Page 9 of When There Was You
The girls’ heads bob in sync.
“Go enjoy Mr. Perfect Man…and your overnight,” Jas says.
Kit waves. “Yes, fine, enjoy your man.” She raises her brows and pins me with a stare. “Until you don’t need his ass anymore.”
I smile—wider when I picture my boyfriend’s firm ass and those sexy divots at the base of his back. “I can’t imagine not ever needing Mick’s ass…and every otherass-et he has.”
We all share a laugh before I snag a soda from the fridge, pick up my stuff, and bid them farewell.
I raceout to the marina and into Mick’s arms. In short order, we’re heading for open water on a sleek thirty-footer. The boat’s gleaming white hull is offset by teal accents with rich teak flooring and trim, giving it a stately vibe.
In minutes, I’ve stripped down to my new black bikini. My boyfriend’s admiring gaze roves over my body, his smile big enough to bring out that irresistible dimple.
“I was starting to have withdrawal symptoms,” he says.
“I’ve got your hit right here, handsome.”
That keeps the grin on his face.
We sail for a few hours, and I revel in Mick doing his whole seafaring gig. He’s so at home on every boat, where his combined passion for the sea and outdoors is unmasked and unleashed. My heart lifts as I watch the chestnut hair riffle around my captain’s contented face. I love his hair…how soft it is, how it falls in gentle waves, how it’s lighter where the sun’s kissed it. And I adore how he’s always kept it long, past the nape yet not all the way to his shoulders.
He drops anchor and we nibble on hard salami, fontina, grapes, and hunks of fresh baguette. He’s drinking beer, mewine. The sun warms us from overhead, light glints off the water, and the wind snaps the sails and flags from slack to attention.
A gust whips my hair horizontally, wayward strands kissing Mick’s cheek. “Sorry,” I say, trying to wrangle it back.
“You know I dig your hair. In every iteration.” He admires my golden locks for a moment then shakes two cigarettes out of his pack, clamps them between his lips, and covers the Zippo’s flame with his hand to get them lit. He hands me one while exhaling the acrid smoke.
We’re quiet as we smoke, enjoying the rocking of the boat, the sun on our faces, the ease of being in each other’s company.
After Mick pitches his cigarette butt overboard, he snags a length of nautical rope and ties a variety of knots in succession.
I’m mesmerized watching him work. “Teach me one.”
He glances up, one side of his mouth lifting. “The bowline is an essential sailing knot. Make sure you loop on top, not the bottom, like this,” he says, demonstrating. “There’s an old Boy Scout saying to help you remember the sequence: The rabbit goes out of the hole, around the tree, and back through the hole.”
He pulls the knot tight, and it leaves a loop. “Now you try.”
Rope in hand, I mentally repeat the instructions and complete the knot. Satisfaction hums through me as I return the length so he can show me more.
Mick nudges my shoulder with his. “You’re a natural.” He whips through a clove hitch next like he’s done it a hundred times. He probably has. “Hold out your hands and place your palms together.”
When I’ve done as he asked, he winds the cord around my wrist.
“Here’s what I like about the slipknot.” He binds my wrists and cinches the knot snug. “You’re at my mercy.”
His gaze is teasing and heated, and just like that, my inner flame ignites.
Mick lifts my arms by the rope. “Up you go, baby.”
My eyes widen as he coaxes me to stand.
He tugs, leading me behind the large cockpit wheel, where he secures the tail of the rope over my head, concentration and a small smile etched on his face. He steps back to survey my position. The boat deck dips lower here, the wheel supporting my back and offering a modicum of privacy.
Oh my.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, stepping forward. He releases the ties on my string bikini top, and it floats to the slatted teak near my feet. My nipples harden under his gaze and the light wind caressing them. “So beautiful.”
His eyes lift to my mouth before he consumes me with one of his devastating kisses—the possessive, claiming, you-will-always-be-mine kind. Heat floods my center and my heart thumps wildly, constricting my breath.
