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Thirty-One
Skye
Islept in until afternoon. When I awoke, the boys were already up. Hunter had been gathering the mess from the night before while Leo did a quick workout in the main room. We had a late breakfast and then we were out the door and to the private dock on the lake. Hunter took me on a canoe that was tied to the pier, rowing us around for an hour as Leo started setting up the alcohol and food on the veranda.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” I asked Hunter for the tenth time.
He was doing his best manoeuvring the paddles around, but we wound up going in circles more than a straight line. He had a smoke between his plump lips, unlit, dark hair dishevelled, intense eyes following me. Fuck, he looked good.
“I know what I’m doing,” he denied. “I’m spinning us like a top, flower. Don’t you like it?”
I swallowed a laugh. “If I wanted to vomit, then yeah.”
“You’re ungrateful.”
“Because I don’t want to vomit?”
He paused to run a hand under the water, splashing me quickly.
“Asshole,” I growled, splashing him back.
He laughed, suddenly stopping to grab at my arm. He pulled me to him. My breath hitched as he hauled me across the wobbly canoe. I fell over him and before I could speak, he splashed me again, this time drenching my braided hair. I ripped the smoke out of his laughing mouth and threw it in the water.
“Okay, okay,” he relented, wrapping his arms around me so that I was sitting in his lap, fuming. He ran his hand down my wet back. “Calm down, psycho.”
“I just did my hair,” I whined.
“Oh, you did?” He was amused. “I’ll braid it for you when we get back.”
I lightly smacked his chest. “You don’t even know how to braid.”
“Yes, I do. I used to braid your hair—”
“Yeah, like eight years ago.”
“It’s like riding a bike, Nugget.”
The canoe sat dead still in the waters, unmoving, the paddles strewn haphazardly on the bottom.
“Relax, rage case,” he cooed. “Get that anger out.”
“You haven’t seen anger yet, Hunter Dawes,” I retorted.
His chest vibrated with his laughter. I cracked a smile, unable to stay annoyed at Hunter for long.
And still we sat there, and still he rubbed my back.
I didn’t know where along the way the atmosphere around us had shifted. I felt…relaxed in his hold. I fought to keep my eyes open under the pounding sun, until he said, “Shut your eyes, flower,” in a low voice.
I shut them, and this time I didn’t flinch when he scooped a handful of water and poured it over my head. He traced the rivulets with a finger down my face and neck, his strokes growing lighter as the water pooled between my breasts.
He ran his finger there, too.
He brazenly slid it between my breasts, and I shivered, hypersensitive by his touch. My lips parted, heat coated my skin as he continued, but this time he ran his fingers over the outline of my bra—
His thumb ran over my nipple.
I stilled in his arms, holding my breath in surprise. A tug formed between my legs, and I suddenly wished I wasn’t wearing this tank top, nor this bra—I wished he was touching me bare, cupping my breast, sucking my nipple—
