The sea breeze danced across your skin as you laid back in your sun-warmed lounger, but Drew’s hand was the only thing you could feel. His thumb skimmed just under the tiny triangle of your bikini top again, slow and distracted, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it—but he definitely was.

Every time he touched you like that, so casually yet so purposefully, you could barely breathe. Your heart fluttered like crazy in your chest. You turned your head slightly to look at him, and his eyes were already on you—dark and soft, completely gone for you.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, voice low and quiet like it was just for you, like the waves and the wind didn’t matter. “I mean it. It’s actually stupid how pretty you are.”

You blushed, hard. It wasn’t just his words, it was the way he said them—like you were some kind of miracle that he still couldn’t believe was real.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, then leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your temple. “I can’t stop touching you,” he whispered, barely audible. “I don’t want to.”

His hand trailed along your ribs and settled beneath your chest again, fingertips brushing your underboob, and you let out the tiniest breathy sound. He smiled against your skin.

“I love how flustered you get,” he mumbled, nose nudging along your jaw now. “All blushed and shy but still letting me. You’re killing me.”

You could barely meet his eyes, your body practically humming, heart racing in the best, most dizzying way.

“I just—” you started, but words completely failed you.

“I know,” he said gently, like he did know. “Me too.”

He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth—little kisses, like he couldn’t choose where to land, like he didn’t want to stop. And with every press of his lips, every whispered, “God, you’re beautiful,” every little smirk when he made you squirm—you felt it. The butterflies. The safety. The obsession.