“Are these your questions? Or Grom’s?”

Galen grimaces. “Grom did question me about it. But I have to admit, I’m curious. Maybe if you told me what he said, I could help figure out what he’s really up to.”

I wonder if the hatchet will ever be buried between Grom and my grandfather. And I’m not ecstatic that Grom is clearly influencing Galen’s opinion. “He said, ‘Freshwater fish are bland.’” I gasp. Obnoxiously. Dramatically. Flared nostrils and all. “Do you think that’s code for ‘I saw a spaceship’? Or maybe, ‘I’m really a Soviet android’? We should totally turn around and go back. Beat the answers out of him.”

At this, Galen flashes me the most heart-stopping grin. “Do you realize how gorgeous you are when you’re…”

But his dimples have already reduced my vocabulary to “Um.” And I’m in severe danger of relapsing to my old blushing habits.

He nods ahead of us. “I’m sorry to be grouchy. Let’s take this exit. I’m tired of driving. Let’s stretch our legs a bit.” By stretching his legs, Galen means unleashing his humongous fin. I have to admit, it would be fun to explore the springs here. According to Google, there are lots of them in this area.

“My bathing suit is in my suitcase,” I tell him. “I’ll need to find somewhere to change. Maybe a rest area?”

“You could always just wear nothing.”

Yep, totally blushing. And my mouth is dry. And my insides are goo. And I accidentally imagine Galen wearing nothing. Ohmysweetgoodness.

It seems Galen is a victim of his own teasing. His grin is long gone, replaced by what I would call hunger. He licks his lips then scowls, turning his attention back to the road. “Sorry. That slipped out.”

Galen rarely lets these things slip. Sometimes I can see mischief in his eyes, and it’s playful and harmless and flirty. But Galen has boundaries. Boundaries like the law and his conscience. Boundaries that have always stopped him from saying anything like that before.

“You’ve never apologized for teasing me before,” I muse.

“Teasing you? Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t say things to make me blush.”

A smirk raises the corner of his mouth. “Of course I do. But I apologized because I wasn’t teasing that time.”

He’s having a hard time keeping his eyes off my mouth and on the road. I’m having a hard time keeping my seat belt on and a respectable—not to mention safe by DMV standards—distance between us.

He swallows. “Emma. I’m driving.” But he’s not committed to his argument. Even now, he’s scanning the side of the road and slowing his speed, probably in case I pounce on him.

“You could pull over,” I offer helpfully.

To my complete surprise, he does. The cabin quiets as the sound of our hushed high speed turns to gravel crunching under the tires as he maneuvers the SUV onto the wide shoulder.

He puts it in park. Unbuckles. Faces me. “You were saying?”

I don’t know if he pulled me to him or I did it all on my own, but in fast-point-five seconds I’m out of my seat, into his lap, and tasting every part of his mouth. I’m surprised and pleased when his hands slide up the back of my sundress. He’s shy at first, just caressing my back lightly with his fingertips. But as I kiss him deeper, the lightness disappears, replaced by a want that matches my own.

I silently thank whoever invented tinted windows. We are a whirlwind of hands and groans and impatience. I’m near drunk from the way he smells, tastes, feels beneath me.

Galen is more ambitious than he’s ever been, and I decide to analyze that later. I don’t know why I think about it now; usually I take what I can get before he comes to his senses. And for now, I do take advantage of my good fortune. My thumbs slip under his T-shirt and glide up the rigid plane that is his stomach. He releases me for just long enough to hold his arms over his head, so I can relieve him of his shirt. Then I am back in his grasp, in his arms, against him, around him. Almost part of him.

He entangles his hands in my hair, trailing kisses from my ear down my throat, leaving what feels like a stream of lava in his wake.

I finally get brave enough to reach for his jeans button. I wait for him to end it, to put a stop to this craziness. The miracle is, he lets me undo it. I feel reckless and unstable and empowered, but the last thing I want to do is stop and think about this. What we’re doing. Where we are. How far will he let this go? How far do I want him to let it go? And I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the answer. I pull away.

His hands drop.

I bite my lip. I’d gotten used to the idea of waiting for us to be mated. The idea of a mating ceremony and picking an island with him is crazy romantic to me. Sure, at first it felt like a burden, to wait until we were the Syrena version of married before I could fully enjoy Galen. And then I don’t know when, but I started to view things differently. He was giving me so much—living on land and adopting a human way of life for me. And all he asked in return was that I observe this one tradition. What kind of lowlife would I be if I refused him that one thing? Sure, I enjoy tempting him and teasing him. But I always know he’ll come around and do the noble thing—he always does. So why is he backpedaling now? Did I finally push him over the edge?

Words of remorse form in my mouth, but he presses a finger against my lips.

“I know,” he says. “Not like this.”