“Yeah, right there.” He sits up and kisses my throat. “You’re gonna come on my hand, and then I’m gonna do it again.”
When his fingers dip inside me and pump, I lose track of everything. I’m vaguely aware of the boat rolling, the storm rattling the porthole, but mostly I’m aware of his thick fingers inside me and the pressure on my clit.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You are soaked. Look at you dripping down my hand. Take what you need from me.”
I grind on his palm, and the edge is already there, jagged and desperate. I want to hold on, but it’s been too long, and the relief of it is so much bigger than the embarrassment. I come hard, all at once, breath ripped from my chest. My thighs clamp around his hand, and my fingers tighten in his hair. My mouth opens, and nothing comes out.
He doesn’t stop moving his hand until I let go of his hair. He’s a furnace underneath me, breathing like he just sprinted a hundred yards. My hand is still in his pants. He’s even harder now, and I give him a testing stroke.
All at once, he flips our positions again. I’m under him on the bunk, and he rips off my pants. He tears the waistband, and I don’t care—they were his to begin with, and I want them off.
I want nothing between us and spread my legs. “Fuck me nowHe freezes. Just for a second. Then he’s on me, his weight pressing me into the bunk, his mouth on my jaw, my throat, thesoft place under my ear. His hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, and I tense. I can’t help it. The body remembers what the mind is trying to forget.
“Easy,” he says. Not a question. A command. “I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t go higher. He keeps his hand on my hip, his thumb tracing the ridge of bone, and the tension bleeds out of me in a long, shuddering breath. He’s giving me the space I asked for without making me say it twice, and the relief of it is so sharp it borders on pain.
He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a condom. The foil catches a flash of lightning through the porthole, and I almost laugh. He’s been carrying it. Since when? Since the porch? Since the marina? Since the moment he jumped in after a suitcase?
He tears the packet with his teeth. I watch the outline of him in the dark—broad shoulders, the dip of his waist—as he rolls the condom on.
My body hums. Every nerve ending is alive and singing, and I’ve never wanted anything the way I want this man right now.
He covers me with his body, weight and warmth pressing me flat. His hands guide my knees up, wide, and the head of his cock catches against me, thick and blunt. I’m already open for him, slick and hungry. He slides in on the first try, and I gasp at the size of him, the stretch. He groans, drops his head to my shoulder, and waits. Only a second.
Then he fucks me.
He’s not gentle. Not careful. Exactly what I want. What I need. He drives into me like he’s been starving for it, and I meet every thrust with my hips, raking my nails down his back.
The bunk creaks.
The storm howls.
Something slides off the shelf and shatters on the floor, and neither of us stops.
“Look at me,” he demands. “Scarlett. Look at me.”
I open my eyes, but I can only see the outline of him. His breath is on my lips. His forehead touches mine.
“Right here,” he says. “Stay right here with me.”
I wrap my legs tighter around him. I want to crawl inside him. I want to be so close there’s no room for the version of myself I’ve been for the last eighteen months—the one who flinches at touch, who redirects hands, who sleeps in sports bras because looking at herself in the mirror is still a negotiation.
He shifts his angle and hits something that makes my vision white out and rips a sound from my throat I don’t recognize. He does it again, and again, and my hands are fisted in the sheet, the bunk frame, his hair, anywhere I can hold on.
“Dean—”
“Say my name again.”
“Dean.”
“Louder.”
“Dean.” It comes out broken. “Don’t stop.”
He picks up the pace, and the boat rolls with us, and I’m losing track of where the storm ends, and he begins. His hand slides under my lower back and lifts me into him, and the new angle is devastating. I’m making sounds I don’t recognize, high and desperate, and his mouth finds mine and swallows every one of them.
“Let go,” he says against my mouth. “I’ve got you, Hollywood.”
