Page 55 of Shipwrecked

I press my hands to Mathieu’s shoulders. He has more bulk to him than Jules does, firm with muscles accustomed to lifting weights. Their tightness tells me why he was staring so intently at my hands as I massaged Jules.

“Would you tell him not to talk to attractive people?” Mathieu asks.

“Outside of the bedroom, he can do whatever he likes.”

Mathieu twists to face me. “What do you mean by that? He can’t sleep with other people?”

“Keep your head straight. I can’t massage you if you’re twisting.” I grasp him by the back of the neck and correct him. While my hand is on his nape, I squeeze. Then release. “That’s more what I mean,” I say. Unlike Jules, who goes still any time my hand is near his neck, Mathieu practically vibrates. He twists again, eyes bright and defiant. The opposite of the way Jules’s eyes go: attentive, locked-on. Shivery sweet.

I grin, feeling that I’ve caught Mathieu by surprise and got away with something I shouldn’t have. “If you want a massage, be good and sit still.”

The fire in Mathieu’s eyes grows. “Don’t phrase it as if I’m being good for you.”

I lean back, lowering my hands to my lap. I wait. Mathieu looks from my face to my hands. I know that he’s sore—he did the swim yesterday too, after all. But he was also cheeky in the way he sat in front of me without so much as a request. I was going to offer anyway, but he doesn’t know that.

“You are very, very, very annoying.”

“You’re very sweet with Jules. You can be nice to me too.” I watch with amusement as a range of emotions animate Mathieu’s face. Eventually, he turns forward again.

“Fine!” Mathieu says, along with something in French that is undoubtedly a curse. “Massage me.”

“Please.”

Another French curse. “Please.”

I chuckle and comply. Mathieu’s grumbles stop, and he’s leaning heavily into my hands by the time my fingers are too tired to keep going. When I take them away, he collapses against my chest with a groan.

“Okay,” he says, delirious eyes finding mine. “Maybe I’ll let you fuck me. No promises. I’ll consider it.”

I grin. I trace my fingers up the column of his neck, over the flutter of his pulse. He allows the touch.

“You like eye contact,” Mathieu says, keeping his eyes on mine.

“Yes.”

“And choking?”

“No. Holding.”

I rest my open hand against Mathieu’s throat. I don’t squeeze, just rest it there. A tremor runs through him, but he stays still and keeps his eyes on mine.

I kiss him.

All I have to do is slip my grip up to hold him still. He’s already leaning against my chest, already has his head tilted in my direction. He hooks a hand around my neck. His tongue slips against the seam of my lips.

I’m mean. I curve my arm around his midsection and twist him off balance so he’s teetering on the edge of the log, my arm the only thing keeping him from falling. Mathieu cries out in surprise against my lips, losing the leverage he’d been using to try to control the kiss.

He grabs my wrist but merely holds on. He has no leverage for anything else. I kiss him hard, until I’m hot all over, pressing an erection against his ass, and he’s whining.

I break the kiss, giving him room.

The urge to dominate swells inside. “How’s that?” I ask. Far more than Jules, who I can tell likes being physically handled, Mathieu seems more likely to get pissed at me for this kind of proprietary touch.

Mathieu’s lips are slick and parted. “You,” those lips shape, “like blow jobs.” The words come breathless. I still have him hanging off the edge of the log. Still have him pinned against my chest, twisted, and relying on me to stay up. “You’re imagining me going down on you right now.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I am.”

With monumental effort, I raise my gaze from his mouth to his eyes, heavy-lidded with lust.