Page 63 of Endless Depths

Before he can answer, I push my fingers between his lips, crank his mouth open, and spit into it.

“Don’t you dare swallow.”

He gives me a small, abortive nod.

“Let me remind you that when I left you atyourloft…”

His eyes are so expressive, they turn down in the corners, projecting hurt.

“You caught that, huh?” I grip his cheeks, thumbs pressing into his jaw muscles, reminding him not to talk. “That loft stopped being ours the day you kicked me out. I was just too stupid to realize.”

He shakes his head.

“I told you that you have to fight for me, not rile me up so you get what you want.” I spit into his mouth again. “Tempting me like this is cruel. Selfish.” I exhale a frustrated growl through clenched teeth. “You don’t think I’m suffering enough already?”

He shakes his head again.

“This boat is claustrophobic as fuck, and there’s all these empty hours with nothing to do except miss you. I spend half of the time talking myself out of taking out all my pain on you, and the other half trying not to cry.”

Keeping his jaw hinged open, I drag him a few steps to the narrow sink.

“You don’t get to swallow. You don’t get to have anything from me. Not until you earn it.”

I angle his head down over the sink and release him with rough hands. “Now spit.”

He does what he’s told, and collapses forward, bracing his hands on the porcelain, breathing fast as the flush in his cheeks fills the reverse handprints I left, cock painfully hard, all ruddy with blood trapped inside, poor thing so neglected and wanting.

I click my tongue. “You love this, don’t you?”

I’m not a total monster. I’m just enjoying degrading him more than I usually do.

“Put these on.” I toss him a pair of dark sweatpants and boxer briefs.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this to spare you the humiliation of walking back out there with your dick hard. I’m doing it because I don’t want to look at you, but I don’t want anyone else to look at what’s mine. That cock doesn’t belong to you anymore. If you want me back, you’re not going to come. Not unless you ask me first. Understood?”

His brows dart together, his lips curve down into a small frown before he nods.

“Good.” I open the door. “Out.”

Every fisherman has an internal compass, one they were born with, fine-tuned with experience, all those subtle details filed away subconsciously, hundreds of days studying the sea. That’s a fisherman’s intuition.

Under the surface of every situation, your history is there, recognizing patterns, warning you of danger, telling you where to go next. You only run into trouble when you go against your instincts, when you let someone tell you it’s in your head.

Cole has his own intuition, just like the rest of us, but his navigation is fucked. I’m done listening to him. I go where my instincts tell me, and right now, my instincts are telling me to stay away from my husband.

SEVENTEEN

Cole

The verdant foothillsoverlooking Dutch Harbor emerge through the morning mist. I’ve been to the Bering Sea hundreds of times, but never without Seb. Not even once. The only time he skipped a trip was when Lexie died, and I stayed home with him.

My phone rings, and my heart somersaults. Finn is the only person who calls me now that everyone I talk to is at sea with me. I ease up on the throttle, slowing our speed so I won’t have to rush Finn off the phone to enter the harbor.

Finn and I have talked on video every day for the last week. Thank god for satellite internet. Sometimes we color, or I read to him, or we just sit in silence while I drive and he plays with his toys. He’s trying to teach me how to play this block builder game with zombies, but I keep getting lost in the mines. And he drives the damn boats on Bering Ship Simulator better than me.

“Hi, Uncle Cole!” Finn’s face fills the screen, light brown curls askew, marionberry jam smudged on his cheek.