motions with his head to the docks but doesn’t say anything in reply.
Am I supposed to know exactly what he’s thinking?
Without much warning, he starts walking. Okay, I’m following. We cross the street, down the steps leading to the docks. He’s ahead of me, the fog parting for him like a rock star taking the stage. It’s crazy. And beautiful. I glance up at the sky. The moon hangs low, as if it’s going to fall on us at any moment. I stare at it, trying to think back to a time I ever saw it look like this, so big, so bright, so mesmerizing. Waves lap at the docks creating an unstable ground beneath me.
He stops, and I run into his back, not realizing we’re at his boat. “Oh, whoops,” I mumble.
A chuckle leaves his lips, and he turns, holding out his hand for me to step on. I stare at his extended palm. He snorts when I don’t take it, tipping his head to the side as if he’s trying to figure me out. What an entertaining notion that is. “Unless you want to take a swim again,” he adds with a flick of his eyes on the water.
“Are you trying to get me wet?” No way I’m spending another week in the hospital, but then I realize what I just said.
He flashes a grin. “You and I both know I don’t have to try, honey,” he tells me, his voice a rumbling timbre vibrating through me.
My breath hitches, and I slip my hand from my jacket and into his. The feeling of my hand in his, the warmth, the possessiveness, sends my pulse racing. Our eyes connect, his brooding, mine curious. But he pauses, doesn’t move at all. Neither do I. There’s something about the way he’s holding my hand. Like he knows what we’re doing is wrong, but he can’t stop himself.
And then he goes and ruins the moment by yanking me onto the boat with him in an exaggerated motion. From there, it’s frenzied. He shoves me inside the cabin, kicks the door shut behind him, and begins ripping away his jacket, then flannel.
When I’m apparently not undressing quick enough, he turns toward me, his hands slipping inside my jacket to my hips. “You’re taking too long.”
“Didn’t realize this was a race.”
His lips are on mine again, his tongue sweeping the seam of my lips. Sighing into his mouth, I grant him access. He tastes like smoke and whiskey, a deadly combination and exactly what this guy is like. A little rough, a twinge of sweet, and a whole lot of bad.
Wanting to take some control, I break the kiss and remove my jacket. He watches, panting, hands wild, attempting to help me out. With my hand on his chest, I push, urging him onto the couch. “I can undress myself.”
And then I try to be sexy about it, but I don’t know what I’m doing. Unbuttoning my jeans, I shimmy them down, realize I should have taken my shoes off first, and give up when Lincoln laughs.
“Let me.” Leaning forward, he removes his T-shirt he had under his flannel first and then taps the side of the couch. Positioning my feet between his legs, his hands slide carefully from my knees to my ankles.
With rapt attention, I examine every inch of his exposed skin. Scars line his knuckles, hands, and forearms. No doubt a product of his profession, but it’s higher that captures my attention the most. A tattoo over his heart. Squinting, I attempt to read it, but he hunches forward after getting my shoes off and removes my jeans. I’m naked from the waist down.
He still has his jeans on, and that needs to change. I motion with a flick to his pants. “Take those off.”
Leaning back, his hands fumble with the buckle, and then he has them off. Admiring his naked masculinity, I run my hands up his thighs. His expression shifts, his rock-hard cock suddenly my focus. Biting my lip, I trail my right hand over about an inch and take his erection in my palm. With a predatory gaze, he looks down at me, a smirk on his face. One by one, my fingers close around him. I slide my fist down his length, staring up at him.
And then, before he can stop me, I wrap my lips around his cock and suck him into my mouth. I’ve never been good at blow jobs, but I like to think