The Castaway Bride by Kandy Shepherd

this island, ASAP.
    She shrugged her bare shoulders. “I guess you’re right. And now all I want is a drink of water.” The salt burned in her mouth and she was unbearably thirsty. “Do I, uh, get it from the faucet?”
    Matt hesitated for a moment. Then he turned back to the tank, crouched down and turned on a smaller faucet at its base. He cupped his lean brown hands and caught the flow of water.
    “I’ll see if it’s okay,” he said and drank the water from his hands, the run-off spilling down his chest. “Better than bottled.” He caught some more water, stood up and offered it to her in his cupped hands. “Your turn now.”
    He lifted his hands to her mouth. Cristy hesitated, her heart starting to pound. She looked up into his eyes. He moved a step closer, so close she could smell the already familiar sandalwood. He gestured with his head. “Come on, I’m losing it.”
    He meant the water trickling slowly through his fingers but Cristy knew she was in danger of losing it in a different sense.
    How could she sip water from his hands—his strong, tanned hands that had caressed her body so skillfully? That was a number one no-no in her you-can’t-trust-lust handbook.
    But she was thirsty and she didn’t want him to know how badly he affected her. She stepped closer so there were barely inches between them, her eyes meeting his. Then slowly she dipped her head and drank the water from his hands.
    His fingers touching her chin were cool, the water was refreshing and pure. There were only a few sips of it, just enough to wet her lips and tongue. She would have to actually lick his hands to get more—and break every last rule in the you-can’t-trust-lust handbook.
    His eyes met hers for a long moment. His fingers lingered on her chin before he withdrew his hands.
    “More?” he asked, his voice gruff.
    Thirsty as she was, Cristy couldn’t trust herself to repeat such an intimate experience. “N… no thank you,” she stuttered, licking her lips to get the last drops of liquid. “There must be some kind of cup in the hut… I… I’ll get some from there.”
    “Suit yourself. I can’t wait.” He hunkered down by the faucet and drank handful after handful of water, finishing by sluicing off his face. His hair slicked back dark, droplets of water lingered on his skin. How would it taste to lick the droplets off, one by one?
    “That was great,” he said, standing up. “C’mon let’s go back inside, you must be dying for some more.”
    It wasn’t just water she was dying for more of. You can’t trust lust, you can’t trust lust , she intoned frantically to herself as she followed Matt back inside the hut, forcing herself to look around her at the splendors of the tropical forest rather than at his sensational back view.
     
    B ack in the hut, Matt reached for a past-its-prime enamel mug hanging from a hook on the wall. He let the faucet run for a moment before rinsing the mug then handed it to Cristy. “Primitive, but clean,” he said.
    “And guaranteed frog-free,” she added before lifting the mug to her lips.
    Matt smiled. He liked Cristy’s sense of humor. He liked her pluckiness, her enthusiasm. And that was on top of liking her amazing breasts and her go-on-forever legs. He found himself inclining closer to her. Maybe he could just drop a kiss on the tempting curve of her bare shoulder and see how she reacted.
    But then her engagement ring glinted a warning as she reached for the cup. She was another man’s bride—and Matt lived by a code of honor that did not allow for infidelity. Cristy was engaged, and therefore strictly off limits.
    So why did he keep forgetting that and giving into foolish gestures like having her drink from his hands? That interfering white charger needed to be tethered and locked away in its stable—for good.
    Cristy drained the mug three times and gave it back to him each time for replenishing. Matt noticed her hands as they gripped the mug. Her fingernails, now