“He would’ve sucked you off Michael,” she explains.
My eyes go wide, and I think Michael stops breathing. She grins and leaves, disappearing beyond the tanks.
It takes a moment to find my lungs, but all of a sudden, I break out in a quiet laugh.
Oh, my God. What would Michael have done? The image floats through my mind, and I don’t hate it, actually. It might be incredible to see him experience something new for a change. Put the shoe on the other foot, so to speak?
But Michael clamps his hand over my mouth and whispers in my ear. “Don’t even think about it,” he warns.
I smile, rising from his lap, and he stands up, giving me his shirt, since my dress is ripped to shambles on the floor. I hear the camera click again as Samara goes for round three or four—I lost count—and Michael scoops up my dress and takes my hand, leading me out of the engine room.
I can’t believe we just did that.
But then, I can. We don’t have to hide around these people.
We climb the steps and make our way to the owner’s deck, his warm hand gripping mine so tightly, like he’s afraid I’ll be lost.
“The wedding is in one month,” he finally says, pulling me along.
I hold his white Oxford closed around my body. A month? I start to protest. “Michael, I can’t…”
“One month.” He turns to look at me. “Devil’s Night. We have until then to find Will and get him back.”
He grips my hand, leading us both down the corridor to our cabin, and we pass Winter and Damon’s room, but all I can hear is muffled words and moans.
A month? I’m thrilled to have a date, but…
We’ll be paying through the roof to have everything ready in time.
But still…
A month. I smile, hugging his arm like I do when I’m feeling sixteen and smitten with him all over again.
He swings open the door to the cabin, tossing his jacket and tie, and both of us head to the bathroom. I jump into the shower, him following me, and he holds me, kissing my forehead as the steam billows around us.
And I don’t let go of him as he washes my hair and my body, barely blinking as I watch how good he loves me and how lucky we are.
After we get out, we dry off, and I let my hair down as he passes me my toothbrush with paste already on it. “I’m sorry I said those things earlier in the lounge,” he tells me, the toothbrush in his mouth. “I was pissed. And intimidated. You weren’t talking to me, and my pride was shot.”
I start brushing as he spits, and I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I was lying to you. I’m sorry, too.”
Omission is lying, and it was hurting us.
I finish up and rinse, patting my mouth dry with a hand towel. When I enter the room, he’s dressed in a pair of lounge pants and sitting by the windows, smoke from a cigar billowing into the air above his head. It’s so funny. Damon quits, and everyone else starts.
I slip on some white panties and a matching cami, walking over and sliding into his lap. I throw my legs over the arm of his chair as he cradles me, and I rest my head on his shoulder, watching the black sea spread out before us.
“No matter the money or the meetings or the mayor’s office, Michael,” I tell him, “I’ll always be perpetually twelve. Searching for Trevor’s older brother in every room I enter.”
He never has to feel intimidated. Nothing is worth anything without him. I bury my head in his shoulder, his hold tightening around me.
“And I’m not wearing white to the wedding,” I say sweetly.
Just so we’re clear.
He snorts, and I smile, looking up to see him taking another drag.
“Yeah, me neither,” he teases.