Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 35

“This is beautiful,” I gush, staring at the white rocky mounds in the sea, known as The Needles. What the Isle of Wight is famous for. The jagged stacks jut out of the sea like the spine of a prehistoric beast. “They look like a sea monster.”

We’re perched on a grassy cliff top, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy that I’m sure makes me look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backward. But, man, the view is worth every knot I’ll be untangling later.

After a sail to the island that didn’t involve me pulling on ropes, thank goodness, we explored the island. These cliff walks make me feel like I’m in a Jane Austen novel.

Tonight, we’ll stay back in the port there. I’m starting to appreciate the gentle rocking of the boat. Despite having a Greek god beside me, I’m out like a light in five seconds flat. Which is fantastic for my beauty sleep but terrible for my paranoia about sleep-farting. Please, for the love of god, do not let me Dutch oven this man.

I tear my eyes away from the view to find Liam watching me instead of the world-famous rock formation. My heart does a little flip.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “This is the most secluded spot to see them.”

We hiked for thirty minutes to get here, completely off the beaten track. “Okay, maybe my moaning was uncalled for. This is worth it,” I admit, trying not to focus on how out of shape I am. Or how good Liam looked sweaty.

He takes my hand and pulls me close as the wind whips through me. It’s all very romantic and couple-y, which is both thrilling and terrifying. Is Liam as good at compartmentalizing as he claims? Because we’re all but acting like a real couple here, and I’m not sure my poor heart can take it. You have to be a real fucking psycho to compartmentalize this level of intimacy. Hannibal Lecter–levels. Maybe Liam has a secret freezer full of hearts somewhere.

The way he casually suggested we stay for Saturday night too. He’s a smart guy—he must know that two nights together is a big deal. At least, it is to me.

But my poor, gullible mind is already away with the wind to France. The garlic festival is in August, four months away. I wonder if we’ll still be doing this arrangement then. I wonder if we’ll attend together. I’m already picturing us there, strolling hand in hand, our breath so potent it could clear out a small village.

“Thank you for coming here,” he says. “I’m having a really good time with you.”

“Even though I made you do all the work on the sail across?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at him.

“It was safer that way. For everyone within a five-mile radius.”

Before I can come up with a snarky retort, he cups my face and plants one on me that has my toes curling in my hiking boots.

I rise up, desperate to close the gap between us. My arms snake around his neck, clinging to him.

Liam lifts me into the air effortlessly and before I know it, I’m doing the classic rom-com leg pop. Who knew fisherman Liam had a hidden romantic streak? Certainly not him, if his constant denials are anything to go by.

Fisherman Liam is also horny, I quickly realize.

He tugs me down onto the grass, rolling us over so I’m lying on top of him.

“Seriously?” I hiss, trying to wriggle free and maintain some semblance of modesty. “Here? What if someone walks along this path?”

“We haven’t seen a soul on this trail,” he growls, his hands sliding south with purpose. “Relax, Gemma. Or don’t. I like you worked up.”

“You exhibitionist maniac,” I accuse, even as my body betrays me by melting against him. “First last night, now this.”

But this time it’s broad daylight, for crying out loud.

He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrates through his chest into mine. “Nobody knows us here.”

In one swift move that showcases every muscle, he flips me over. Now I’m pinned beneath him, his thighs nudging mine apart. Show-off.

“Relax,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m not going to strip you bare here. I’m not a complete Neanderthal.”

“No kidding!” I try to sound indignant, but my protests sound weak even to my own ears. Damn his sinful mouth.

His forearms come down on either side of my head, caging me in, and I surrender to the inevitable. He’s right, there’s no one around. And really, what’s the harm in a little outdoor snogging? It’s not like we’re going to shag right here on the grass . . . Right?

We kiss slowly, sensually, like we have all the time in the world. We’ve been kissing a lot this weekend, more than I ever expected. I thought he wasn’t a kisser. Turns out, he’s a damn good one.

His tongue sweeps against mine, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. My brain turns to goo with every swipe of his tongue, every pull of my lower lip.

His hands start to roam, brushing against my breasts before sliding under my top, his fingers splaying across my bare stomach. I shiver at the contact. I can feel how hard he is, even through his jeans.

“Liam, get out of there,” I gasp, but it’s a halfhearted reprimand at best. When his hand slides inside my bra, brushing against my nipples, I’m too horny to stop him.

I wrap my arms around his waist, marveling at how big and solid he feels on top of me.

I sigh into his mouth. Nothing else matters, not the seagulls screeching their disapproval above or the wind whipping my hair about.

We break apart, and I find myself staring into his eyes, cataloging every detail of his face. His strong sexy nose. Those deep brown eyes, so chocolate-y. Full lips. That jaw.

“You have great lashes,” I murmur, gently touching them.

Something distracts me, catching my eye in the water below. A boat. With Birdwatchers emblazoned on the side in big, bold letters.

I stare dreamily down at it for a moment, my lust-addled brain not quite processing the information. Then my eyes widen as Liam continues his enthusiastic exploration under my top.

“Liam,” I hiss urgently, smacking at his shoulder. “Get your hand out of my top. Now.”

He pulls back, his dark eyes flashing with confusion and a hint of annoyance at being interrupted. He turns to see what I’m gawking at.

There, bobbing merrily in the water, is a tour boat full of elderly birdwatchers. And at least half of them have their binoculars pointed right at us, getting a close-up view of our little display of al fresco affection.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Liam blinks, his expression cycling through surprise then amusement.

“Well, shit,” he rumbles, extracting his hand from my bra with a rueful grin. “Guess we gave them a show they weren’t expecting on their bird hunt.”

I sit up, frantically adjusting my clothing and trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “I can’t believe this. You said no one would see us.”

“I said no one would walk this way. Didn’t say anything about boats.” Liam laughs, the bastard, unperturbed by our geriatric audience. “Look on the bright side. We probably made their trip. They’ll be talking about the randy couple on the cliff for years to come.”

I glare at him, torn between wanting to melt into the ground and reluctantly admitting it’s kind of hilarious. “This is all your fault, with your wandering hands and your complete lack of shame. If I end up on the cover of “Bird Watchers Weekly”, I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“You’re cute when you’re angry.”

Then it hits me. A delayed reaction to what he just said.

Couple.

Is he forgetting we’re nowhere near a couple? This weekend might be a blissful escape, but Monday will come crashing down soon enough. Fisherman Liam, with his easy laughter and wandering hands, won’t be waiting for me in the office.