Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
JUNE
My hands fist at my sides. The sand is making stomping difficult, but I’ll manage it. Can do attitude for days. Just like my last performance review at the university said. Why in the world I want to help his stupid ass is beyond me, but here I am. Almost kissing him. Like an idiot.
And why? Because Dean Evans is hot? And right there?
Yeah. Those are good reasons.
I scowl at the ocean, like it’s responsible.
Oh, and obviously because of the massive load of adrenaline. It’s just like one of those old action movies said, relationships form faster based on shared terrible experiences. Or was it an old Oprah episode? Ah, the lazy afternoons of a misspent youth.
I scowl, shaking my hair out, water droplets peppering the sand.
Waves crash into the dark gray granite jetties ahead, sending sprays of seafoam arcing over the cubed stones. If my father left me a message, it would be there. I pause, staring at the circling gulls.
Should I share it with Dean?
Would he rip it out of my hands and take all the glory of finding the Santu Espiritu for himself? I suck in a breath.
Worse, it might prove the worst of his accusations about my father to be true.
I turn around, already in motion to run back to him, to try and put this off.
Momentum sends me crashing against his bare chest, the sensation of his hard body fraying my resolve. His hands catch my waist before I go ass backward into the sand.
“Princess.” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look into his darkening eyes. “It’s not a game to me. You’re not a game. This isn’t a game.”
Desire curls in me, hot and traitorous. Delicious.
He must have seen it, because he leans closer.
It takes no effort at all to capture his mouth, the tentativeness of our earlier embrace disappearing into heat. My lips part on an exhale.
He seizes on it, dragging me closer, until my nails curve into his shoulders and I can hardly breathe for wanting him. His tongue slides against my lower lip, and everything in me goes tight and loose all at once.
We’re skin on skin, the thin material of my bikini not enough and too much all at once.
He lifts me up, my butt in his hands, and I wrap myself around him just like I did last night, except this time?
This time, I’m exactly where I want to be. I nibble on his lower lip, and his sharp inhalation feels like a prize. More. I want more.
“June,” he murmurs. My name, my real name, coming out of his mouth, ragged and desperate, is nearly enough to send me over the edge.
I draw back slightly, letting out a small whimper.
His eyes devour me.
“What do you want?” he asks, his fingers kneading my lower back, the curve of my butt. “What do you want from me?”
I lean my forehead against his, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to sort out the tangled knot of my emotions.
“I don’t know. I don’t know, Dean.” I shake my head and his grip loosens, my legs unwinding.
The sand’s hot on my bare feet.
“Do you know? What you want?” I ask him, biting my lower lip. He lets out a groan, gaze dipping to my mouth, and my core tightens.
“I know I want you.” It sounds desperate, wild almost, like he wishes it wasn’t the case.
But no matter how much I want him?—
“I need to know the truth,” I finally answer.
I stare up at him, challenging him to deny me or kiss me again, I don’t know. I might be fine with either.
The waves pounding against the beach amplify the roaring in my ears.
Dean steps towards me, and I stand my ground.
A sea breeze catches my hair, sending a damp lock curling across my face. Dean steps closer, and I narrow my eyes at him. His strong hand pushes the hair out of my face, tucking it behind an ear, but he doesn’t let it go.
“I’m not perfect. I’m not… I’m not good at being with someone,” he finally says. “I think, though, I think we might have something here.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what.”
“Not exactly a rousing endorsement of your, ahem, abilities.” I let my gaze track down his torso meaningfully, then pause as I fail to ignore the evidence of my effect on him. His hand tightens against my loose hair until I look back up at his face.
“That’s not what I meant.” The words are a low growl.
“Good.” Good? My voice sounds breathless, and I close my eyes. Trying to find my bearings.
“I’m great at that.” His thumb strokes against my throat, and I can’t help leaning into his touch.
“Then what?” I make myself ask.
“You… you deserve someone you can trust. Someone who isn’t carrying around a decade’s worth of baggage.”
“Baggage?” The problem is, maybe I do trust him. I do, in fact, feel safe with him. Around him. In his arms.
“Therapy talk. Must be rubbing off.” His lips screw to the side before melting into a half smile.
That dang dimple is going to be my undoing. Not to mention his possessive grasp on my hair, the way his thumb strokes up and down, so sure.
What else can that thumb do? I wouldn’t mind finding out.
“Therapy,” I echo.
“You don’t want to hear about it.”
“I think therapy is great. Important. I think it’s great you’re in therapy.” I twist my lips to the side, his words finally hitting home. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
His smile deepens, something dark flashing in his eyes. “I think you’d like it if I told you what you wanted, princess.”
“Oh.” It comes out a squeak, and his dimple deepens, drawing my eyes back to his mouth.
“But what do you want, June?”
The way he enunciates my name, the teasing lilt of his mouth, the promise of what else he can do with it…
Too much. This is a bad idea. He is too much, too fast, and too good .
I will not be undone by Marine Ken Doll Dean Evans.
Not right now, at least, not with the sea glass message so close hand.
“I want to find my ship.” My heart slams against my chest, so rapid there is no way Dean can’t feel it. His hand slips from my neck, grazing my collarbone. “That’s what I want now.”
“Then let’s find your ship.”
“I thought you said this was about drugs.” I squint at him, shielding my eyes from the Texas sun.
He gives a small shrug. His shrugs should be illegal. Public indecency. My gaze sweeps over the empty stretch of shore. Whatever. It’s public enough.
“Why can’t it be about both?”
“Both?”
It can’t be both. Because that would mean my father was a drug runner. The man who kept me safe since… since the unspeakable happened.
Something I keep deep inside—bottled up safe and tight, so secure I refuse to even think about it—leaks through to the conscious part of my brain.
My throat goes dry, my skin somehow too tight.
I don’t want to believe it.
Anything to keep you safe. I can almost hear his voice, the way he looked at me when he rushed me to the hospital after he collected me.
Collected me from the Russian smugglers, the year I turned thirteen.