“Yeah?”
“At the very least.”
“We should go to Venice one weekend. I’ll get you on a gondola.”
“They don’t have public indecency charges in Italy?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Miss Valente.”
Polo-shirt guy clears his throat. As we turn to him, he ducks his head sideways, his face as pink as mine right now. “This one’s yours.”
Ours is apparently a little wooden rowboat with extras! The plank benches are covered with brightly colored blankets and cushions, and there’s an honest-to-goodness picnic basket placed between them. The kind that Yogi has, though Yogi’s stolen bootie wasn’t from the food hall of Fortnum and Mason. Yum.
“You went all out!”
“Second best to a gondola in Venice,” Whit asserts, holding my hand to allow me to clamber in. “Hang on.” He drops to his heels, and before I know what he’s doing, his fingers make an anklet as he lifts my foot to slip off my shoes. This time, my mind definitely does roll into the gutter as a fragment of memory flashes in my head. We’re in his office and my cheek is resting on his desk. One minute, Whit is looking over at me, and the next, he’s sliding my ankles wider. “Okay?” Our eyes meet as he stands, and I just know he’s thinking the same.
He takes my hand again, and this time, I step into the tiny rocking boat. A moment later, his jacket comes off and he throws it my way. I place it over the cushion next to me.
Polo-shirt guy gives him the safety rundown without any great enthusiasm as Whit loosens his cuffs and folds them back. He catches me watching, and one of his brows lift, seeming to speak a language all its own.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs as he steps into the boat, settling himself on the wooden bench opposite me.
“I know.” Just banking the memories for the rainy days ahead. “I should’ve taken a picture, right? It’d last longer.”
“You can if you like.”
“I can what?”
“Take pictures. Film video.”
The suggestions feel like some kind of sensual jackpot. Or a trap as he takes the oars in each of his hands, his eyes sliding past me as he uses one oar to maneuver the boat away from the dock.
“Pictures of you?” My voice sounds a little high. “Or us?”
He doesn’t immediately answer, but once satisfied with the course, he begins to row, his arms moving simultaneously, the power in his back and abs powering the bow smoothly through the water.
“What would you have me do?”
“Touch yourself.” My answer is instinctual.
“While you settle back and enjoy the show?”
“A bit like now,” I agree, allowing my gaze to meander over him. Watching him row is worth taking a video.
“I think you should open your legs for me.”
“No way.” My denial, like my will around him, is wobbly. “We’re not getting freaky out in the water.” My gaze darts to the boat ramp. “Don’t come a-knocking when the boat is rocking? People will see. We’d probably fall in!”
“I just meant if you widen your legs, it’d make it easier for me to row.”
I glance down and realize he’s right. It’s all abs, arms, and thighs, and his are planted wide. “Fine.” Instead of sliding them wider, I bring them together, bent at the knee.
“I can still see your knickers,” he taunts.
“No, you can’t. “I like this pastime,” I add, not bothering to move my eyes from him as his shirt tightens around his shoulders and biceps, the muscles in his forearms springing to prominence with the movement.
“But you know what would make this better? If you were shirtless. Maybe even in your underwear.”
