I give one final, desperate tug, and the sail snaps back into place with a loud crack. The boat rights itself and steadies beneath us, slicing forward again in a clean, steady line.
I collapse onto the bench, chest heaving, hands trembling as I drop the rope, and the tension drains from my body all at once. “We were about two seconds away from a fullTitanicmoment.”
The wind whips around Alder, his shirt clinging to his chest like he’s starring in a nautical romance novel as he exhales a slow breath. “You didn’t fall in. I didn’t crash us into anything. And the sail is still attached. I think of this as a win.”
“Is that your benchmark for success? Not sinking and not dying?”
He grins, shameless. “You say that like I didn’t just take your breath away.”
I groan, tipping my chin toward the sky. “Why do I talk to you?”
“Because I’m charming,” he says, sitting beside me. “And alarmingly handsome. And you’re secretly having a good time.”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “You forgot modest.”
“I left that one out intentionally.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the boat swaying gently, the wind curling between us.
When he speaks again, his voice drops lower, velvet and vulnerable. “I never stop thinking about you, you know.”
The words land with a quiet thud in the center ofmy chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. When I look at him, Alder’s grin lingers, lazy and devastating. That look is the first sip of whiskey on a cold night, slow-burning and bracing, curling low in my stomach.
My heart stumbles.
I swallow. Sit a little straighter. Pretend like I’m not seconds from combusting.
Then he shifts closer.
His finger grazes my thigh, barely there, a whisper of contact that turns molten the second it lingers. Heat blooms beneath my skin, embarrassingly fast.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Do you like it?” His voice is so deep, I shiver. “The sailing, I mean.”
I scoff, but it’s weak, breathless, my pulse already in free fall. “It was great. If you’re into mortal terror with a side of saltwater in your nose.”
His thumb brushes higher on my thigh, slow and casual and anything but. “You’re welcome…for the thrill.”
“Thrill?” I manage, my voice tighter than I’d like.
He leans in, his mouth close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath. “We could also think of it as foreplay.”
My breath hitches. Loud. Obvious.
His hand flexes against my leg, not moving higher, not moving away. Just…there. A promise wrapped in restraint. My skin tingles beneath his touch.
“You always get this handsy after a brush with death?” I ask, aiming for snark, landing somewhere between winded and wrecked.
“Only when the brush is with you.”
Heat crashes through me, a slow, aching pulse that I can’t ignore. My thighs clench like I can contain the sudden, sharp air-stealing want.
“Say the word, Gemma,” he murmurs, his voice thick and slow and toe-curlingly confident, “and I’ll drop anchor and have you on your back before your next breath.”
My pulse stutters. My mouth goes dry. I bite my lip—hard.
“And if I want to stay upright?” I whisper, barely trusting myself to speak.
