“Liar.”
I touched his jaw.
“Ask properly.”
“Kiss me, Cal.”
The private name changed the air.
I lowered my mouth to his.
Noah met me halfway.
The kiss was warm from the first contact, his lips parting beneath mine with less uncertainty than the week before. His right hand slid up my chest and curved around the back of my neck.
I held his waist.
The workshop smelled of cedar, metal, and salt. Sunlight crossed the floor. Somewhere beyond the yard, a halyard struck a mast in an uneven rhythm.
Noah kissed me as if testing whether the familiarity aboard the boat extended to this.
It did.
His tongue touched mine.
A low sound escaped him.
My restraint tightened.
He pressed closer, and the hard response of my body became impossible to disguise.
Noah felt it.
His breath caught.
I started to step back.
He held me.
“Don’t.”
“You’re tired.”
“I’m not.”
“You climbed onto a boat.”
“I kissed you. Different system.”
I laughed against his mouth.
He smiled.
The movement turned the kiss gentler.
When we separated, his eye remained half closed.
“How do you do that?”
