 of Final Drive

Her face tightens. “Cameron.”

“I’m not saying I’m going to.”

“You’re saying you’d leave.”

“I’m saying I’m not making you live with something I spent half my life getting away from.”

She stares at me, then reaches over and catches the front of my jacket in her fist.

“You are such a fucking idiot.”

“Probably.”

Then she pulls me toward her, and I go.

There’s nothing careful about the first kiss. Reese kisses the same as she coxes, already three strokes ahead and irritated that everybody else hasn’t caught up. Her knee slides over mine, my hand lands in the sand behind her, and for a few seconds I let her set whatever insane rate she wants.

Then I get my hand into her hair and slow her down.

She makes an aggravated sound against my mouth.

“We’ve got all night,” I tell her.

“I’ve been waiting two months.”

“So have I.”

“Then keep up.”

I laugh, and she kisses me again before I can answer.

My jacket ends up under us mostly by accident. My shirt follows hers into the sand, and when Reese puts her palm against the scarred side of my ribs, I tense before I can stop myself.

She notices. Of course she does.

But she doesn’t pull away or trace them with her fingers. She doesn’t ask which one came from which night or look at me like I’ve handed her something fragile. Her hand just stays where she put it, warm against my skin while she kisses the other side of my chest.

It’s such a small thing that I almost miss what it does to me.

Almost.

I slide my hand around the back of her neck and pull her up to kiss her again.

We take our time getting the rest of the way undressed, which is harder than it should be on sand. Reese gets one leg caught in her jeans and nearly kicks me in the face trying to get free.

“Very sexy,” I tell her.

“Shut up and help me.”

“I’m enjoying this.”

“Cameron.”

I catch her ankle before she can actually kick me and get the jeans off. “There.”

“Asshole.”

“Still here.”