Chapter Twenty-One
Every kiss with Micah counted, as far as John was concerned.
There’d been that first one, when they were too young and inexperienced to even know what they were doing. A single press of the lips, that terrifying, thrilling touch of tongues.
Then there’d been their kisses earlier that night, which had been hot and dirty and just a little aggressive, like they were both still fighting something with each other, with themselves.
He hadn’t wanted to kiss Micah so much as he’d wanted to consume her, to take in everything she was offering and give it back to her in a way that let her know that he was hers, that she was his .
But this one was different. It was deliberate.
It was slow and aching and everything John had wanted to say all night but hadn’t been able to.
He pressed his fingers to Micah’s jaw, to her cheeks, to the line of her throat.
She tasted vaguely of cherries—it was probably her lip balm—and when she finally stopped to take a breath he was right there to swallow it.
“I thought,” she said, panting around the words, “we were supposed to be talking.”
“I can multitask,” he said, his breath hot against her ear as he kissed the sensitive skin behind it. “Let’s talk.”
He was supposed to be bringing up band business with her, convincing her to do some sort of reunion tour that everyone else apparently wanted, but in that moment he couldn’t think of anything he cared less about.
Then she’d said she wanted to talk, and he’d wondered if it was going to be about this , whatever was happening between them, if she’d say she regretted it or that it couldn’t happen again.
But then she’d pressed her finger to his lips, and suddenly the idea of talking had flown right out of his head.
Micah tilted her head back, giving him more access to her throat. When she laughed, he could feel the vibration of it against his mouth.
“Have you always been like this?” she asked.
Always like what? If she meant the way he’d been back in her room, the way he’d told her what to do, how to touch herself, then the answer was no.
He’d never been like that before. If she meant the way he was now, grabbing this moment for a public display of affection like they were two teenagers in high school again, then no, he’d never been like that, either.
But if she meant had he been like this , hungry and desperate for more of her, then the answer was yes. Always yes.
“Have you?” he asked.
She took his hand, sliding it up her rib cage to press it against her bare breast, her nipple hard against his palm.
He’d suspected she wasn’t wearing anything underneath her shirt when he’d seen her in it, had had a vision of her at one point bending to pick up one of the discs off the court, giving him a view right down the front.
He’d been able to picture it so clearly—the soft curve of her breasts as they hung down, the sharp point of her nipples from the cold—that he’d had to close his eyes and tell himself to get it together.
She was sliding her own hands up inside his shirt now, clenching the muscles of his back while she arched into him. “Earlier tonight,” she said, “you were going to apologize for this. But I don’t need it. I’m not sorry.”
“I’m not sorry, either,” he said, nuzzling into the warm space between her neck and her shoulder, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone, huffing a small laugh. “I was just going to apologize for finishing so fast.”
He felt her smile against his forehead. “Don’t. I was flattered.”
“And for coming on your stomach,” he said. “Without asking first.”
“John, you can come anywhere you want to on me.”
He groaned, his hands tightening on her breasts. He pinched her nipple, pressing her back against the wall with a kiss that made her sag a little in his arms, until he slid his hands around her shoulders to hold her up.
“You can’t say shit like that,” he said.
“Why not?”
Because it makes me lose control. But who was he fooling? He hadn’t been in control from the moment she’d told him she’d beg if he asked her to.
He reached down to cup her ass in his hands, shifting her up a bit against the wall.
The alcove was private enough that they felt alone, but of course he was conscious of the fact that they were still technically on the deck of a cruise ship, that there were doors marked Staff Only right next to them that someone might go into or come out of at any second.
But from the way Micah’s breath hitched as his fingers slid into the waistband of her leggings, barely less than an inch, he knew that this was all part of what got her off.
“You’d have to be quick,” he said.
“I can be quick.”
His hand skimmed over that smooth skin below her waist, pausing for a moment before he went any further. “You’d have to be quiet.”
“I can be quiet,” she whispered.
He bit her earlobe. “You’d have to beg.”
