Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Cocoa

Holy crap on a cracker, this man is thick and long and hard. As the harbor master spreads me open, thrusting deeper into my body, it’s like being impaled on a spear.

You know, a sexy spear. A good kind of impaling. Oh whatever, I can’t think straight—can only pant, and cling to his shoulders, and grit my teeth first against the burning stretch, then against a loud moan as he brushes a spot inside me.

I wracked my brain earlier, sifting through my newly recovered memories, but came up blank. It’s official. I’ve never done this before.

He owns me more than he even knows.

Though as Mac rocks inside me, working his way deeper, suspicion flits across his shadowed face. He rubs his bearded cheek against mine, whispering: “You’re awful tight, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you ever—?”

“Nope.”

A tremor passes through his big, strong body—then Mac fucks into me harder, quicker, each harsh snap of his hips grinding me against the wooden tent pole. His breaths are ragged. I’m helpless, legs jiggling like a rag doll’s.

“You like that, huh?” My thrilled smile is swallowed up by the gloom, but I kiss his throat so he knows I approve. He growls, his thrusts getting even meaner. My chest bounces. “Oh, shit.” I break away, holding on for dear life.

And maybe it’s not the rose-petal scattered bed that so many girls picture for their first time, but this wooden tent pole, this darkness, the musty hush of the tent, the scrape of Mac’s open jeans against my inner thighs…

It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

Every second we’ve spent together until now, the harbor master has been so contained. So careful and reserved. Always the perfect gentleman, keeping his distance; always the picture of self control. Never staring too long or letting his hands linger. So respectful and distant, I feared he’d never claim me.

Look at him now.

He’s groaning like a wounded animal, pounding me hard enough to turn this wooden tent pole to splinters. His bared teeth flash white in the gloom. And if I’m lucky, maybe he’ll leave hand print bruises on my ass cheeks tomorrow morning; maybe the sight will spur him to another desperate, feverish round.

I want Mac to bend me over every piece of furniture in his orderly cottage.

Want him to fuck me in the rowboat where he found me that first day, the boat rocking beneath us, that pile of old nets snagging my hair.

I want him mad for me, just like this, for all the days and weeks and months and years of our lives together, and I want the hickeys to prove it. Never want to walk straight again.

He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls.

I let out a blissful sigh.

In this, too, we’re perfectly matched. Perfectly suited. Not just the way his cock spreads me open, pressing deep inside me, lighting me up from the inside, but his rougher edges, too. The secret, wild bite to him.

Can’t believe he thinks he’s boring. Mac McLaggen is more thrilling than any circus.

“Please,” I gasp, and he snarls as he reaches between us, pinching my clit. I’m still swollen and sensitive down there from his mouth, still slippery and tingling, and I buck in his hold, keening. Can feel his calluses. Can feel everything.

“You’re going to come on my cock.” Mac rubs me steadily, hips still pumping, the pressure hard. “You’re going to show me what that feels like. I’ve been thinking about it, Cocoa. Been wondering.”

Me too. God, me too, but I had no idea how overwhelming this would be—how I’d feel his thrusts rattling my molars, and taste his salty sweat on my lips, and how every brush and squeeze and smack of his hand would make sparks fly across my skin.

“Now. Come for me.” Another rough pinch of my clit; another burst of sensation. My jaw locks together, and I go rigid in his arms, waves and waves of pleasure rolling out from my core. He keeps thrusting, chasing me higher, dragging this on and on until I could scream.

When I collapse back against the tent pole, I feel like I’ve just performed a whole show on the silks. I’m wrung out. Ruined. Every inch of me throbs with the sweetest ache.

“Christ.” Mac buries his face in my hair, thrusts getting sloppy. His breaths are hot and damp on my neck. “Jesus Christ, Cocoa. You feel…”

Guess I’ll never know exactly how I feel, because Mac cuts off with a pained groan. Or maybe I can tell from context: from the stuttering thrust of his hips, and the throb of his shaft inside me, and the pulse after pulse of wet heat against my inner walls. Mac pants against my neck. He fills me.

Moisture drips onto the grass.

Then, after the sweetest eternity, he pulls out, sets me down on wobbly legs, and pulls my leotard back into place. Mac gives me the gentlest, sweetest kiss, and this is all him, too. Every way he touches me is so honest. “Can I take you home now?” he asks. “For good?”

The tent spins around me, and I’m floating up somewhere near the roof as I smile. “Thought you’d never ask. Now let’s get my roses.”

* * *

Three years later

It’s a lazy summer morning, perfumed and warm. Bees hover over the rose bushes in our garden, and steam curls above the rim of the coffee mug resting on the wrought iron table. The windows of the harbor master’s cottage are all flung open, hoping to coax in a breeze.

Waves sigh in the distance. I tip my face up to the sunshine.

It’s so peaceful.

Like a dream—and I hope I never wake up.

Clattering noises float from the open kitchen door, with Mac’s low murmurs and bursts of delighted baby laughter. He’s baking cookies with our daughter—even though at this age, all she can really do is smack floury hand prints on his t-shirt and suck on the wooden spoon. He doesn’t care. This is their Sunday tradition.

Hey, works for me. I’m all about those fresh cookies.

And seeing Mac dote on our daughter does something to me. Makes me want to get cookin’ with baby number two, even though my circus skills classes are selling out in town.

“Oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip?” Mac calls, his voice snatched away by the salty wind. Is that even a question? Really?

“Chocolate chip,” I call back, smiling down at the twists and curls of the wrought iron table. The paint’s peeling in places. One more job for our summer To Do list.

There’s weeding the garden, and replanting the flowerbeds. Repainting the kitchen, and planning my next block of acrobatics classes, and helping Mac down at the marina. Kiddie swimming lessons and picnics and making childhood memories. There’s always so much to do—but then there are these moments of stillness, too.

Sipping coffee in the garden, breathing in the briny air. Listening to my husband and daughter laugh together, their din drowning out the kitchen radio. Feeling so lucky I could float.

Sometimes, I wonder how things could have been different. What might have happened if I washed up in a different town, got rescued by someone else. I don’t think those thoughts for long, though—they make me shiver. Nope. No, thank you.

Because one thing’s for sure.

I picked the right rowboat.