How were Owen and Bria and everyone in the reception faring?
He’d find out later. After the storm died down.
All that mattered now was getting Zeta out of Mother Nature’s wrath and getting them both out of their wet clothes.
“Is this your cabin?” Zeta shouted at his ear.
Stabbing the key into the lock, he flicked her a look. “Yep.”
“Then open the freaking door!”
He opened the freaking door, and they damn near fell inside.
He slammed the door closed behind them, shutting out the insanity of the storm, but not the noise.
The cabin—in typical Australian architectural fashion—had a corrugated iron roof. Rain and hail smashed against it in a deafening tattoo.
But at least they were inside, out of immediate risk of injury, even if they were in complete darkness.
“Shit!” Zeta exclaimed a second before Mick heard a dull thud. “Ouch.”
“You okay?” He waved his hands around waist height. “What did you trip over?”
“Shoes.” Zeta’s disgruntled voice came from the floor in front of him. “I think I tripped over your shoes. Or maybe a body. Have you murdered anyone recently?”
Cautiously shuffling his feet across the floor in her direction, he chuckled. “Not since before the wedding.”
“I’m not even sure how to respond to that,” she said, her voice floating to him from the blackness.
He grinned, still waving his hands in front of him. “Just be grateful I like you.”
Ah shit. Had he said that? Aloud?
A beat of hail-peppered silence followed, before Zeta said, “Doyou like me?”
Shit. Shit.
He stopped shuffling in the dark and straightened, drawing a steadying breath.Didhe? A tight band wrapped around his chest as the unexpected answer filled his heart. “As it turns out, I think I do.”
“Annoyingly,” Zeta’s voice—low and soft and directly in front of him—quickened his pulse, “I think I like you too.”
Warm fingers brushed against his face, clumsily at first as she found his cheeks, his jaw, and then she kissed him.
Deprived of light, of seeing anything but blackness, Mick’s other senses took over. The sliding warmth of her parted lips moving over his, the gentle invitation of her tongue, the feathering caress of her fingers down the sides of his neck…
His body reacted, charged and aware and ready. He slid his hands around her back, finding the tiny toggle of her dress’s zipper with steady fingers, lowering it, lowering it, lowering it.
She hummed into their kiss and shimmied against his body. Her dress didn’t fall. The damp fabric clung to her skin with a persistence he both admired and despised. He wanted her naked. In his arms. Against his body.
Deepening the kiss, he found the open back of her dress and peeled it downward, only surrendering his occupation of her mouth with his own so he could step back and completely remove the sodden item of clothing.
Tossing the wet, heavy dress aside, he wished to fucking God he could see her. His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness, but not enough to allow him to take in what he’d revealed. Instead, he relied on his hands, skimming his palms up over the shape of her waist, her ribs. His thumbs brushed the underswell of her breasts, and he couldn’t stop his shaky breath. The soft warmth of her skin against his made his blood run hot. Hotter. He was already on fire with lust and need.
She let out a hitching breath. “Mick…” she whispered.
“If you want me to stop…” he said, his voice a rasping croak.God, please don’t want me to stop.
Firm fingers closed around his wrists, and she placed his hands completely on her breasts. “What do you think?” she asked.