Chapter 15 #2
We’d blurred to smudges any lines we’d established in our original agreement. A smart woman would work harder to hold boundaries, but I just couldn’t seem to care. About the rules; I was worried I’d started to care too much about the man.
“There’s the first one up ahead on the right.” Jackson slowed the boat as we neared the red cylinder bobbing out of the water.
We coasted to a stop beside the trap, and he grabbed it, hauling it onto the boat. The bottom third was full of squirming dark reddish-brown crawfish, scrambling over top each other to try to change their current situation.
“We’ve got to pull out the small ones and toss them back,” he said, dumping the scrabbling mass onto a shallow tray with a hole in one end.
He reminded me of a heron, darting into the mass of crustaceans to grab the smaller ones before tossing them over the side of the boat. The larger ones were nudged through the hole and into the bucket below. The whole process took moments.
“Bait the trap for me, Ford, while I show Charlotte how to sex them.” Not bothering to wait for a reply, he shoved the dripping trap in Ford’s direction before picking up a crawfish and turning it over to show me the flailing legs.
I glanced at Ford in time to see him flip Jackson off, but neither man seemed really bothered. Leaning forward, I watched as the other man pointed to tiny flippers near the base of the tail.
“The males have an extra set of swimmerettes. They’re usually a little bigger too.”
Ford dropped the trap, smelling of less-than-fresh herring, into the spot Jackson had pulled it from.
Careful not to touch me with his hands, he moved closer—close enough to press his thigh against mine—and watched as Jackson finished sorting the crawfish before tossing them into the bucket and starting the boat.
Together, the men made quick work of emptying and baiting the traps. By the second one, I felt comfortable asking if I could help sort. I managed to make it through three traps’ worth of the scrabbly crawfish before one of the little bastards caught me with his claw.
I felt the pinch and pulled my hand back quick, the crustacean swinging from my finger like a living bangle.
Biting my lip to keep from yelping, I turned to Ford for help just in time for the little bastard to drop to the bottom of the boat.
Jackson scooped it up and tossed it into the bucket while Ford reached for my hand.
He sucked the tip of my poor abused finger into his mouth, in a move both comforting and irritatingly arousing.
My body didn’t care if we were on a boat or in a deli.
My response to his touch was automatic and undeniable.
I’d stopped even trying, settling instead for convincing myself that just because we had a powerful physical connection didn’t mean there had to be an emotional one to match.
But the care in his expression as he held my wounded hand made that harder to deny.
“There, cher. You will live, which is more than I can say for the cochon in the bucket.”
“Did you just call the crawfish a pig?”
“Anything to defend my girl.” He said the words casually, as if they meant nothing.
They probably meant nothing. It didn’t stop the my girl from replaying on a loop in my head.
I wanted to tell him I was no such thing.
That I was no one’s girl. At the same time, I wanted to be his.
Which was completely fucked up and just one more thing to add to the heaping pile of emotional detritus I was determined to avoid examining.
Thankfully, the crawfish provided ample distraction. We pulled and sorted a handful more traps, filling three more buckets before Jackson turned the boat around and headed back.
Without the traps to deal with, it took a fraction of the time to get back to the wooden pilings with the board walkway, functioning as a pier. Jackson tied up the boat while Ford set the buckets full of crawfish and the bait cooler on the walkway.
“You can come fishing with me any time you want, Charlotte. With or without this guy.” Jackson handed me a mesh sack crammed full of at least ten pounds of crawfish.
“Thanks for the offer and especially for these.” I held up the bag.
“But I think I’ll stick with him for now.
He’s a surprising amount of fun.” He was.
I’d had so much fun with Ford in the past three weeks.
It was hard to believe our agreed upon time was almost over.
And even harder to realize how much I’d miss him and how much I didn’t want it to end.
One more thing to shove under the pile of things to look at later.
With all the baggage I’d piled in there, it would be a miracle if it didn’t come tumbling out like clowns out of a VW.
