Chapter 11
Vaughn
"What are you doing?"
Clayton's voice stops me, mid-scrub. He's blocking the morning sun, so when I look up, all I see is a giant wall of man.
A giant wall of man who I kissed three nights ago and have been avoiding ever since, which is a little hard to do since he walks by the front office where Mabel and I are stationed at seven a.m. every day.
So I had to improvise. And what better way to do that than by attending to some long overdue cleaning items?
I point the stiff-bristled brush and hose toward him. "Scrubbing algae off the pontoons and hulls. Not a glamorous job, but somebody has to do it."
"Right. And is there a particular reason why you've been doing it the past two days at precisely the time I walk past the front office as I leave for work? Or why you're at the furthest end of the marina from my yacht?"
"Coincidences," I lie, pasting on a smile in the hopes he doesn't see through my pathetic charade. I'm not holding out much hope. I push to my feet for the inevitable conversation I've been dreading. "I'm sorry about the other night."
"What happened the other night?" he asks, propping his hands on his hips, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
I know what I should say—I'm sorry for kissing you. That was inappropriate—but the words don't come out.
"Because if it's about the kiss," he says, drifting closer toward me, his voice low and throaty. "There's no need to make a big thing out of it. Except for…"
I blink. "Except for what?"
The pier jolts as a few waves crash against it, and he's suddenly a lot closer than he was a few seconds ago. His sharp, citrusy cologne mingles with the salty air.
He latches onto my arms, holding me steady. "Except it was nowhere near long enough, which leads me to believe that maybe Montanaian men just aren't very good kissers."
"I can assure you, we are exceptional kissers."
He makes a hand-talking gesture and rolls his eyes, which makes me laugh because it's funny enough on its own but even funnier coming from a guy dressed in a business suit.
He's wearing a white linen shirt, folded up to the elbows, and when he lets his hand fall, he brushes the backs of his fingers lightly along my cheek. "Yeah? Prove it then."
Whatever fire lit inside me three nights ago that propelled me to kiss him reignites in my chest. I close off the last few inches of air between us. "Fine. I will."
And with that, I tug him into me by his pretty dress shirt and show him just how well Montanaian men kiss.
It starts off slow, but it's by no means a handbrake to the fever pulsing through my veins. The same way you swirl and smell a fine wine before sipping it, the gentle press of my lips against his is a precursor, a moment of appreciation before getting a proper taste.
Clayton presses his hand into my lower back, drawing me right into him. He then parts his lips ever so slightly like he did last time. The other night, I balked. This time, I'm not going anywhere.
I take the opening and slide my tongue into his mouth, exploring, reveling in the pleasure coursing through me. This is crazy, but at the same time, it feels so right. The kiss builds, growing deeper, more intense, until I pull back.
Technically, I'm working, and we are out in public. The locals here are pretty open-minded, but no one wants to wake up to two men mauling each other on the pier when they step out for their morning coffee.
"There," I murmur, lifting my chin and stepping back a little so I have a clear view of his handsome face. "How was that?"
The smile that curves his just-been-kissed lips sends my heart spinning. He locks his kind brown eyes onto mine and says, "Exceptional."