Chapter 20 – Catalina
Something inside me thaws. I take his big, warm hand and place it on my bare thigh to steady it. His palm dwarfs the skin there, anchoring me as I dip the brush into the polish, then clear the excess from the tip.
I paint each finger carefully, holding my breath until eventually he relaxes under my touch.
Jensen may be from the South—a man who thrives on physical touch and is my opposite in so many ways—but there's something about the way he melts beneath my fingertips that makes me think my touch means something different to him than anyone else's.
I take my time, being sure not to get any on the skin, and enjoying being this close to him. It’s such a simple act, but wildly intimate in a way that I’ve never experienced before.
By the time I’m finished, he has one hand perfectly painted red. He lifts it, examining it with a grin so genuine and proud, my chest aches.
“I’ve never had my nails painted before. Can’t think of a better color to choose. Do you like it?”
I nod. “Looks good on you.”
His grin deepens. “Can I do yours now?”
I can’t remember the last time someone did something for me with no hidden agenda.
Especially something as sweet as self-care.
I’ve never even had my nails done professionally—always assumed I’d start when life slowed down, when I wasn’t running through twelve-hour shifts or fleeing a relationship that gutted me.
It's also a hazard for surgeons to paint their nails.
Nothing in a salon chair could ever feel close to this—a man kneeling between my legs, asking to touch me in ways that have nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with just simple connection and care.
I nod. “Sure.”
I hand him the bottle. He takes it carefully; his thick fingers look clumsy around the tiny brush as he attempts to balance it. It’s almost comical—this big, rough bull rider concentrating like he’s handling a newborn baby as he tries to steady the thin handle between two of his massive fingertips.
He takes my hand and holds it steady, dragging the brush down each nail with slow, careful strokes before dipping it again.
I don’t tell him to wipe off the excess between each dip.
I don’t boss him around like I would anyone else to be sure it’s perfect.
I just let him do his thing the way he wants to do it because I know, however it ends, it’ll be perfect.
His brows are furrowed. He bites the inside of his lip. He curses under his breath when the polish slips onto my skin. It doesn't bother me, the messiness, if anything I find it adorable.
An uninvited image flashes through my mind of Jensen, on his knees, next to a couch, doing this for his future daughter someday. A child that he desperately wants. She’d have his eyes and long brown hair and be giggling each time he messes up.
I quickly blink, and the image disappears. I try to focus on him again, but all I can think about is that little girl.
“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, brushing another stroke down my thumb.
I don’t say anything. I focus on his strong jawline. His handsome face. His soft insides that don't match the exterior. He’s focused harder than I’ve ever seen him focus on a ride.
When he finishes, he studies both my hands proudly and then lifts my wrist for me to see like he’s lifting a trophy.
“How’d I do, Kitty?”
I look from my red, messy nails back to his face, and something warm and terrifying blooms in my chest. Something that feels a lot like emotional connection and even more like I might be falling for this cowboy.
It’s not perfect; in fact, much of the polish is on my cuticles and the flesh on the pads of my fingertips, but it's the best my nails have ever looked to me.
“It’s perfect,” I say softly.
He grins, leans in, and then kisses me on the mouth.
It's slow, soft, tasting faintly like the lake breeze and the sweetness of his grandma's tea we drank this morning before heading out. It's something I could get used to. Something I shouldn’t. It should absolutely catch me off guard that I don’t flinch when he kisses me without warning anymore. It feels right.
I don’t know what we’re doing. I didn’t expect this brief time off to turn into…
whatever this is. But wow... it feels good to be seen.
To be taken care of. To matter to someone.
To not have to worry about tomorrow or the future.
For right now, I’m just living in the present with this wild man at his home in Tennessee.
He pulls back just enough for his fingers to find the hem of my dress. Another thing Tennessee seems to have brought out in me is a fondness for dresses.
He eases the fabric up around my waist, his knuckles grazing my hips before his hand slips beneath the waistband of my panties.
“May I?”
I lift my hips without a second thought, allowing him to peel them down until I’m seated bare on the boat bench, exposed to the warm air and his hungry gaze.
“Come here,” he murmurs, shifting me closer until my thighs are draped over the edge on either side of his hips. My hands grip the back of the bench for balance, and I part my knees wider to make space for him.
He takes my legs and places them on either of his shoulders.
“I don’t want to hurt your shoulder,” I say.
He chuckles. “You couldn’t. Don’t worry about me. Let me eat.”
He lowers himself between my legs and drags his tongue up my pussy like he’s tasting something he’s been dreaming about all day. A shiver rolls through me. He pauses, eyes flicking up, mouth inches from me.
“You have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I like being between your legs. Are you having fun here?”
I laugh. “We’re making small talk now?”
He slides one hand up my thighs, caressing the skin and massaging it. His fingers dig into the soft flesh like he’s staking his claim, his beard brushes against the inside, scraping me. Then he sinks two fingers inside me firmly.
“Yes. Talk to me while I lick you.” His tongue circles my clit.
“Yes,” I whisper, my head tipping back, feeling the stretch and fullness of his fingers. “It’s been fun.”
He smiles against the inside of my thigh, his lips brushing my skin like he can’t decide what he wants to do next. His wrist twists as he rubs inside me, edging me.
“Good. I’ve had fun too. Got something special I want to show you tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
He chuckles and licks me again. There’s no fear with Jensen when he’s between my legs.
