Stephanie Bond - Club Cupid

She looked down and over her shoulder. “Where?”

He took the bottle from her and squirted a gob of the creamy white stuff in his hand, then leaned back on one elbow. Frankie swallowed and closed her eyes, her body tense in anticipation of his touch.

“Here,” he said, a split second before rubbing a tiny area between her shoulder blades. His hands were hot, his fingertips as rough as pumice, but the lotion felt cool and slippery. Goose bumps raised along her forearms. How long had it been since a man had touched her?

“And here,” he said, his voice an octave lower. His fingers traveled lower, to the small of her back where they covered one square inch of flesh with agonizing slowness. She bit her lower lip and fought the urge to roll her shoulders.

“And here,” he said in a whisper she barely heard above the wind blowing in from the sea. His fingers traced a curvy line down her lower back to the top of the string that laughingly stood between her and nakedness.

Her breasts grew taut in response to his caress, the hair on the nape of her neck rising like a hundred tiny fingers. A stab of wanting struck low, and she willed a measure of sanity to return. Giving in to her incredible attraction toward a practical stranger while on a beach—it was simply too cliché. Not that she hadn’t fantasized…

Randy’s exploring fingers left her skin abruptly and he stood. “Ready for a swim?”

Startled out of her musings, Frankie glanced up. The telltale ridge of his desire strained at the clingy orange nylon of his trunks. She swallowed, grateful he’d suspended the erotic moment, yet vaguely disappointed. “A swim sounds great.”

He grinned and playfully pulled her to her feet, then tugged her to the water’s edge. Finding his enthusiasm contagious, Frankie laughed into the wind. Randy arrowed his hands, then made a perfect, shallow dive into the gentle waves and surfaced several feet out, his hair slick, his skin shining. “Come on in, Red!”

Frankie hesitated. This man was hazardous, without the courtesy of a warning buoy. Her heart thumped wildly as she watched him tread water, waiting for her. She inhaled deeply, feeling nervous and scared as she waded into the shallows, squishing damp, coarse sand between her toes.

“Don’t think about it—just dive in!”

With the expansive horizon at his back and surrounded by azure water, the devilishly handsome Randy Tate might have been a postcard enticing her to indulge in an island fantasy. Frankie bit her bottom lip hard, sensing more was at stake here than a sunburn.

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