“Like that? Hell, yeah.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say with a smirk, my mind going to naughty places it should so not be going. But Dawson’s hair is blowing in the breeze and his mouth is curled into a very sexy grin. Plus he smells like cocoa butter and the ocean. Which reminds me of home. And Brooklyn. “You know, I can see now why my mom says you have to date different people, so you know what’s good and bad in a relationship. Like you said, you worshiped Whitney, then dated her. Same with me. I crushed on the Keats guy. I did stuff with him because I wanted to make him like me. This feels different. I feel like we like each other.”
He grabs my hand. “I do like you. And you’re right, we both thought our past relationships were so amazing.”
“And they weren’t, really, were they?”
“No, not really. I’ve been sorta kicking myself for spending so much time whining about me and Whitney breaking up. Now I feel stupid because I see everyone was right, and I’ve been kind of a jerk to everyone lately.”
I smile. “Not to me. Well, except for the worst kiss ever.”
I sit down on a bench next to the tennis court and admire a container full of pink tea roses. “These are so gorgeous,” I say, leaning down to smell them.
Dawson sits down next to me and says, “So, Keatie . . .”
“Keatie?”
“Yep. That’s what I’m gonna call you. A combination of cutie and Keatyn. You’re my little Keatie.”
I smile at him.
Ohmigawd! Is that not just the most adorable thing ever?
“It’s cute.”
“No, you’re cute.”
He gives me a sweet kiss then pulls me up and says, “Ready to play some tennis?”
“Sure, but you’re gonna lose.”
His hormones kick into overdrive.
11pm
After dinner, everyone sits outside, chatting and drinking.
We watch the sun go down from the side deck and at that moment, while I am wrapped tightly in Dawson’s strong arms, I have a flash of clarity.
It all feels so right, and I decide that I will be quite content without a surfer, a player, or a Hottie God in my life.
We move the party back to the pool/hot tub area, turn the music up, dance around, and have fun.
Dawson says to me, “Be right back. I’m gonna grab a couple more beers.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have any more.”
“Why not? I’m not drunk or anything. Are you feeling it?”
“I’m feeling it, but I’m just maybe a little tipsy. I feel perfect.”
“Okay?” He gives me a questioning look.
“I was kinda thinking that I’d like to not get—um, remember how we said if we do stuff that we didn’t want to only because we’re drunk?”
He beams. “So, you’re thinking us about doing stuff?” I can tell he is quite excited by this prospect.
“I wanna do some stuff. Don’t you?”
He kisses me. “Are you kidding me? It’s all I’ve thought about all day.” He stares at me for a second and figures he better not waste his opportunity. “You know, I’ve had about enough of the outdoors for one day, how about you?”
He tells everyone we’re tired and drags me into the house.
Then I think his hormones kick into overdrive.
He kisses me, like, fast, hard, long, intensely deep kisses. He pushes me up against the counter in the kitchen, holding my hips tightly in his hands. He kisses hard down my neck and then strips off my shirt and tosses it on the floor.
Then he walks me backward through the house while still kissing me, quickly working his way back to the bedroom. He pushes me against a wall in the hallway, where he pulls his own shirt off, then unties my bikini top, his warm, naked chest pressing against me as he shoves his tongue deeply into my mouth. I suck on it recklessly.
We finally get to the bedroom, where he quickly shuts and locks the door, then pushes me up against it. He’s kissing me and, like, ravishing me. I feel like I’m living a hot romance novel. And this is the kind of thing I have always pictured.
Always dreamed of.
A boy who wants me so bad he can barely stand it.
A boy who pushes me hard against the door and kisses me like he means it. A boy who takes my wrists and holds them above my head, pinning me to the door as he sucks his way down my chest. A boy who kisses me so deeply it makes my head spin. A boy whose one free hand feels like ten because it is everywhere on my body.
It was nothing like this with Brooklyn. And nothing like this with Cush. If Cush was hot, then Dawson is molten lava hot. Molten lava that seems to be rolling through every part of me.
We frantically finish undressing each other.
Kissing. Hugging. Sucking. Breathing.
At this point, I think my hormones kick in too, and honestly I’m thinking, Just do me, keep going, don’t stop. I’ve never felt such desire in my life.
But just when I’m ready to speed things up, he decides to slow them down.