Page 100 of Pull Me Under

Normal sounds. Normal life. Like the world doesn’t know that everything just changed.

Jude’s hand is in mine. His fingers are still cold, still trembling slightly, but his grip is sure. Present. Here.

I keep waiting for the adrenaline to fade. For reality to reassert itself, remind me of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. The secrets I’m keeping. The lies I haven’t told. The betrayal waiting in the wings like a patient predator.

But reality stays quiet. And Jude stays warm beside me. And my key turns in the lock of my crappy cottage and we’re inside, the door closing behind us, and suddenly the world shrinks to just this room. Just us.

He’s still wearing the blanket from the boathouse. His hair is drying in stiff waves, salt-crusted and wild. There’s a bruise forming on his cheekbone – he must have hit the gunwale as he went over – and his lips are still not quite the right colour.

He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

‘You need a hot shower,’ I say. ‘You’re hypothermic.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re shaking.’

‘Not from cold.’

Oh.

Oh.

‘Jude—’

‘Don’t.’ He steps closer. The blanket falls from his shoulders, pools on the floor. ‘Whatever you’re about to say. Don’t.’

‘I was going to say you almost died.’

‘I know.’

‘I was going to say this is insane.’

‘It is.’

‘I was going to say⁠—’

‘Brynn.’ His hands come up to cup my face. His palms are rough, calloused, still carrying the cold of the Atlantic. ‘Stop talking.’

Not like that first time when it was all fury and frustration and a point to make.

Not even like earlier tonight, at the kitchen table, soft and slow and full of questions.

This is need.

His mouth on mine, desperate and sure. His hands in my hair, on my neck, sliding down to grip my waist and pull me closer. His body against mine, still cold in places, warming everywhere we touch.

I kiss him back with everything I have. Everything I’ve been holding back. All the fear from tonight, all the relief, all the terrifying want I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

He’s alive. He’s here. He’s mine.

The thought should scare me. It doesn’t.

We stumble toward the bedroom – more alcove than room, really, just a bed in a corner and a window that doesn’t close properly. The sheets are cold. I don’t care. He doesn’t either.

Clothes come off in pieces. His jumper, still damp. My shirt, buttons giving up without a fight. The thermal layer he was wearing under the drysuit. My jeans, caught on my ankle, kicked away impatiently.

And then skin. Finally, finally, skin.