Page 52 of The Captain
“Obvious?”
He smiled without showing teeth. “Liaising.”
I snorted. “You can stand behind me and look like trouble while I ask for numbers. You can lift stretchers and not talk to reporters. You can not punch anyone unless I say ‘go.’”
“Copy.” He squeezed my leg. “For the record, I’m sorry I scared you this morning.”
I swallowed. “I scared myself. That’s worse.”
He didn’t push. His thumb kept its steady, mind-smoothing circle.
“At the beach, you said something to that girl,” I said, because I couldn’t not. “Did you think she was your Lily?”
He stared out the windshield, then nodded. “I won’t do that to you again.”
“Do what? Grieve?” I risked a glance. “You’re allowed to grieve.”
“I can grieve without drowning you with me.”
I didn’t have an answer to that. I let the tires hum and the night do the work of holding our words.
Charleston fell behind us. The bungalow blinked on at the tap of my thumb, porch light making the picket fence look like the good lie a girl might tell herself. I pulled in crooked because straight felt like a promise I couldn’t keep.
“Inside,” I said, already stiff with want. “We both smell like sin and salt.”
He followed me up the steps and put his hand on the small of my back like a claim. My body shivered, traitor-soft. Inside, theair was cool and smelled faintly of that same old cleaner, plus wet towels hung too long in a closed room.
“Showers first,” I said. “Then I’m yours for the night.”
He grinned. “Yes, Dr. Allard.”
I left him in the kitchen with a glass of water.
In the bathroom, I stripped fast, tossing salt-stiff shorts and tank into the hamper, boots thudding the mat. The mirror showed a woman with sun stripes, sea-tangled hair, a bruise at her collarbone that matched his mouth, eyes too bright. I twisted the tap and steam climbed the tile. The first hit of hot water was almost enough to make me cry.
I had just worked shampoo through my hair when the door cracked on its hinges and his voice slid under the water. “Coming in.”
“Jacob—”
He slipped around the curtain, bare, the steam clinging to his skin. He was tentative for one breath. Then something dark and hungry moved across his face and the tentative part died.
He pressed me to the tile with the weight of his body and the water flattened his hair and ran in lines over the ridges of his shoulders. The blanket was gone. The last of the day was gone. His hands bracketed my ribs and lifted, pinning me on his thigh.
“You said showers,” he murmured. “I followed instructions.”
“I didn’t invite you,” I said, which was a lie my nipples gave away when his mouth found one.
“You’re right,” he said against my skin. “Kick me out.”
I fisted his hair and dragged his mouth back to mine. “Shut up.”
He laughed into me, then kissed me deep enough to make my knees go soft. Water hit my back hot then cooler as he shouldered me nearer the spray, his hands mapping fast like he needed to make sure I was still here, still real, still his.
His mouth went low and I hit the tile with both palms. Steam slicked the world. He knelt. He hooked one of my knees over his shoulder and pressed his tongue to me with a reverence that nearly broke me. Hot. Firm. No dithering. He found my clit and wrote his name there. He ate like a starving man with patience.
“Jacob,” I said, voice gone thin. “Oh?—”
He tightened his grip and worked me until my hips couldn’t pretend not to chase him. He slid two fingers into me and curved them the way he had before, slow, then deeper, pinning my gaze with his when I tried to close my eyes.
