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And she was getting left behind. Not that she minded so much. There was more to being here with him than just the sex—which was a dangerous thought. She filed it away for later because he moved his hand between them and found her.
“My turn.”
He tapped her sweet spot, and she jerked, breaking the rhythm. He took over. One big hand curled around her hip, guiding her. The other flicked over her clit, pushing her higher. Giving her more and more. Oh, please.
“Now,” he commanded. “Come for me now, Sergeant. I’ve got you, so you let go now.”
She wanted to remind him she didn’t take orders, not from him and certainly not here. But apparently she did. Air burst from her mouth in short, sharp pants as her whole world narrowed to this man and his fingers and his commands. He could see her face. No way she hid how he made her feel or just how out of control she was.
“Beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He petted her with his fingers, soothing her down as the spasms shuddered through her body. As his hips jerked against hers, his fingers gripping her close, part of her regretted the condom. She felt a primitive urge to have him mark her.
Or she could mark him. He wasn’t in charge here, no matter how deliciously he claimed her.
“Not as beautiful as you,” she said and she meant it. He was gorgeous. Big and hot and sweaty, he worked himself deep inside her body, thrusting in a rhythm guaranteed to drive her crazy. And, because she’d thought about marking him, she leaned up and bit his shoulder, just hard enough to leave an imprint. Mine.
“Uncalled for, Sergeant,” he growled, but she didn’t think he really minded because he let go then and so did she.
6
WHY WERE MONDAYS always such a bitch? The Bayliner was twenty-eight-feet long with two fishermen on board. According to the owner’s for-sale ad in the local penny-saver, she had a 350 Chevy motor rebuilt from scratch, new upholstery, six life jackets and a private head. Right now, Tag figured the asking price was dropping fast, because what this particular boat didn’t have was a working pump. He hoped to God the two men on board had been smart enough to wear the life jackets.
The steady roar of the rotors overhead made conversation difficult, so Tag leaned forward, bracing in the open door. There. A white boat with blue pinstriping drifted on the ocean. Two men were on deck—thankfully sporting bright orange life jackets—and they immediately started signaling when they heard the chopper. Raising his binoculars to his eyes, he examined the boat and the men for obvious signs of damage.
“We’ve got the A One Anna Tuna in our sights.”
Cal flashed him a thumbs-up from the pilot’s seat, and Tag kept his eyes trained on the boat as they banked and made a go-around pass. The recent storm had kicked up the waters, and that translated into some pretty powerful waves. The A One Anna Tuna was too small to handle much in the way of a swell, and, although the men on board had tried valiantly to pump her out, she’d taken on water. The way she foundered as a new wave hit said she was in danger of rolling. And, just in case the rescue had seemed too easy, the A One Anna Tuna was also out of gas.
The plan was to drop a rescue swimmer on the hoist line with a replacement part. Just like playing Santa Claus, except they had water to contend with instead of snow. Easy-peasy.
On Daeg’s signal, he braced himself into the open door with nothing between himself and the ocean but forty feet of open air. Good times. He launched himself out of the helicopter, head up and fins down. Seconds later, he punched through the water, kicking hard toward the fishing boat.
As soon as he was on deck, Cal and Daeg moved into position overheard, dropping the hoist line on his signal as the first crewman approached him.
“You all right?” The man looked tired but his color was good.
“Glad to see you and I’m looking forward to buying you a beer when we’re all back on the island.”
Yeah. He got that a lot in his line of work. He signaled Daeg to lower the cable. Metal flashed in the sunlight as his buddy hooked up the basket to the equipment ring and lowered the spare pump.
The basket descended from the chopper, landing dead center. He’d bet Daeg was a demon with those claw games, as well. He flashed Daeg a thumbs-up and waved off the fisherman when the guy moved in to help.
“Let the basket ground on the deck before we touch it.” The helicopter’s rotors could build up one hell of a charge. He didn’t need to flirt with electrocution today. Fifteen minutes later, the A One Anna Tuna had a new temporary pump and enough in her tank to make it back to Discovery Island.
