Checking his watch, Braydon saw he had a few hours before
needing to shower for dinner, so he headed to the cabin to
grab the polish for the rails. He didn’t like cleaning, but
living on a boat and travelling the world writing freelance
stories for yachting magazines made hiring a regular
housekeeper tough. Besides, he was particular about his
boat.
Starting at the bow, he sat cross-legged and cleaned and
polished the rails. Steady, slow and even strokes back and
forth removed the salty build-up and restored the shine.
With the front part of the railing done, he moved to work on
the rigging hooks on the deck. The action of rubbing the
surface to a gleam brought images of Danica to mind.
Images of her stretched out beneath him on the newly
cleaned surface. His hands stroking and rubbing her,
awakening her body and the shine of arousal he’d seen in her
eyes earlier. His dick hardened, pressed into the zipper of
his cut-offs.
When he’d agreed to attend the reunion, he’d been
surprised at how much he’d wanted to be there. He’d wanted
to see old friends and even those he hadn’t been friendly
with. How much did ten years change people? Were the cliques
the same? Were the nerds still nerds, snobs still snobs,
jocks still jocks?
He had one answer. Sort of. Danica Kent, for all her
awkwardness, was changed and still the same. Every run-in
with her in high school had been stilted and awkward. She’d
fawned over him, followed him, and spied on him from her
room. She’d been unable to talk to him without stumbling
over her tongue or spilling things on one of them or
tripping. And okay, some had seen her attention as creepy,
but mostly he’d found it kind of flattering.
She was still awkward, but somehow not. Clearly she still
had the talking and tripping issues, but she hadn’t spilled
anything. And damn if she hadn’t turned into the proverbial
swan, even if it was with help from Victoria at the
Whispering Salon.
“Nice boat.”
“Shit!” Braydon lurched up, tossed the rag and can of
polish into the air, slipped on the newly polished surface
and fell overboard with a giant splash.
Wading the cool water, he eyed Danica as she moved to the
rail. No, she hadn’t spilled anything. She’d moved on to
dumping him off boats.
“Do you need help?”
“No! Just move to the cockpit before you hurt yourself.”
Rather than wait to see if she responded, he swam to the
back of the boat where their small watercrafts were tied and
climbed aboard.
She opened the gate part of the back edge of the boat.
Rather than swing it in toward her, she swung it out,
smacked him in the forehead and sent him falling backwards a
second time with a lancing pain to his head. He fell into
the inflatable dingy, which was somewhat padded, but his
hand slammed into the motor and his left ankle crashed
against the boat with a resounding crack.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Damn it. Sorry.” Danica’s voice didn’t rise to frantic
levels, but he could imagine her flapping her hands in
hysteria.
Instead, she climbed down the few steps and got into the
dingy with him. “Don’t move.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.” She pulled her t-shirt over her head
with no apparent thought to anyone on nearby boats, leaned
over him and pressed it against his forehead to staunch the
bleeding.
Her white, lace-covered nipples hovered just in front of
his mouth. His cock hardened again. His body urged him to
listen to desire, to lean forward and pull a nipple into his
mouth. To taste more than her tempting mouth.
She moved the t-shirt, now half-soaked with blood, and
put it immediately back to the cut. “This is bad.”
“I’m fine.” Ignoring his body’s impulses, he replaced her
hand on the t-shirt with one of his own. “I’ve got this,
Danica.”
“You’re going to need stitches.”
“I’ve had worse.” He moved to sit up. The boat rolled
beneath him from dizziness and nausea rather than waves.
Maybe he hadn’t had worse.
