I feel dizzy, and it has nothing to do with the movement of the boat. "What're we doing?" I ask, but my hands come around her waist, settling at that sweet curve between back and ass, and I hold her to me. Fuck, it's heady. How many times have I imagined this? She's warm and firm, and I could see how it might feel to pull her over me, when no one's around like this, and take my time making her feel good.
"I don't know," she admits, and her voice shakes a little. "I just wanted to see you again. But then you said that thing about liking me, and being here all week ... watching you work out here ..."
I chase her mouth, swallowing her words with my kiss, and it feels every bit as good as I dreamed it would. She makes these noises that seem to hit me as tiny pricks of heat, exploding all along my skin. I want to be slow, to go easy and notice every little touch, but it's hard when she's there, pushing me against the wall to the galley, her hands moving up and all over me.
She likes my skin--I know because she tells me--and her fingers slide over every inch of my torso while her mouth is busy on mine. Pretty soon it's like her wildness gives me permission to do more than just stand there stunned by her, and I pull her onto the deck, undoing that little sweater so I can get my mouth on her, tasting the pulse in her neck. I want my hands on her, touching that sweet place between her legs that makes her gasp and bite me and beg.
It's headed somewhere--fast--and I don't have anything.
I pull away, groaning, because she's shoved my pants to my knees and has a grip on me, and it would be so goddamn easy to go right where we both want me.
"Wait," I say, trying to distance myself from how good she feels on my fingers, how much better it would feel to ... "Do you have anything?"
Her eyes meet mine in the dark, and I see the moment she understands.
"Oh." She swallows, breaths choppy. "I--no. I didn't expect ..."
We look at each other, surely each of us weighing the hundreds of reasons why we shouldn't, with the single, urgent reason why we should. I want her. But she doesn't deserve the complexities that come with that sort of rash decision. And no matter how good she smells or tastes and how much time we've wasted, we can wait one more day.
So I stroke her until she's shaking, until she's begging, until she's falling back in relief, and then pull her right up to me. While she catches her breath, I talk about anything that comes to mind--the boat, the fish, my family--and then ask her to tell me more about being out on the water, rowing. Hearing someone you're fond of talk about loving something you love, but loving it differently, is like hearing poetry. Her voice is even, and smooth. A little scratchy, too. And with her curled up on top of me, I think it might be heaven.
A foot creaks just beyond, in the shadows, and as we both go still, and slowly sit up, we know.
My heart drops, my skin pebbles with gooseflesh. "There's someone here."
Footsteps retreat, and I hear the person climbing down the ladder. I'm hoping for the best-case scenario--that it was one of my brothers stumbling upon us by accident or someone from the crew looking for a forgotten sweatshirt or coffee mug--and not someone with a camera, capturing this on film.
Emmy is rushing to pull on her clothes, but I can't see her expression in the dark. Did she know?
"Was there a camera here?" I say, putting a finger under her chin and tilting her face to mine.
She stares up at me, eyes wide. "What? I have no idea."
I stand, bending to cover myself until I can get my sweats on. "Goddamnit."
"Levi, I didn't set this up."
I want to believe her. I really do. I don't want a soap opera made out of Emmy and me.
She straightens her sweater, and I can't tell that moments ago she was curled up, nearly naked on me, talking about the water. Except her lips are swollen and her hair is wild, and she looks so fucking beautiful.
"You should go," I tell her.
Waves lap at the dock, bang against the sides of the boat, and I wonder if the ocean has always been as loud as it is while I wait for her to say something, anything.
"Yeah," she finally says, standing. "I should."
I DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER going home. It was easier to clear the boat and head downstairs than it was to get someone to help me drive all the way to my place and help me along the muddy path to the front door.
I'm not generally a very pessimistic guy; if anything, I'm the one talking Finn and Colton down from the rafters when they get on a tear about something. But I'm also the first to admit that this lack of cynicism means I'm the one most likely to get messed with.
Maybe Emmy didn't know, maybe that much is true. But it feels like the safest path forward is to get better, work on the boat, get back on the fish, and leave the romance subplots to my brothers.
I'm already up by the time they come onboard the next morning, and I explain to them what happened.
Finn listens quietly and then lets out a curse when he looks up and sees Matt and Giles on the deck walking toward us. They're wearing the kind of clothes that are supposed to look old but fit way too well to be anything but overpriced. Giles steps up on the ladder in a pair of suede sneakers. Matt has on a white linen shirt.
"You two look ridiculous," I say.