Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(80)

“Don’t you forget that.” I soothe the area I just smacked. And then, unable to resist, I stroke down his chest, his arms, following muscle and skin that are so much hotter than the water.

He growls—legit growls—and pulls me tighter to him. I can feel his erection, and on instinct, I wrap my legs around him. The movement lines up all our most intimate parts.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warns.

“I like it hot. I’m yours now. So, what are you going to do with me?” I taunt. I can’t believe I’m speaking so confidently. Around anyone else, except maybe Remington online, I’m too shy to say the things that come into my head, so I hold myself back. But with Chase, it’s different. This man gives me the courage to be myself.

He kisses me, and everything is wet and wanting. Our bodies fuse together. Only his thin boxers and my even thinner panties keep us apart. He kisses me as if my mouth is his lifeline, his oxygen. He traces the fabric of my bra strap with his other hand until he’s playing with the edge of the peekaboo lace. We do have an audience, even if we’re probably just silhouettes in the water. Somehow, that just makes things feel hotter, wilder. Maybe I have a little voyeur in my inexperienced heart.

As if he can read my mind, he turns so that his large body blocks the view from the beach and shifts me up so that my breasts are on full display to him. His fingers play back and forth over my bra, as he watches my nipples harden through the see-through lace. He takes in a ragged breath when my hips move forward in a rhythm against his hardness. His hand goes to the front closure of my bra and hovers over it.

My eyes close as I whisper, “Kiss me. Chase. Please.” I’m not too proud to beg. I want his lips more than my next breath.

His mouth crashes down on mine. Our kiss is as wild as a storm at sea. This is no sweet seduction. It’s a mad melding of bodies as my hands grasp everywhere I can reach, and he brands me with his hot mouth and burning touch. I grind against him, dying for relief that only he can bring. As hot as it was in the hotel in San Francisco, this is even more.

He kisses his way down to my breasts that are on full display in my soaked bra, my nipples hard as pebbles. He unsnaps the front closure and sweeps aside the wet fabric, sucking first one nipple, then the other.

“God, your body, Olivia. Your tits are perfect. I’ve been dying to do this for so long,” he groans.

I’ve never felt confident in my body before. But with the way he looks at me, the way he kisses me, and his rock-hard length pressing against me, for the first time, I feel the full power of being a woman. It’s heady. It’s hard to be an average girl with curves in a world that glorifies skinny. Until now. I see in his eyes just how much he loves my full breasts and hourglass figure.

We make out like that for I don’t know how long. Long enough for me to get lost in his drugging kisses, his hand straying down to my underwear, and for my hand to get bold and desperate enough to stroke his length. Long enough for me to know that if we continue, I’ll shatter right here in the sea, with bodyguards in the dark distance.

“Enough.” Chase wrenches our mouths apart. His face turns up to the moonlight, panting. “Fuck, Olivia. I didn’t mean to go this far. You make me lose my mind.”

I can barely make out his perfect features. What I do see mirrors my feelings, the passion and the longing. Yet he’s still fighting it.

I’m achingly aware that there is no future in this, in us. He’ll end up with a woman who can navigate his fame with grace. He’s already told me this.

It’s been fun to play at this life for a while, to let Emma dress me and get dolled up. But I’m a tumble-down Victorian, and he’s a Malibu mansion. I’m shabby, light on the chic. He’s a designer’s dream. I’m all about the bookish life, and he’s jet-set.

But despite all that, I still want him. When we’re done, he’ll go back to his life and I’ll go back to mine, but at least I’ll have this. Maybe someday I’ll find that forever kind of love I’ve always wanted. Like what I hoped to have with Remington, only reciprocated, only real. Or what I’d like with Chase, only longer than a few hot summer weeks.

But until then, I want this night.

I open my mouth to tell him just that, but a distant ringing reaches us through the dark.

“Is that a phone?” I ask, confused.

He pulls away from me. “I’m sorry. It might be Duncan. I have to answer,” he says, snapping my bra, taking my hand, and leading me through the water, blocking me from any eyes that might be looking from the rocks above.

He tosses me one of the towels that he left by the water and takes one for himself. He throws the towel over his shoulder, passing me my dress and rummaging in his pants pocket that he discarded on the beach. As he answers the phone with a growl, I towel off quickly and put the dress on, saying a silent apology to the delicate fabric for the saltwater bath it gets from my wet undergarments and still streaming hair.

“Duncan, I told you not to call unless there was an emergency. What? Are you sure? Fuck. How did this happen?” He listens without saying anything. “No. We’re okay. We can stay at Ronan’s, at the beach house. It’s safer. Fine. Keep me updated.”

He hangs up, and, shoulders hunched, looks at me with a dark expression.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my palms sweating at the way he’s staring at me. I rub my arm, feeling uncomfortably sticky from the salt water. His jaw clenches as he watches me. Nerves dance in my stomach at his intensity. Does he know I’ve been keeping the fire report quiet?