Page 32 of The Captain
I shot him a look. “In French it’s ka-MEE. Not Cuh-MEEL.”
He tried it. “ka-MEE.” He made the vowel sit right in his mouth and my stomach flipped. “Good?”
“Good.” I took the turn toward the access lot. “At work it’s Dr. Allard.”
“Dr. Allard.” He tasted it, teasing. “Very official. Like you might write me up for something naughty.”
“I might,” I said, and smiled because I couldn’t help it. “What’s your last name, Jacob?”
He tipped his head, amused. “Let’s keep it Jacob for now.”
“For now,” I echoed, filing the non-answer with all the other Charleston mysteries. “You’re not a serial killer, cartel bagman, or secretly married to three women in Idaho, right? Blink twice if I should run.”
He laughed, hands up. “None of the above. Not married, not murderous. Just cautious.”
“Good,” I said, even though I was the one who should’ve been cautious. “Because I carry a knife and I know where to put it.”
“I noticed,” he said, eyes glinting. “And I believe you.”
We parked behind a ridge of sea oats. The ocean shushed at us.
Out on the sand, he swung the duffel down, crouched, and in three efficient motions shook loose poles, fly, stakes. The kind of competence that made heat low in my belly: a man who knew knots better than compliments. He snapped the frame together; I caught guy lines, our fingers brushing, a neat line of static running up my arm.
“Hold,” he said, guiding the nylon into my grip. Calluses, heat. He staked and hauled and the little dome tent breathed in the wind, taut and ready, the fly whispering like it knew secrets.
“You do that often?” I asked.
“Enough,” he said, straightening. “You okay, ka-MEE?”
No. I had a lot on my mind. And the man who’d saidbreathelike a priest last night stood in front of me, solid and inevitable.
“No,” I said truthfully. “But I will be.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“Sand. Hands. Something that isn’t a fight.”
“That, I can do.”
I ducked inside first. Canvas turned the wind into a hush, the ocean’s song threading through, anyway. He followed, big and careful, zipping the flap most of the way to make our own weather. Still—a murmur of voices carried on the breeze, a car door thumped somewhere up the access path, and the stupid, perfect fact pressed against my skin: this was a public beach. Anyone could wander close, a flashlight could sweep the dunes, one laugh could crack our little world. The risk lit every nerve.
The dark in the tent was good dark—salt and heat and our breath coming faster than it should for two people fully clothed.
“Dr. Allard,” he said, kneeling, “last chance to kick me out.”
I fisted his T-shirt and dragged. “Show me why I shouldn’t.”
He stripped with rough economy—shirt, belt, jeans—until the tent had to relearn how to hold his size. He was hard already, thick and heavy, heat I could feel without touching. He didn’t rush my clothes; he watched my face and slid his palms up my ribs, under my tank, pausing when his thumbs grazed the weight of my breasts.
“These stay or go?” he asked.
“Off,” I said. “All of it.”
I shed layers until air kissed my nipples and the night licked the wet heat between my thighs. His inhale went ragged.
“Christ.”
Then his mouth closed around my nipple, hot and greedy, and I made a sound I would deny under oath. He bit lightly, as his free hand slid down my stomach and between my legs. He found me slick and swore into my skin.
