His groin twitched, the blood pumping south despite the chill of the seawater. The sudden flashback, of her stretching under his hands, her breathing coming out on a strangled groan as he caressed the firm skin, didn’t do much to deter the growing erection.
He adjusted his junk, grateful for the wet denim of his shorts. Which had been holding him in check ever since he’d dived into the ocean, leaving Dwayne to fit Ella’s flippers and snorkelling gear, before she spotted the telltale ridge in his pants.
They’d been out on the reef for over half an hour now, and he’d mostly got himself under control. But the sight of that shy, excited smile, every time he showed her some new species of fish, or the barnacled wreck of the Montana, had been almost as mesmerising as the feel of her fingers fluttering over his bicep whenever she wanted to point something out to him, or the sight of all those lush curves bobbing in the waves.
The woman was killing him. So much so that his golden rule about hooking up with single lady tourists was in danger of being blown right out of the water.
As she pointed delightedly to a shoal of parrot fish flicking past he recalled why he’d made his golden rule in the first place.
Single ladies on holiday generally fell into one of two categories: those on the hunt for no-strings thrills, or those on the look-out for an exotic island romance. As both scenarios invariably involved lots of sex, he’d been more than happy to indulge in hook-ups with the clients when he’d first arrived on the island a decade ago. But back then he’d been eighteen going on thirty with a chip on his shoulder the size of a forest, not a lot of money and even fewer prospects.
In the intervening years, he’d worked his butt off to leave that messed-up kid in the dust. As the owner of a lucrative and growing dive-shop franchise, he sure as hell didn’t need to look for acceptance in casual sex any more—or the hassle of pretending to be interested in more.
Which meant single lady tourists had been off limits for a while, unless he knew for certain they weren’t after more than the one night of fun. Usually, it was easy enough to figure that out. In fact he’d become an expert at deciding whether a woman had lust or stardust in their eyes when they hit on him. But Ella Radley didn’t fit the profile for either.
For starters, she hadn’t exactly hit on him despite the obvious chemistry between them. And he still hadn’t figured out whether that enchanting mix of artless enthusiasm, sweet-natured kookiness and transparent hunger was all part of an act to get into his pants—or was actually real.
Unfortunately, he was fast running out of time to make up his mind on that score. Sonny had two more fully booked tours scheduled right after this one. And with the old guy’s arthritis acting up again, Cooper had agreed to step in and captain them. It was a responsibility he couldn’t and wouldn’t duck out of. Because Sonny and he had a history.
The old guy had offered him a shift crewing on The Jez, when he’d been eighteen and had just spent his last dime on boat fare to the island. He’d been sleeping rough on the quayside and would have sold his soul for a burger and a side order of fries.
He’d done a half-assed job that afternoon, because he’d been weak from hunger and didn’t know the first thing about boats. But for the first time since his mother’s death, he’d felt safe and worth something. Sonny had given him hope, so whatever debt the old guy called in, he’d pay it.
All of which meant he had to make a decision about Ella Radley before they got back to the dockyards. Should he risk asking her out tonight without being sure about her?
She swam back towards him, her eyes glowing behind the mask, then made the sign for okay.
He gave her a thumbs up and then jerked it towards the boat. They’d run out of time ten minutes ago. Everyone else would be back on the launch by now ready to head back to the mainland. Which meant it was past time for him to make his mind up.
But as she swum ahead of him, her generous butt drawing his gaze with each kick of the flippers, heat flooded his groin again, and he knew his mind had already been made up... Because his brain had stopped making the decisions a good forty minutes ago, when those soft, trembling hands had stroked down his spine and hovered next to the curve of his ass. And he’d heard her sigh, above the rush of blood pounding in his ears.
* * *
Ella gripped the rail as the launch bumped against the dock and her snorkel buddy sent her one of his trademark smiles.
He laid his palm on her knee and gave it a squeeze, sending sensation shooting up her thigh. ‘Hold up here, while I get everyone off the boat.’ The husky, confidential tone had her heart beating into her throat, the way it had been doing most of the day.
She forced herself to breathe evenly, and take stock, while he and his crew docked the boat and he bid farewell to the rest of the passengers.
Do not get carried away. It’s been an amazing morning, but now it’s over.
The snorkel tour, the epic beauty of the reef and its sealife had totally lived up to the hype. But it had been Cooper Delaney’s constant attention, his gorgeous body and flirtatious smile, that had turned the trip into a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
He’d made her feel special—and for that she couldn’t thank him enough. Which meant not overreacting now and putting motivations into his actions that weren’t there.
She gulped down the lump of gratitude as she watched him charm May Preston, and give her husband a hearty handshake. Once they’d gone, it would be her turn to say goodbye.
May waved, then winked—making the colour leech into Ella’s cheeks—before handing a wad of bills to Cooper. He accepted the money with a quick lift of his cap.
A tip.
Shame tightened Ella’s throat as Cooper folded the bills into the back pocket of the jeans he’d changed into. Of course, she should tip him. That would be the best way to thank Cooper for all his attention. And let him know what a great time she’d had.
She grabbed her backpack, found her purse, then had a minor panic attack over the appropriate amount. Was twenty dollars enough? Or thirty? No, forty. Forty, would work. After all, he’d surely need to share it out with the boys in his crew. She counted out the money, her palms sweating, hoping she’d got the amount right. She wanted to be generous, even though she knew that any amount couldn’t really repay him for what he’d done.
For two amazing, exhilarating, enchanting hours she’d completely forgotten about all her troubles—and felt like a woman again, a whole, normal, fully functional woman—and for that no tip, however generous, could be big enough.
Slinging the pack over her shoulder, she approached him with the bills clutched in her fist. Now, how to hand it over without blushing like a beetroot?