He was curled up in the fetal position, in a damp, uncomfortable crevice between rocks, at what he’d come to think of as his own personal hideaway on Windansea Beach. He was warm in some places, freezing where his body touched the sand. A hand was shoved down the front of his pants, for heat, he supposed, or comfort. He awoke this way almost every morning and it never failed to embarrass him. Wiping grains of sand from his face, he realized that he wasn’t alone. And the hand down his pants wasn’t his. “Carly,” he whispered, cranking his head around to see her, snuggled up behind him. “Wake up.” She mumbled something unintelligible and shifted, pushing her hand down farther, seeking warmth. He groaned, wondering if it was too cold for him to get hard. Nope. “James?” she asked, feeling his reaction. “Take your hand out of my pants.” Sleepily, she complied, moving away from the danger zone. “It’s so cold,” she said, sliding her palms over his clenched stomach muscles.
