He says nothing, but merely hooks his arm through mine. “We should be getting back.”
I narrow my eyes, but fail at my effort to look stern. Because, of course, I know what he has planned. Or at least I know the gist of it. This is our wedding day, after all. And there are certain traditional ways of passing the time immediately after tying the knot. Frankly, I’m all for that plan. What I don’t know are the specifics of what Damien has in mind.
I examine his face, noting in particular the determined gleam in his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
His mouth twitches as he fights a smile. “Not even if you beg.” He leans toward me, then brushes his lips over mine. “And I do like it when you beg,” he adds, his voice full of wicked promises.
The kiss is soft and teasing, but my reaction is anything but gentle, and I have to fight the urge to press myself hard against him as a familiar heat pools between my thighs. “Damien,” I say, and I hear something close to desperation in my voice. Passion is never far beneath the surface with the two of us, and just that simple kiss has sent fire rippling through and over me.
I reach out and grab his shirt front, then use it as a lever to pull him closer even as I move toward him. The air between us is charged, and I feel the surge of electricity rush through me as I press against his bare chest, now slick from the heat and humidity.
Beneath the thin material of my bikini top, my nipples tighten, and I make a small sound of longing. I changed out of my wedding dress before breakfast, and now I am wearing only this small top, tiny bikini bottoms, and a sheer pink sarong wrapped around my hips and knotted at the side. But even such minimal attire is too much. I want nothing but skin on skin, and I ease my hips forward, desperate to feel him against me.
He is hard, his erection straining against his baggy shorts. I shift my hold on him, cupping my hands on his ass and pulling him tighter, closer. He groans, the sound so full of desperate need that my entire body quivers, and I think that I might come simply from the force of his desire.
But no—I want more. I want to pull him down with me into the sand. This man who is my husband.
I want his hands upon me, his cock inside me. I want his lips, his touch. I want his heat.
I want everything he can give and more.
Best of all, I know that he wants it, too.
“Damien,” I whisper, then release him as I fumble at the knot on my hip. The sarong is thin and gauzy, but it will suffice as a makeshift blanket.
His hand closes over mine, and I tremble with anticipation. I draw my hand away, then close my eyes, more than willing to let him undress me.
Except he doesn’t.
I stand for a moment, confused and disoriented, then open my eyes to find him looking at me. I see the desire on his face, as vibrant and wild as my own need. And yet he makes no move to touch me again. On the contrary, he takes a single step back, his eyes never leaving mine.
He is denying us both, and that simple fact both pisses me off and turns me on.
I gather self-control around me like a cloak, then lift an eyebrow. “Playing games, Mr. Stark?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a wicked grin. “And just in case you’ve forgotten, I don’t play if I can’t win.”
“Really?” I say, enjoying myself. “And what’s the prize?”
He steps closer, still not touching me, but so close that I can hear my own heartbeat echoing against the hard breadth of his chest. “You are.”
My heart flutters in my chest. Even now—even married—he makes me feel as deliciously alive as I did the first time he touched me. “In that case,” I whisper, the words thick with the weight of truth, “you’ve already won.”
He reaches out and strokes my cheek so gently I’m not sure that I can truly distinguish his touch from the breeze. “Yes,” he says. “I have.”
He twines his fingers with mine, then starts to lead me across the sandy beach toward a boardwalk.
“At least tell me where we’re going.”