Page 20 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

nineteen

Van

When Geneva’s lips collide with mine, I’m pretty sure I black out for a moment, but then her fingers in my hair bring me right back to life.

Fireworks ignite along my scalp and sizzle down my spine when Geneva crawls onto the couch, hovering just above me.

Her pant-covered knees settle outside of my jeans as I reach up to unfasten her hair elastic.

Silken dark strands curtain around us as she pulls back with a short, breathy inhale.

My heart freezes in my chest as our gazes meet, but my fingers settle loosely over her thighs, because I’m not letting her bolt away this time.

I’m not letting her recede into her shelter of narrowed eyes and harsh words.

I’m prepared to tighten my grip and keep Geneva from hopping off this couch and saying something nonsensical, like this was a mistake, when us kissing is a foregone conclusion.

Then her expression contorts in a way I don’t expect.

It’s almost painful watching the wisp of uncertainty stain Geneva’s brow as her eyes dart between mine.

How can she not know this is what I’ve wanted since an Elvis impersonator pronounced us husband and wife?

Ever since that missed opportunity—when we both laughed it off and said our goodbyes—I thought about kissing her more than I should have.

And then, when the possibility to re-enter Geneva’s life presented itself, I upended everything to be here.

“Yes.” The word is a low rumble in my chest as I skirt one palm up her leg and along her ribs until I’m framing her jaw.

My focus follows my thumb brushing the line of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek before I return to her warm brown eyes.

The way her brows furrow makes me shift my hand to the back of her head to bring her forehead to my lips.

And when Geneva bends, when a ragged exhale shakes out of her, goosebumps shoot over my skin.

“I’m an unlovable porcupine,” she says as I set a soft kiss over her temple.

“You’re not.”

“You’re right. Porcupines are too cute. I’m more like a sea urchin—black hearted with dangerous spikes.”

A soft chuckle leaves my mouth as I kiss her cheek. “Darlin’, you have no idea how sweet you are.”

When Geneva balls her fists on the tops of my shoulders, I lean back against the couch. My hands collect one of her curled ones and slowly unfurl each of her fingers, my gaze focused on my work.

“I recognize this isn’t going to be something you’ll accept with a single conversation. You’re far too stubborn for that.” My eyes dart to hers with a smirk. “But one of these days, I’m going to help you see that it’s your opinion of yourself that’s negative. Everyone else likes you.”

When Geneva snorts, I let my smile bloom.

“They might fear you a little too, but that’s because you’ve always got your guard up.” I place a kiss in the center of her now opened palm. “You should let them see the version of you that I get to see.”

She shakes her head in short, quick movements.

“Okay,” I soothe, settling her palm over my heart. “Can you admit that I like you?”

Her face is a kaleidoscope of emotions, making my pulse uptick beneath her hand, because it’s an absolute honor to know this version of Geneva.

I understand the significance of her not being an impenetrable brick wall in this moment.

She’s giving me her trust by allowing me to witness her insecurity, by letting me see the sticky, unkempt parts of her soul.

When Geneva presses her lips into a firm line, I know we’ve reached an impasse. A deep breath fills my lungs as I relinquish a small nod.

“Can you admit that I’ve been dreaming of your lips since the night we met?”

Geneva’s spine straightens, the corner of her mouth slipping up slightly.

This is something she can accept. That I’d be attracted to her.

That I’d want to kiss her. Just not that my chest aches watching the sweet way she snuggles with Hank, or when her eyes brighten when she laughs, or seeing how fiercely kind she is with Joanna.

“Good things come to those who wait?” she asks with an eyebrow quirk.

I don’t tell her that it feels like I’ve waited my whole life for this, knowing she’ll shut down. Instead, I lift my chin slightly and settle my flirtiest smile across my lips.

“So I’ve heard.”

Geneva hums, closing the distance between us at a teasing pace. When her nose brushes mine, we both draw a sharp inhale through parted lips. My palm slides from over her hand on my chest to her neck, my thumb settling on her frantic pulse point.

At least in this, I’m not alone.

When her lips come over mine again, my hands tighten reflexively.

I grip the satiny fabric over her waist at the same time my other hand palms the back of her head, immediately deepening the kiss.

Geneva meets me touch for touch, fisting my shirt and clutching my shoulder—the soft sound in her throat in direct opposition to her grip strength.

Then her nails scratch down the back of my neck to grab the collar of my shirt and tug me closer, and I can’t restrain the groan vibrating through me.

Everything is explosive in a matter of seconds.

Our chests press firm, our breaths tattered puffs through exploring lips.

Hungry kisses trail over my jaw before she nips my earlobe, and tiny beams of light shoot across my closed eyes.

Forget what I said earlier, this might be the fever dream—the elaborate hallucination—because if this is reality, I am one ridiculously lucky man.

Because Geneva is everything I want—fiery, complex, inexplicably beautiful.

But there’s also this deep sense of peace that I feel whenever we’re bantering.

Those two things shouldn’t coincide, but the sensation of wholeness I feel in her presence is nearly incomprehensible, making me doubt reality.

It’s foolish, especially since I have Geneva in my arms, but I untangle one hand from her gorgeous hair to pinch myself in the ribs.

Geneva sets a hot kiss over my collarbone before glancing down. “Did you just…pinch yourself?”

I hold my breath, hoping she’ll get distracted by the swell of my chest, of how my shirt gapes a little with the action, and not how my fingers are frozen at my ribs. But Geneva continues to hover, waiting.

“Van?” She sits down hard, pinning me with a stare. “Did you?”

All the blood in my body concentrates in my ears. They’re on fire, but hopefully with the dim light from the kitchen, Geneva can’t see the shade of crimson.

“I was just checking.”

Her jaw tightens. “Checking what?”

A sigh gusts out of me. “That this is really happening because…”

…it’s uneven…because I like you so much more than you like me, and after kissing you, I don’t know what I’ll do if…when…

I’ve already lost so much. Having Taylor stolen from me has been like losing a limb.

I keep waking up, expecting to find new voice notes from her on my phone, to be able to call her when something funny or annoying or amazing happens, to be able to hear her too-loud laugh again.

I don’t think I can handle losing Geneva too.

Pain ripples through my muscles at the thought. I move to drop my chin to my chest, but Geneva catches my jaw in her palm. Her eyes dance between mine for three excruciating heartbeats before she leans forward to press a soft kiss on my lips.

Every cell in my body hovers, weightless, when Geneva exhales, rocking her forehead into mine.

When her lips dip again to press against mine with aching tenderness, I surrender.

I’ll have to take whatever agony is coming my way later because right now my self-protective instincts are as solid as a Jenga tower in an earthquake.

All I want is more—now, tomorrow, forever. All I can think about is her.

“Gen.”

I feel her smiling lips against mine. “Only you call me that.”

But then Geneva is kissing me again, and I set my answer aside, following her down a series of slowly deepening kisses and not thinking about how tonight might be my undoing.