Page 82 of The Captain
“I can’t wait to walk my girl down the aisle,” he translated himself.
Jacob nodded, eyes bright, undone in the good way. “Yes, sir,” he said, because Marines and fathers share certain dialects. “I would be honored.”
Papa squeezed once and then let us be a pair again. He went to the doorway and put his palm against the jamb.
“You don’t even have a ring,” I told Jacob, teasing, breath finally behaving again.
“I’ll get the ring tomorrow. Today I have you,” he said, shameless.
“Correct,” I said, and then, because I am who I am, I added, “We have strandings to brace for. One more wave, Leanne says. And then we fix what they broke.”
He sobered, nodded, pressed his forehead to mine like we were matching prayers. “We’ll hold the line,” he said. “You and me. Your crew. My—” He stopped and then tried again. “Our people.”
McGuire cleared her throat, professional even with damp eyes. “We’ll keep the gear out of your pens,” she said to me, back on job. “If you see anything—hear anything?—”
“You’ll be my first call,” I said, and meant it, even if trust still scraped on the way out.
The little Kogia took a breath then—bless her—and the room turned toward it like she’d decided to be the minister. The bottlenose in the big pen exhaled a wet sigh that sounded like yes to me. We all laughed because we were exhausted and saved and because animals do that—they see you and agree before you realize you’ve asked.
Jacob pressed his mouth to mine once more. He tasted like salt and relief and the beginning of a life I had already planned—my porch with the swing, my parents’ table, a child’s laugh bouncing down a hallway.
“Go get warm,” I told him, cupping his jaw and feeling the scrape of stubble like a promise. “There are towels in my office. In the bottom drawer.”
He kissed Papa’s cheek—my great big dangerous man kissed my father’s cheek, and I watched my father pretend not to become a soft miracle right there. Then Jacob went with a petty officer who looked like he wanted to tell his grandchildren about this night.
I leaned back against the doorway of the quiet room and let it all run through me—the fear, the relief, the ugly, the bright—until what was left was the thing I know how to hold: breath.
“One,” I said, and the calf answered. “Two,” and somewhere outside a helo thumped the sky like a big heart. “Three,” and in my mind a little girl with sea-salt hair poked her father in the chest and told him to live, and he listened, and he chose me, and I chose him back.
36
JACOB
The next morning, I buried my tongue in Camille’s pussy, the taste of her sharp and sweet, like salt and honey. We were back at her bungalow, the air damp through the open window, the porch swing creaking outside like it was keeping time with her breath.
She lay sprawled on the kitchen counter, her thighs open, one heel hooked on the edge of the old oak table, the other dangling over my shoulder. The counter was cool under my palms, a contrast to the heat of her skin, and I pressed my face deeper, chasing the pulse of her, the way her hips twitched when I flicked my tongue just right. The room smelled of sex, the faint hum of the fridge a low counterpoint to her soft gasps.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling hard, not guiding but demanding. “Jacob,” she breathed, her voice frayed, the French lilt turning my name into something sacred.
I licked slow, deliberate, tracing the seam of her with the flat of my tongue, then teasing her clit with quick, featherlight flicks that made her arch off the counter.
Her other hand gripped the edge, knuckles white, a mug teetering dangerously near her elbow. I caught it with one hand, setting it on the floor without breaking my rhythm, and she laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against my mouth.
“Don’t break my dishes,” she murmured, her voice hitching as I sucked gently, pulling her clit between my lips.
Her thighs trembled, her heel digging into my back, urging me closer. I obliged, sliding one hand under her ass, lifting her higher, opening her wider. The counter creaked under her weight, and I grinned against her, loving the way she surrendered to the moment, her usual control fraying at the edges.
I shifted, dragging my tongue lower, tasting the slick heat of her entrance, then back up, circling her clit with a pressure that made her curse in French, her voice a mix of reverence and desperation.
The kitchen was small, intimate, the morning light casting soft shadows across her skin, highlighting the curve of her hip, the dip of her navel. I reached for the bottle of olive oil on the counter, its glass cool against my fingers, and drizzled a thin stream over her inner thigh, watching it glint in the light. She gasped as I licked it off, the oil mingling with her taste, earthy and rich, a flavor I’d never get enough of.
“Jacob, you’re—” She cut off, her breath catching as I slid two fingers inside her, curling them against the spot that made her hips buck.
I worked her slow, then fast, matching the rhythm of my tongue, her body a map I was learning by heart. Her hand left my hair, scrabbling for something to hold, knocking over a stack of mail that fluttered to the floor like leaves.
I didn’t care. Neither did she. The world was this—her heat, her pulse, the way she clenched around my fingers, her voice breaking on my name.
I pulled back just enough to look at her, her face flushed, her brown hair spilling over the counter, her eyes half-lidded but locked on mine.
