Page 56 of Shipwrecked

I kiss him again. And again. Mathieu growls his frustration against my mouth.

“Touch me,” Mathieu gasps. “I’m going crazy.”

“No,” I say.

“Why not? Oh yeah. Er, sorry, forget that demand—you haven’t before.”

“That’s not why.”

His lips are kiss-swollen.

“Why?”

We’re being honest, I tell myself. We’re seeing if we work in bed. Lying now wouldn’t answer that question, just kick the problem further down the road to be discovered in a terrible moment that would undoubtedly lead to hurt feelings. “Because I want you to stay frustrated and keep squirming against me. It feels good.”

Mathieu’s eyes widen. “Consider your partner! Don’t be selfish!”

“Wait your turn.”

“My turn?” Mathieu splutters. “Oh merde, you are—”

I kiss him again. Mathieu bites my lip hard. Pain flashes through me, and he scrambles out of my arms. I touch my lip, worry sweeping through me that I misread him. That his complaints were rejections carefully fashioned not to hurt my ego, and not bratting.

Mathieu grasps my hair, palms digging into my cheeks. He drops into my lap, sitting on my thighs. His face is level with mine as he kisses me.

My fear settles.

I let him get his tongue into my mouth. I even let him rut his cock against my abdomen, swallowing down his moans as he chases relief. Mathieu spends the last of his goodwill nipping my already bitten lip. I grab him, and before Mathieu knows what’s happening, he’s flat on his back with his hands pinned.

I hover above him, watching the realisation flash across his face that he lost the advantage in seconds. I have a wrist in each hand, flattened into the earth. Mathieu pushes against my grip, and when I don’t budge, he meets my eyes with furious defiance.

I raise a brow.

The defiance is slow to be grappled down. He’s doing all this squirming, his cock a rigid outline in his shorts, but there’s nothing for him to rub against.

“Say please,” I say.

“Please what?” Mathieu asks.

“ ‘Please’ and I’ll lend you a hand—”

“Please.”

“Keep your hand where it is,” I say, and wait for Mathieu to nod. I glance towards the camp entrance, double-checking there’s no awkward onlooker, and run through everyone’s rough location. I’m assigned to keeping the fire alive until Seán is back, and he’ll be gone till at least lunch, helping Yasop and Willow with their lean-to. Darren usually fucks off for the whole day. Charles and Mary—with Jules for company—are building another shelter.

My attention shifts back to Mathieu. I release his wrist, half expecting him to make a dive for himself, but Mathieu keeps it on the ground. He’s vibrating, lips swollen and slick, hair wild, eyes heated and lust-filled. I can smell his sweat and see loose curls clinging to his skin.

“Jules likes your hair. Have you noticed?” I ask. “The very first day on the yacht, he checked you out when you weren’t looking.”

Mathieu’s expression changes. He moves his hand. But not for his cock—for his mop of curls. “Really?”

“Really. He likes your eyes too. You already know he loves your dimples.” I reach down but hesitate before sliding my hand into his shorts. I settle my hand over the fabric instead, pressing against the outline of his cock, giving him some pressure.

Mathieu’s head tips back as he arches off the ground. His legs draw up, heels sinking into the earth. A moan slips out. His free hand shoots from his hair to my forearms, fingers sinking into skin. His hips jut up as he humps my hand. It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

I take my hand away.

“Cillian.” The word comes out a half-sob. “I have condoms in my bag. And lube.”