No hesitation. No awkwardness that I’ve spent years training myself to expect.
To be honest, I didn’t know that was even possible with a man.
To be naked and seen in the middle of the day with the sun as our only light and not worry about a mole, or a stray hair, or anything being seen as too much and not absolutely, clinically perfect.
With Davis, I’d felt like I had to fold myself into a shape I wasn’t comfortable with at all times, and I was constantly fighting to tell myself it was normal and what I wanted.
But I didn’t like making myself smaller and less.
I didn’t like worrying if I was too smart for my ex and making him insecure.
Thankfully, I didn’t dumb myself down for him often, but it still stung when I could tell he didn’t appreciate my experience and always acted like he knew better no matter what the specialty was.
“Tell me your favorite part of this trip,” he says.
His fingers slide out of my pussy, and I gasp as he drags my wetness up, across my clit, circling it, pinching lightly—just enough to make my hips jerk.
There are birds chirping, insects buzzing and the lapping of water outside the boat. But none of those sounds are as calming as Jensen's heated breathing between my legs. His tongue presses against my clit, pointed, dragging back and forth. My thighs press around his face, pinning him in place.
“Fishing,” I breathe out. “This. You. The simplicity of just sitting on a lake together without any sort of agenda.”
He hums his approval against my clit. The vibration causes me to let out an involuntary moan.
“Good answer.”
My hands move to his head, tangling in his hair as his baseball cap tumbles somewhere behind him. My nails—red and smeared and imperfect from the way he painted them—are dry now as they scratch against his scalp.
Something about seeing them in his hair knocks loose a thought that I can’t ignore: When did I get this comfortable with the mess?
When did I stop needing everything to be sterile, clean and predictable?
Was it the moment I let him ruin my clean, bare nails with red nail polish?
Or was it that first, unexpected night that we spent together when he undressed me and made me come?
“Oh… just like that,” I moan when he adds another finger. His tongue circles my clit, and his hand works me faster, deeper.
“I love watching your pussy take me like this,” he says against me, his breath hot. “Swallowing my hand. Gets me so hard.”
He drags his teeth lightly across my clit and my whole-body jolts. He groans—or maybe moans—my name. "Catalina." I can’t tell anymore over the rushing of blood in my ears.
I know I hear Catalina once. And Kitty twice.
That’s all it takes for my body to start shaking.
His fingers fuck me harder, rougher, his tongue flattens against my clit until I’m squirming, sliding an inch across the bench with each stroke.
The boat rocks beneath us, sloshing against the water like it’s reacting to every roll of my hips and plunge of his fingers.
His free hand tightens on my thighs, squeezing until it borders on pain, until the pleasure sharpens into something blinding. He draws my clit into his mouth and sucks hard, and I come apart.
“Yes—oh fuck yes,” I cry, grinding desperately against his face, my knees shaking around his shoulders, his red nails that match mine biting crescents into my skin. “Don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. I knew he wouldn’t. He twists his fingers, hits something inside me that sends my vision spinning. By the time I’m gasping through the first orgasm, he’s already pulling another one out of me—pulling it from somewhere deep, somewhere I didn’t know still existed.
I don’t even realize he’s standing until he lays me down on the belly of the boat, shoves his thin shorts down his legs, and presses the blunt, bare, thick head of him against my entrance.
“Take it,” he grunts, pushing in slow, then all at once. “Take it all, Kitty. Milk me with that pussy.”
My breath leaves me in a broken sound as he fills me—every inch, every demand he’s held back is manifesting in this. His hips snap into mine, hard and relentless. I hook my heels around his hips, dragging him closer, deeper, needing all of it and holding on.
The boat rocks violently, wooden hull creaking, water sloshing. Sweat beads along his forehead, dripping onto my chest, mixing with lake air and heat and something that scares me because I’ve never acted like this. I’ve never felt like this before.
It’s the messiest, hottest sex I’ve ever had, and I know I'll never forget this unexpected summer day.
“Fuck, you’re so good to me,” he groans, lowering his forehead to mine. His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking. “So, fucking good, Kitty.”
I feel him stiffen inside me, feel the way he tries to hold back his orgasm and fails, and that alone pushes me over the edge again. My nails scrape down his back, my thighs tremble, voice breaking as everything inside me tightens and shatters.
He comes at the same time, his hips stuttering, his breath ragged and raw across my lips. And for a moment the whole world goes impossibly still until his lips soften as they kiss across my mouth, to my cheeks, and down my chest.
When we finally stop shaking, he pulls out slowly, watching the mess he made leak out of me.
There’s no embarrassment. No instinct for me to hide it.
I leave my body soft and open for him to watch with a proud look on his face.
I know he likes to see what he leaves behind in me. This is his favorite part.
He bends down, scoops some of his seed with his fingers, and then pushes it gently back inside my pussy before smoothing my dress down over my hips to cover me.
“Don’t shower when we get back to the cabin.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, eyebrows raising. “Um, aren't we going out to dinner with your grandma?”
He retrieves my underwear from where he tossed it, grins like the devil, and slides it up my legs until it’s covering me again.
“I know.” His voice is rough. “Don’t shower anyway. So, when we get home later tonight and I fuck you in my bed again, I can feel what I left behind.”
Then he turns back to the helm of the boat, fires up the engine, and acts like he didn’t just tilt my entire axis with one sentence. I know I’ll obey him. Because he might be the first man that I’ve ever wanted to listen to.