“Offer stands if you change your mind.”
We waited long enough to make sure Jackson didn’t need help with the boat before heading back down the bumpy road toward home.
I had a bag of squirmy crawfish at my feet, splashes of mud on my jeans and I smelled like a swamp and old fish—the last part might have been Ford—and I was happier than I’d been in ages.
“I had the best time. Thanks so much for that.” I leaned across the cab to kiss the sun-warmed spot on his cheek, taking a moment to nuzzle his beard before scooting back down onto the seat.
He caught me before I slid across the seat, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me in close enough to press his lips to the top of my head.
The gesture was almost chaste. My reaction was not.
Something about the ease and tenderness when he held me coupled with an edge of possessiveness made heat bloom deep inside me.
“I need a shower before we cook anything.”
“You can take one at my place. Unless you’d rather go home first.” I was curious about where Ford lived and didn’t know how many more chances I’d get to find out. Not without asking outright for him to take me to his place, which for some reason I didn’t feel comfortable doing.
“Your place is great, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I said, any disappointment I might have felt quickly replaced by thoughts of Ford naked and wet in my shower. Ford in my kitchen wearing nothing but a towel. Boundaries be damned.
––––––––
I LEFT MY shoes on Charlotte’s front porch and stopped in the kitchen just long enough to drop the cooler on the counter and the bag of crawfish in the sink. I was filthy and smelled awful, something made even more obvious when we were inside Charlotte’s clean, predominantly white house.
“There are towels in the linen closet. Help yourself to whatever you need,” she called after me as I made a beeline for the bathroom, careful not to touch anything on the way.
It wasn’t until I stripped off my jeans and T-shirt that I thought about what I’d put on after I got out of the shower.
Showing up in Charlotte’s kitchen wearing nothing but her towel definitely pushed the boundaries of our agreement.
Nothing to be done about it, even if I wanted to—which I didn’t.
My clothes smelled like bait fish and swamp mud.
I adjusted the water and stepped into the shower, pulling the glass door shut behind me.
The rainfall shower head sent water cascading over me, and I couldn’t help but imagine Charlotte standing in this same spot, running soapy hands over her gorgeous body.
The image got stronger when I squirted rose-scented shampoo into my palm and started to lather up.
I was more than man enough to smell like flowers, especially when the alternative was swamp.
I wasn’t sure I was man enough to go through the rest of the night smelling like Charlotte. Not without it driving me crazy.
I never stopped wanting her—not just her body; the more time we spent together, the more I realized it was her lightning-quick mind that was the real draw.
And her body. That gorgeous mouth. The way she gave herself over to her pleasure.
My cock went from semi-hard to fuck-me-tent-the-towel hard at the thought of Charlotte gripping the headboard in her bedroom, her head tipped back in pleasure as I kissed my way down her body.
That first taste of her and every time after that she’d let me have her. Fuck.
I slid a soapy hand over my cock, waging a silent war between jerking off or turning the water from hot to cold. I was so caught up in the battle, I didn’t hear the door to the bathroom open or realize I wasn’t alone until the door to the shower opened and Charlotte stepped inside.
“Don’t stop,” she said as I turned to her. “I want to watch.”
I’d been foolish to think I’d ever had any control of this situation.
She clearly owned this room and any other room she walked into, and my cock was in complete agreement with her request. I’d do whatever she asked of me, but if the choice was my hand or Charlotte in any way she’d let me have her, Charlotte won hands down—no pun intended.
“Cher.” I let the word hang between us like the plea it was.
“Just for a minute, Ford. Please.” She took my hand, her delicate fingers guiding it to my straining cock.
I gripped myself, mesmerized by the image of her hand over top of mine as I stroked my length.
The head of my aching cock pushed out of our combined hands and I heard her draw in her breath.
Knowing my pleasure turned her on dialed everything up, and I had to work to hold myself back.
I made it a few more strokes before I knew I needed to stop if I didn’t want to come in my hand.