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Me too. God, me too, but I had no idea how overwhelming this would be—how I’d feel his thrusts rattling my molars, and taste his salty sweat on my lips, and how every brush and squeeze and smack of his hand would make sparks fly across my skin.
“Now. Come for me.” Another rough pinch of my clit; another burst of sensation. My jaw locks together, and I go rigid in his arms, waves and waves of pleasure rolling out from my core. He keeps thrusting, chasing me higher, dragging this on and on until I could scream.
When I collapse back against the tent pole, I feel like I’ve just performed a whole show on the silks. I’m wrung out. Ruined. Every inch of me throbs with the sweetest ache.
“Christ.” Mac buries his face in my hair, thrusts getting sloppy. His breaths are hot and damp on my neck. “Jesus Christ, Cocoa. You feel…”
Guess I’ll never know exactly how I feel, because Mac cuts off with a pained groan. Or maybe I can tell from context: from the stuttering thrust of his hips, and the throb of his shaft inside me, and the pulse after pulse of wet heat against my inner walls. Mac pants against my neck. Hefillsme.
Moisture drips onto the grass.
Then, after the sweetest eternity, he pulls out, sets me down on wobbly legs, and pulls my leotard back into place. Mac gives me the gentlest, sweetest kiss, and this is all him, too. Every way he touches me is so honest. “Can I take you home now?” he asks. “For good?”
The tent spins around me, and I’m floating up somewhere near the roof as I smile. “Thought you’d never ask. Now let’s get my roses.”
* * *
Three years later
It’s a lazy summer morning, perfumed and warm. Bees hover over the rose bushes in our garden, and steam curls above the rim of the coffee mug resting on the wrought iron table. The windows of the harbor master’s cottage are all flung open, hoping to coax in a breeze.
Waves sigh in the distance. I tip my face up to the sunshine.
It’s so peaceful.
Like a dream—and I hope I never wake up.
Clattering noises float from the open kitchen door, with Mac’s low murmurs and bursts of delighted baby laughter. He’s baking cookies with our daughter—even though at this age, all she can really do is smack floury hand prints on his t-shirt and suck on the wooden spoon. He doesn’t care. This is their Sunday tradition.
Hey, works for me. I’m all about those fresh cookies.
And seeing Mac dote on our daughterdoessomething to me. Makes me want to get cookin’ with baby number two, even though my circus skills classes are selling out in town.
“Oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip?” Mac calls, his voice snatched away by the salty wind. Is that even a question? Really?
“Chocolate chip,” I call back, smiling down at the twists and curls of the wrought iron table. The paint’s peeling in places. One more job for our summer To Do list.
There’s weeding the garden, and replanting the flowerbeds. Repainting the kitchen, and planning my next block of acrobatics classes, and helping Mac down at the marina. Kiddie swimming lessons and picnics and making childhood memories. There’s always so much to do—but then there are these moments of stillness, too.
Sipping coffee in the garden, breathing in the briny air. Listening to my husband and daughter laugh together, their din drowning out the kitchen radio. Feeling so lucky I could float.
Sometimes, I wonder how things could have been different. What might have happened if I washed up in a different town, got rescued by someone else. I don’t think those thoughts for long, though—they make me shiver.Nope. No, thank you.
Because one thing’s for sure.
I picked the right rowboat.
* * *
