All my impatience crashes to a temporary halt, breathing catching in my throat. No matter what I imagine, no matter what I want to ask for, the truth is always bigger somehow, different. Occasionally it's even better instead of being a disappointment. I don't expect her to turn away like that. I don't expect the quiet slide of fabric against her skin or the way she stands there, close and not at the same time. She's half caught in shadows still, but I don't need to see her expression clearly to feel the slight hesitation, almost a shyness. For a second, I consider running, but it doesn't feel like a real option now.

I want to see her, touch her, and I'm all but shaking between that and how difficult it is not to do just that. I don't want to scare or rush her. I don't want to care either, a little spark of frustration flaring up at the thought. Tracing my hand down her neck to her shoulder, I lean in to kiss her again, a little more careful now, but hoping that will temper my desperation enough to keep me from just pulling it away from her like I'm itching to do. That she's here and undressing is an unexpected kindness and, on an island full of them, easily the one I like best, want most. Whether she knows it or not, it's about as far from my limited experience as I can imagine right now, and I don't know how to feel about that, excited or guilty or angry I'm not home. Mostly I'm just horny and hoping she'll just take pity on me so I don't have to feel anything else.