Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

would say something. He got out of his bed and stumbled
out of the cabin. He grabbed her hand and pulled
her after him to a remote spot under a huddle of date
palms.
“Bridget, what are you thinking?” He was groggy, disoriented.
“You can’t come here,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
He blinked, trying to focus his eyes properly. “What
did you mean?”
The wind blew her hair forward. The ends grazed his
chest. She wished there were nerve endings in hair. She was
wearing only a white T-shirt skimming the bottom of her
underwear. It was awfully hard not to touch him. “I was
thinking about you. I just wanted to see if you were asleep.”
He didn’t say anything and he didn’t move. She put
her two hands on his chest. In slow fascination she
watched as he lifted his hand and put it to her hair, pushing
it back from her face.
He was still sleepy. It was like this was the continuation
of a dream. He wanted to fall back into this dream;
she knew he did. She reached her arms around him and
pressed her torso against his. “Mmmm,” he rumbled.
She wanted to know the contours of his body.
Hungrily she reached up to his shoulders, down over the
heavy muscles of his upper arms. She reached up again
to his neck, into his hair, down his chest, his hard stomach.
That was when he seemed to wake up. He seemed to
shake himself, seizing her upper arms and wrenching
himself apart from her. “Jesus, Bridget.” He groaned in
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