Joanna Shupe

I rested my palms on his chest because it seemed a logical thing to do with my hands, and I didn’t regret it in the least when I felt the heat and strength of him under my fingertips. His heart galloped under my touch in a wild rhythm that matched my own, and I never considered lying. “I’m healthy, completely sober, and my eyesight is perfect.” 

He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising beneath my palms. “Christ, how am I to resist you? I tried so hard, Caroline, but you have torn down every one of my defenses and slipped through the barriers I’ve used to protect myself. I am helpless around you. Fucking helpless and I hate it.” 

These were not the sweet words Orson spoke during our courtship. Zane’s declaration sounded tortured. Tormented. An agonizing confession from the depths of his soul. He wasn’t attempting to woo me. This was raw, honest distress, not pretty sentiment given to gain favor. 

And it meant more to me than anything else he could have said. I wouldn’t have believed sweet words or tender endearments anyway. I needed the truth, always. Nothing less would do. 

So I stayed. I stayed because this was where I wanted to be, with Zane, on the sand, gently touching, while the waves lapped at the shore, then receded back out to sea. I stared up at him, waiting, while the flutters kept building and the water kept churning. There was no hurry, no demands, only a set of calm blue irises watching me patiently and big hands keeping me grounded. 

Almost absently, Zane’s thumbs traced delicate circles on my skin, like he couldn’t help himself. But I noticed. I noticed everything about him, my brain attuned to the smallest of his movements in a way I wouldn’t have been before my marriage. Now I was keenly aware of the caress both for its uniqueness and the effect it had on my body—the resulting shortness of breath and tightness in my lower half, the wetness gathering between my legs. This was physical attraction, desire. I hadn’t believed I would ever experience it. 

After what seemed like forever, he finally spoke. “I am dying to kiss you.” 

“You are?”

He nodded. “May I? Just once?”

Fear shot through me, cooling my blood considerably. What did I know about kissing? Orson hadn’t bothered after our wedding night—and I had been grateful for it. His kisses had been sloppy and overwhelming. Was I ready to subject myself to those sorts of attentions again? 

Zane is not Orson. 

He’d proven this over and over, had shown me that he would always consider my feelings first. I swallowed, the salty wind stinging my throat, and tried to separate my past from my present, to find my footing in whatever new path I was now taking. More than anything else, I didn’t want to let Orson control my life any longer. I wanted to decide. “Will you stop if I ask?” 

“Of course.” Zane lowered his head to scrape his nose against mine, skin gently rubbing, our mouths close together. I could feel his humid breath on my skin. Once again, he must have read my mind because he didn’t press, but instead seemed to be waiting for me. It struck me how different the two men were. Orson had never been gentle with me. Not once. He hadn’t waited for permission. He never cared what I wanted. 

“Please,” Zane whispered. “I will make you forget him, I swear it.” 

An impossible promise, but I was suddenly more curious than scared. I could do this. I could try with Zane, who would never judge me or berate me. Nor would he push me further than I was willing to go. I nodded, unable to say the word, and held still. Though I couldn’t see it, I could feel his smile as he placed his lips over mine. 

It started slow. A brush, the merest touch of his lips. Then he skimmed the edges of my mouth, like he was trying to learn the shape of it. Another swipe, letting me feel him and sending tingles racing through my veins. It was nice. Unhurried. So soft, his lips like velvet on mine, and he seemed in no rush to rush things along, not like— 

No. No more comparisons.

I cleared my head.

Zane continued with gentle, light kisses, his hands holding my face as if I were precious, and I could taste the hint of ocean on his lips. He never pressed or demanded, never deepened the kiss, merely gave me maddeningly exquisite touches. Was he waiting for something? 

Oh. He was waiting for me. 

It wasn’t much at first. I used the lightest pressure of my lips, unsure of what I was doing, but it caused him to inhale against my mouth, surprised. Then his fingers gripped my skin a bit tighter, almost as if he were encouraging me, so I moved my lips and matched his movements. Easy advances, almost tentative—and he moaned in response. Emboldened, I tried again, giving him even more enthusiasm this time, and he sighed, his breath warm and inviting. 

It was nice. Much nicer than I’d imagined, actually, and I found myself falling into the kisses, losing myself in the push and pull of our mouths, the way our breath mingled. The world melted away as our lips slanted, teased, moving in perfect unison, and I relished the feel of his rough morning whiskers against my skin. The muscles on one side of his face weren’t as strong as the other side, but it didn’t matter because these kisses obliterated my train of thought and left my head swimming with sensation. I hadn’t known, hadn’t dreamed, kissing could feel like this. As if I were an equal partner. As if I mattered.