“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

“I know, right?” he says. He flips off his boots and shoves his socks into them, so I follow suit, leaving my white Chucks sitting next to his black shoes. He’s in tight black jeans and a snug-fitting white V-neck T-shirt. I can see the muscles in his arms through the fabric, and I almost wish we were still on the bike so I have a reason to cling to him.

We make our way down toward the shore so that we can walk on the firm, wet sand instead of the loose dry beach. It’s easier to walk and the cool water on my feet feels refreshing.

“Are you from Wickett?”

“Born and raised,” he says.

“Really? You’re lucky.”

“Hardly,” he answers. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice place to grow up, but not when you’re in foster care. I spent about six years on the mainland in a nice home, but I aged out and came back here to work with my brother.”

“Oh. Is that other tattoo artist your brother?” I ask, drawn into his story.

“Murph? No. He was my brother’s best friend, but my brother died a year ago.”

He says everything so matter-of-factly. Foster system? Dead brother? How can he be so calm about it all? I want to touch him, hug him, but he doesn’t look like he’d be very receptive to the contact.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

He smiles at me, lifting the corners of his mouth and looking at me as he runs his hands through his hair. Out at the shore, it’s even darker so I can barely see him.

I know that I should probably avoid walking in dark remote areas with a stranger, especially after what just almost happened to me, but I trust him for reasons I can’t explain. First, he did save me, so that’s a point in his favor. But it’s more than that. He’s nice to me without reason, and even though this is the first conversation we’ve had, it feels like I’ve known him for years.

“Are you sure you don't have anywhere else to be? I feel bad that you’re stuck hanging out with me?”

He laughs, a low rumble from his chest. His hands are shoved into his pockets while he walks. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t mind,” he reassures me as he places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s my pleasure, seriously.”

We walk in silence together with only the sound of the waves to serenade us. The spot where he touched my shoulder is humming from the contact. I want him to touch me again. Visions of him turning toward me, kissing me, pinning me to the sand and groaning into my neck as we climax together…

I swallow down the filthy vision. For a virgin, I tend to have a lot of thoughts like that. With everyone. The cute boy bagging my groceries. The guy who cleans my parents’ pool. Even the waiter at the upscale restaurant we go to at least once a week.