Page 33 of The Captain
“Sirène,” he said—French wrong but beautiful. “You’re soaked.”
“Your fault.” My head tipped back, neck open. “All day.”
“Happy to take the blame.”
Two fingers pushed into me—slow, then deeper, curling like a question against that place that made heat spark behind my eyes. His thumb circled my clit, gentle and then mean, adjusting to the rhythm my hips gave him.
He watched me like I was a dial. I watched him watch me, shameless.
“Is this what Marcus had in mind when he sent a tent?” I panted, half-laughing, half-gone.
“Pretty sure he called it a liaison kit,” Jacob murmured, deadpan. “I’m just following instructions.”
“Uh-huh,” I breathed, rolling my hips into his hand. “Gold star for the teacher’s pet.”
He felt amazing. He was good at this.
“Harder,” I whispered, French bleeding out because I needed it. “Plus fort.”
“Fort,” he echoed, and did. The heel of his palm ground in a way that turned everything inside me to electric wire. I hooked my knees wider, gave him angle, took what he gave without apology.
“Good girl,” he said—field note, not tease—and it tipped me. I broke around his hand, breathless, greedy, the tent a cave full of heat and canvas squeaks and the ocean clapping for us. He worked me through it, relentless, until the aftershocks went soft and I pushed at his wrist, laughing once because it was too much and not enough.
“Come here,” I said, and shoved him onto his back.
He went easily, grinning like a wolf. I straddled him, knees in sand the wind had pulled under, hands flat on his chest—hard planes, a scar under my palm like a story. He reached for my hips. I swatted his hands away and lined him up with my fist.
“You’re bossy,” he said, pleased.
“I command incident scenes,” I said. “Stay still.”
“Not a chance,” he murmured, but he did, every muscle humming with restraint.
I sank down slow, a long obscene slide that made us both curse. He was thick—the last inch was a decision. My body took him like it knew him, stretch turning to fullness, to ownership. I bottomed out and stayed there a beat, breathing like a woman who’d been running.
“Fuck,” he said, voice shot to hell. His hands hovered on my thighs, not grabbing. “Cam—” He caught himself, corrected like a man who listened. “ka-MEE.”
“Again,” I said, and began to move.
Slow first—learn the glide, find the catch—then faster when want grew teeth. The rhythm built itself—my hips rolling, his punching up to meet me with a precision that felt like trainingand generosity married on purpose. Canvas ticked. The ocean threw itself at the beach and came back for more. Every time I drove down on him, the breath ripped out of me. Every time he drove up, my vision sparked. He kept his eyes on me like my face held instructions.
“Hands on the tent,” he said.
“What?”
“Do it.”
I flattened my palms against the fly above my head. The nylon bowed and whispered under my fingers. Wind pressed it back so our bodies made a shadow-play of sin. For a beat, thrill tangled with sense—could anyone out there see the slope of my breasts, the arch of my spine, his shoulders crowding me? Would I scar some moonlit dog-walker for life? Or give a couple something to talk about on the ride home? The thought made heat prickle up my skin.
I kept going, anyway.
The position opened me, bared me, set my chest higher. He thrust up and the angle went from good to criminal. I made a noise I’d arrest someone for, if I had a badge.
“Right there,” he rasped, thumb coming back to my clit with unkind accuracy. “Take it.”
“Jacob,” I said, ruined, the name a prayer rolled in salt. “Mon Dieu.”
“I know,” he said, and gave me more.
