41. BRAXTON
Chapter forty-one
D aria and I took the folder, a pad of paper, and some pens, then moved upstairs to the wheelhouse lounge. Nik needed space to work, and this gave us a quieter spot with a view. Daria curled up on the circular sofa, spreading the folder across her lap like a textbook. I sat beside her, rubbing the back of her neck.
She read from one of the documents. “Your name’s Braxton Wyatt Thorin. You’re thirty-six, born in Tacoma. A paramedic, you work for a busy trauma center and volunteer with humanitarian aid groups. Both parents deceased.”
I smirked. “Well, that’s easy.”
She looked up over her shoulder. “You’re married to Dasha Sophia Thorin. I’m thirty-one, born in L.A., and a certified professional photographer specializing in landscapes. Mother deceased, father estranged.”
“I can remember that.”
“Okay, so now we’ve got to come up with a story as to how we met,” Daria said, drumming her fingertips over her lips. “Ooo, I’ve got it.”
She spent forever scribbling away on the pad of paper, so I got up to stretch my legs and walked around the room, killing time and waiting patiently.
“Done,” she proclaimed. “So pay attention.”
I returned to sit next to her on the sofa. “Let’s hear it. This ought to be good.”
“We met on Second Beach near La Push. It wasn’t anything dramatic—just one of those weird moments that changes everything.”
She smiled brightly.
“You had been camping with your younger brother, Conan, right?” she asked.
“Yes, we call him Conan, but his name is actually Constantine.”
“Good to know. So anyway, the two of you were there with a few friends. You had hiked in the day before, set up near the tree line, and were planning to stay through the weekend. I was on a solo photo trip, chasing light along the coast. I’d climbed up onto one of the big driftwood trees to get a better angle of the sea stacks—stupid, in hindsight, since the wood was slick from the spray. I slipped and twisted my ankle badly enough that I couldn’t put any weight on it.
“I didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed before this tall guy in a hoodie and hiking boots came jogging over from the trail. Turns out he was a paramedic from Tacoma—off duty, obviously, but still totally ready to go full EMT on the beach. He checked my ankle, stabilized it, helped me back to the trailhead, and made sure I got back to my car without wiping out again. He even carried my gear and put it in the trunk.
“I teased him for going into hero mode, and he gave me this deadpan look and said, ‘You climbed up on a giant log and came crashing down with five grand in camera equipment around your neck, screaming bloody murder. It was the least I could do.’
“Then he asked me if I wanted to meet for coffee the next morning at a cafe in Forks. I told him no.” Daria looked at me and laughed.
I frowned. “So I offered to buy the mysterious photographer a coffee, and she said no?”
“Repeatedly,” Daria added.
I chuckled. “But eventually, you caved.”
She raised a brow. “Pity date. He told me he needed to follow up on the ankle injury as a part of his job. I laughed at his audacity and agreed to meet him for coffee. When we met, he gave me grief for ordering tea. I gave him grief for wearing flip-flops in forty-degree weather. It just…spiraled from there.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of detail. How do you know about that beach?” I asked.
“One of the romance books Svetlana gave me to read… Twilight .”
“God, you’re obsessed with those books. Sorry to inform you, but I’m no vampire,” I teased.
“Oh, no. You’d be Team Jacob—a shape-shifting wolf, if you were so lucky.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“You’re supposed to be charming,” she said, nudging my knee. “A man who swept me off my feet. Remember?”
I rolled my eyes and leaned forward to grab the pad. “We were married six months later in a small ceremony in Big Sur. No guests—just us and a view.”
“That’s the most unrealistic part of all this,” Daria muttered. “You don’t shut up about your brothers. No way you left them out of your fake wedding.”
“You got that right,” I said, smiling.
We kept going like that—back and forth, joking about how we met, when we’d known we were in love, where we’d traveled, who had introduced us to Nik. Even with my good memory, I couldn’t keep all the ridiculous girly details straight worth a damn. And every time I got one detail wrong, Daria shot me an annoyed look like a disappointed professor.
“No, Braxton. My fake cousin’s name is Maya. Not Mia. Maya. How hard is that?”
“Shit. I’m trying, babe.”
She sighed and pointed to the page. “Let’s do it again.”
I stood, rubbed my hands down my cheeks, and slapped on my poker face. “Hi. I’m Braxton Thorin. This is my wife, Dasha. We’re very much in love, we’re not spies, and we definitely didn’t escape a Russian prison and flee across the gulf under false identities.”
“Perfect,” she said flatly. “We’ll be arrested before we even make it to the dock.”
I held out a hand. “Dance with me.”
“What? There’s no music.”
“Come on. Pretend.” I tugged her up, spun her gently as if we were at a wedding reception, and stumbled over the edge of the sofa, dragging her down with me.
She squealed as we landed in a heap, me half-sprawled on top of her. I grinned and pinned her arms down.
“Braxton,” she laughed, breathless. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re taking this way too seriously.” I kissed her hard, pressing into her until she squirmed underneath me. “We need to practice the fun parts of being married too.”
She smirked up at me. “This is your solution? Tackling me on the furniture?”
“So far, so good,” I said, grabbing the hem of her shirt and yanking it up in one swift motion.
My breath caught.
“No bra?” I whispered, my eyes locking onto the perfect view.