She shifted under his hand, tilting toward him like she was trying to urge him to touch her where she wanted it. “ Please ,” she said. “I want to come so bad.”
“How bad?”
“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” she said. “John, please. Touch me.”
He slid a finger inside her, and she leaned her head back against the wall, her mouth open slightly as she panted her need.
He could’ve watched her like that all night, the play of emotions over her face as he curled his finger, as she let a little more of her weight sink down onto him.
But they did need to be quick, and so he brought his thumb up to press against her clit, giving it a hard rub.
“Fuck,” she breathed, clutching his forearm with a grip so strong it almost hurt. “ Yes. I’m so close already, please.”
He could tell. She was so wet, and he could feel her clenching around him, could hear her breath quickening. He rubbed circles over her clit, his fingers patient and already slick with her.
“Inside me,” she said. “I want to feel—”
He used two fingers this time, pumping them inside her while continuing to rub her clit with his thumb, and he felt her tense up just in time to bring his other hand up to cover her mouth.
“Shhh,” he said into her ear. “You promised to be quiet.”
When she did cry out, the sound was muffled, her breath hot on his palm.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, a sheen of sweat on her forehead even though there was a chill in the night air.
She gripped his biceps, and he realized she was partially holding herself up that way.
He removed his hand from her mouth to brace her at the waist, bringing his other hand up to suck her off his fingers.
She opened her eyes. There was something so vulnerable and unguarded in Micah’s expression, post-orgasm, that made John’s stomach flip. When she looked at him like that, he thought there was nothing easier than being together, the two of them, just like this.
“You have very dexterous hands,” she said.
“Do I?”
She smiled, biting her lip. “I’ve been watching them a lot,” she said, stretching hers into an F chord shape on his forearm like it was the neck of a guitar. “The way your fingers move. It’s been a little hard to focus.”
He’d taught her guitar, back in high school.
That chord had been her biggest struggle—it required the most stretch, and she’d flatly refused to learn any song that used it until one day it had just clicked.
He remembered having her eyes on him even then, but he’d known not to read anything into it.
She was just trying to learn. But now he wanted to ask Since when?
, wanted to know if she’d ever looked at him in those days the way he’d looked at her.
But maybe it didn’t matter. She was twining her fingers in his now, and it felt good just to hold her hand.
“Especially after I slept in your bed,” she said, “and woke up this morning with you touching my boob.”
He groaned, leaning his forehead against hers. “Oh god,” he said. “I thought that was a dream.”
“Not a dream,” she said. “And don’t you dare apologize. I was into it.”
He kissed her. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’m not sorry.”
They were still kissing—slow and languorous and exploratory, almost textbook definition making out —when a throat cleared next to them. “Excuse me,” a man holding a pile of towels said. “I need to get to that door?”
John felt his face heat almost like they had been caught doing more than just kissing, and he was quick to move away from the alcove, his hand still holding Micah’s.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Uh, have a good night.”
They were halfway up the stairs toward the next deck before Micah started laughing. “Have a good night ?” she said.
“What else was I supposed to say?”
“It was the way you said it. You sounded so guilty! Remind me never to rob a bank with you.”
“You need a reminder for that?”
She dropped his hand when they finally reached the top deck, which he tried not to read anything into.
It was probably best if they flew under the radar with whatever this was between them, and they hadn’t exactly done a bang-up job of being discreet so far.
It was a beautiful night—clear enough to see the stars, a crispness in the air that reminded you that you were alive .
They settled up along the rail, looking out over the water.
“Wait, have we already stopped?” Micah said, leaning out a little. “I think I see lights over there.”
“It would make sense,” John said. “If there are excursions leaving first thing tomorrow for swimming with dolphins or whatever else.”
“What time is it even?”
John didn’t know, and he didn’t particularly care. Time on the ship stretched and contracted. He was vaguely aware of being tired, in that pleasant way where you knew you’d fall asleep the second you sank into your bed, but he could’ve also stayed out there with Micah forever.
“Let’s walk to the other side and see if we can make out more of the port,” John suggested.