Lovewrecked

He just doesn’t know it yet.

He doesn’t want to know it. Girl, get the hint.

I should leave him alone. I should get the hint.

But this back and forth dance is getting frustrating.

I reach into my suitcase and find a small jar wrapped in tissue. It’s just a jar of Manuka honey I picked up in Russell. Sounds lame, but I was going to keep it wrapped and give it to myself as a present when I was feeling blue. You know, when we got back home.

I unwrap it and twist off the lid.

I dip my finger into the liquid gold and stick it in my mouth.

There’s nothing sweeter.

I close my eyes for a moment and take in the bliss. The taste dances on my tongue.

Honey is such a simple substance, something we’ve eaten for thousands of years, a straightforward pleasure, a gift from the gods that our body instantly recognizes.

It’s unbelievable right now, especially having eaten nothing but canned goods for days.

I get up and take the jar over to Tai, who is still drinking the vodka, staring off into nothing.

“Tai,” I whisper, sticking my finger into the jar.

I stand right in front of him, holding my finger out, the honey dripping on the end.

He blinks at it. “Where did you get that?”

“Open your mouth.”

His eyes meet mine and for a moment I think he’s going to be a real hard-head and refuse.

Then he does as he’s told.

Opens his mouth.

That gorgeous, sensual mouth.

Wraps his lips around my finger, and gives it one, long deep pull that I feel all the way to my toes. His eyes never leave mine, if anything they intensify as his tongue rolls over the sides of my skin.

A moan vibrates through him, and I think it might be the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he grabs my hand and slowly pulls my finger out and oh my god, I’m already wet between my thighs, fighting the urge to squeeze them together.

This. Is. Intense.

The bottle of vodka drops from his hands and into the sand.

He then takes my hand and dips my finger into the honey again.

Runs my fingers across my collarbones.

Oh god.

His eyes flash, devious. He dips his head and slowly runs his tongue along my clavicles.

I’m hit by all senses in full force. I smell the shampoo he used from our waterfall shower, see his thick, gorgeous hair, I taste the honey on the roof of my mouth, hear my own heart pounding loudly in my head, feel his lips and tongue as they suck at my sensitive skin, the nip of his teeth.

I shiver inwardly, overwhelmed, and his head moves lower, lower, down my chest.

He pauses, pulls back, looking up through his lashes at me.

I suck in my breath, tensing, recognizing the dark carnality in his gaze.

He wants me.

There’s no denying it. Not this.

With one hand still around my wrist, his other hand goes to my breast. Palms it gently, my nipple already hard through the wet tank top.

I am dying on my feet.

His thumb brushes lightly over my nipple, then rolls it beneath his touch.

My breath hitches as his hand moves up to my shoulder, slides the strap down, before he does the same to the neckline, my breast popping out.

He leans in as if he’s going to kiss me on the lips. His breath smells like honey and vodka, his breathing raspy, gaze hungry. He licks his lips while staring at my mouth, then dips my finger in the honey again and runs the tip of my finger across my nipple.

Fuck.

I gasp as he lowers his head, cupping, squeezing, kneading my breast while he sucks the sweetness off the hardened tip.

Melting. I am melting in his mouth, I am melting between my legs. My head goes back and I stare up at the sky, that early morning sky, my breast thrust forward as he devours me, his lips sucking and pulling, his tongue licking, swirling, teasing.

“Oh god,” I whisper.

I’m going to fall to my knees if he keeps this up.

And yet I don’t want him to stop.

He moans into my breast, then yanks down my top so both breasts are exposed.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs against them, hands full, mouth exploring both, gentle and teasing one minute, ravaging me the next.

Then, he suddenly stops.

I am aching for him.

He pulls back and puts one of his hands to the back of my neck, holding me in place as he rests his forehead against mine. His eyes are pinched shut, he’s breathing hard. Trying to control himself.

I don’t want him to control himself anymore. He’s done too much of that already.

Maybe it’s the vodka. Maybe it’s the honey. Maybe it’s that we’re getting rescued.

Maybe it’s because it’s Tai Wakefield, a man who has me completely undone and obsessed.

But I let go of the honey, the jar falling to the sand. I don’t even care.