“If I’d known you were gonna act like this, I’d have worn three,” she teased.
I lowered my mouth to one breast and ran my tongue slowly over the tight peak. She gasped as it hardened under my touch. I grazed it with my teeth and then sucked it into my mouth, making her breath hitch.
“You’re gonna kill me,” she whispered.
I growled into her skin. “If I’d known you weren’t wearing a bra, I would’ve bailed on this rehearsal bullshit hours ago.”
She tangled her fingers in my hair, pulling me closer. Then she giggled and arched her hips into mine. “Then it’s probably a good thing you didn’t know I skipped the panties too.”
I froze. Pulled back.
“You serious?”
Her grin told me everything. I hooked my fingers in the waistband of her leggings and yanked them down with zero ceremony. She yelped and kicked at me, laughing the whole time.
“Braxton!”
“Quiet, Mrs. Thorin. We’re in the middle of an interrogation.”
She threw a pillow at my face. I caught it, dropped it, and kissed her again—hard, hungry, the way we both liked. Her laugh faded when I moved lower.
I trailed kisses down her breasts and stomach. Her thighs parted for me like it was instinct, like her body already knew what it needed and I desired. I kneeled between her legs and looked up. She was watching me, flushed and breathless.
I brought one of her hands down and placed it on her center.
Her mouth curved into a wicked smile. “You like watching me touch myself, don’t you?”
I nodded and smirked. “Hell yes, I do.”
Without hesitation, she stroked herself, drawing small circles around and around her clit, while I sat back and watched. Nothing in this world had ever looked that good.
After a beat, I reached for her wrist, guiding her fingers lower.
Her eyes darkened with desire as I slid one of her fingers inside her. She gasped.
“Soaked,” I murmured. “All for me.”
I added my own finger alongside hers, and together we worked a slow rhythm, her hips rising and falling with each stroke. The way her body responded…it was like she was made to be touched. Made to fall apart in my hands.
She was close. I could feel it in the way her body tensed up.
But I wasn’t done.
I pulled our fingers free and grabbed her by the waist, dragging her to the edge of the sofa and flipping her over so fast she let out a startled laugh. Her knees hit the floor, and her chest pressed into the cushions as her ass arched up in a perfect position for me.
I ran my hands up the length of her spine, spreading her knees just a little farther. Her breath caught. My fingers curled around the base of my cock as I lined myself up and dragged the head along her slit, which was wet and ready.
And then I sank in, balls deep.
“Fuck,” I groaned, gripping her hips and began driving my cock in and out of her. “You’re so damn tight…and perfect.”
She moaned, clinging to the cushions, rocking back into every thrust. I moved one hand to her back, tracing the curve of her spine as I picked up the pace. The slap of skin, the sound of her gasping my name—it was all I could do to not explode right then and there.
I leaned over her and kissed her shoulder. “You trust me?”
“Mm-hmm,” she moaned, barely able to speak.
I slid my hand lower, dragging it along the curve of her ass, my thumb following the seam until I reached that tight, untouched spot. I didn’t force anything; I just circled it gently, reading her body language. When she pressed back into my hand, groaning, I knew she was ready.
For just a second, I pulled out, coating my thumb in her slick pussy. Then I slid back inside her. I returned my thumb to her snug little hole, teasing her with gentle pressure. After a few seconds, I pressed more firmly and entered her taut ring, rocking in rhythm to my strokes and moving a little deeper each time.
Her body went rigid.
“Braxton,” she gasped. “Don’t stop— Right there— I’m gonna—”
I pushed just a little deeper with my thumb, and that was it. She shattered—legs shaking, walls gripping me so hard I nearly lost it.
I couldn’t hold back. I drove into her, once, twice more—
Then everything inside me exploded. I came hard, bracing my hands on her hips, dropping my forehead to her shoulder.
And that was when Nik’s voice sliced through the fog.
“What the actual fuck .”
I froze. Daria let out a startled giggle, and I couldn’t help but groan as I turned toward the doorway.
Nik stood there, one hand over his eyes like it might erase what he’d just seen. “Seriously? Right here? On the damn couch?”
Daria snorted, burying her face in the cushions. I reached for the nearest blanket and yanked it over both of us. Pulling out of her, I sat back on my heels and wrapped my arms around her. Then I lowered her to my lap. Our combined wetness was slick and warm on my thigh.
Nik groaned out in annoyance. “I told you to nail down your husband-and-wife story—not nail her on the goddamn furniture . Jesus, I need brain bleach.”
“Sorry,” I said, breathless. “I couldn’t take mock interrogations anymore.”
He waved a hand. “You know this lounge is under surveillance, don’t you? We could literally watch this scene in full color for the rest of the trip.”
That just made Daria laugh harder.
Nik turned to go, muttering under his breath. “Two weeks. Two goddamn weeks of this. I’m making rules. Rules , people.”
I couldn’t help myself. I turned Daria just enough to cup her chin in my hand, pulled her lips to mine, and kissed her long and slow.
When she finally caught her breath, I whispered against her lips, “Nik’s not wrong. I am going to have you on every surface of this yacht.”
She arched a brow and grinned. “Where next?”
I lifted her as I stood, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Hot tub. I want to hear you scream my name over the sound of the jets.”
She smacked my chest, laughing. “You’re insatiable.”