I held my breath for a beat and tilted my head to press my lips against his. Our mouths parted, fitting softly together at first, until he kissed me harder.
He tasted so good, my body pushed closer. Our lips knew each other. I moved on top of his lap, my legs on either side. His warmth, his crisp citrus scent. This was what kissing someone should feel like.
Hormones, pheromones, love, whatever it was, washed over me. I needed this man. I wanted to feel this way every hour of every single day.
My hand found its way up the back of his shirt. His skin ran hot. The ocean roared. I heard voices talking low, a couple walking by us.
His hand pressed into the small of my back. His other hand grabbed at the nape of my neck. He whispered, “I love you, Hope.”
I froze. He tried to kiss to me again. He couldn’t, not with my lower lip firmly entrenched in my teeth. I bit down with such force, I worried I’d draw blood. Why was he doing this to me? Why was I allowing it to happen?
His amber-green eyes looked into mine.
Tears pooled against my lashes.
“I wish you could feel what I’m feeling,” he said, “so you’d know it’s true.”