Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,47

paddler’s mom. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thanks,” she says, smoothing a hand over her flowery sundress.

My brow knits. “For?”

“Our son. He didn’t want to learn to swim for the longest time, no matter how we tried to convince him. But when he saw you learning, it was like something clicked. He said he wanted to try too. That’s what he said—try too. I think seeing someone who’s not his age going for it made a difference.”

A smile spreads across my face from the list effect. “That’s so great to hear. Tell him he’s super brave. Also, please tell him arf, arf from me.”

The woman laughs, then lifts a hand in a goodbye wave. She turns and heads off.

But the way she started the conversation snags at my brain. “Wait a second,” I call out.

She wheels around, tilts her head. “Yes?”

“When we started talking, you said you were sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. One, you didn’t interrupt. And two, I’m so happy you shared that with me. So no sorrys, K?”

She smiles as if she’s giddy too. “No sorrys.” She says it like a rallying cry.

And maybe it’ll be my new one.

I rejoin Jesse, feeling victorious.

“Celebration beer?” I ask, nodding toward the boardwalk as Jesse and I tread through the sand toward our blanket. “Saw a dive bar not too far from the subway entrance.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Jesse says, toweling off.

“We go straight back to your place instead?” I ask, openly ogling him as he drags the towel down his taut, muscled stomach.

He flashes a grin my way as he rubs his hair dry. “We’re definitely going back to my place, but we’re celebrating first. There’s a funky little brewery farther down the beach. You’re going to love it.”

“Yeah?” I finish drying off and reach for my cover-up.

“Trust me. I know what you like,” he says, in a voice that makes me sizzle all over again.

“You do,” I say, in a voice that I hope makes him burn up too.

He flashes a heated gaze my way, and yep, that “to-don’t” list can wait.

18

Jesse

Her lips part.

Her lashes flutter.

And she moans, “Oh my God. So good.” Her lips close around the perfectly roasted marshmallow I slip into her mouth, triggering a vivid mental flashback to this morning, when she took my cock in her mouth with similar relish.

I want to bite her bare neck, slip my hand under that filmy cover-up that does nothing to hide her curves and get her off while the waves crash onto the shore.

She deserves an orgasm or five after the dragon she slayed today.

And maybe I’ll get to give her one, sooner rather than later . . .

After the last of the sunset light fades and the darkness closes in, no one’s going to be able to see what my hands are up to.

We’re at one of Lost Summer Brewery’s beachside firepits. There are eight of them in total, but they’re all several yards apart, granting a certain degree of privacy, and our closest neighbors are a couple nearly as into each other as we are. They’ve barely come up for air since they sat down.

Though I’m sure to anyone looking on, Ruby and I seem like a couple too.

We can’t keep our hands off each other, and by the time our server delivers our second pint of Kona Ale—a coffee-flavored dark beer that is fucking delicious with roasted marshmallows—Ruby is in my lap, sprawled across me in the big Adirondack chair.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, gazing out across the darkening water. “I wish we could stay here. Just . . . camp out on the beach and wake up in the morning to the sound of the waves.”

“I thought you hated camping?” I challenge her.

“Not romantic camping on the beach,” she counters. “That might be nice. Not Four Seasons nice, but nice.”

“No camping around here that I know of, but there’s a place on Governor’s Island. You can rent a tent and sleep across the water from the Statue of Liberty.”

“Really? That’s so cool.” Ruby snuggles closer to my chest with a yawn. “Maybe we should add camping to the ‘something new’ list, after all.”

My head rears back. “What? You’ve really never been?”

“No, never.”

“But I thought you went to Camp Knick Knack Paddywhack with Claire when you were kids. The one my mom’s friend owns upstate? Claire went every summer. Sometimes twice.”

“My mom wouldn’t let me,” Ruby says, reaching for her beer on the small table next