Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
JOE
Thursday, One Day Before the Summer Swap
Joe sputtered lake water as he came to the surface.
“Wow.” He coughed. “Zero stars. Would not recommend the surprise cannonball experience.”
Krista was already at the edge of the dock, trying very hard to look concerned and not laugh. She was failing miserably; the corners of her mouth kept twitching. She knelt and held out her hand. “Come on, Aquaman.”
He grabbed it, and she leaned back with a little grunt, helping haul him up onto the dock. His shoes squelched, every step leaving a sad, soggy footprint. Water streamed off the hem of his shirt and dripped onto the weathered boards.
“You’re soaked,” she said.
“Really?” he deadpanned. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Her lips finally curved into a full grin. “Come on. We’ve got extra staff shirts and shorts in the back. I’ll show you where it’s at.”
She led him up the dock and through the side entrance of the Hideaway, away from the customers on the main patio. The back hall was cooler, quieter, all painted cinderblock and stacked supplies—cases of cups, shelves of syrups, a small washer and dryer humming softly.
“In there,” she said, nodding toward a tiny staff room just big enough for a table, a chair, and a metal rack hung with a few spare T-shirts and jersey shorts.
Joe stepped inside, peeling his soaked shirt away from his chest—and the moment it hit the floor with a wet slap, he felt her breath catch behind him.
He turned. Krista stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, eyes fixed on him.
Her gaze flicked from his chest to his shoulders to the trail of water sliding from his sternum down his stomach.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to drip everywhere.”
“You—” She cleared her throat. “You’re fine.”
But she didn’t leave. He took a step toward her. She didn’t back up.
Another step—close enough now that he could see the pink in her cheeks, the way her lashes fluttered. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe like she wasn’t sure whether to hold herself there…or launch toward him.
“Krista,” he murmured.
She lifted her eyes to his, and that was it—whatever restraint they’d been clinging to snapped. She reached for him at the same moment he reached for her, her hands sliding over his bare chest as his hand cupped her jaw and pulled her in.
The kiss hit hard. Hungry.
Her mouth opened under his, warm and eager, her body pressing flush to his—his damp skin meeting the heat of her skin through her tank top. He groaned, low and rough, as her hands skimmed down his ribs, fingers tracing the dip of his waist.
He walked her backward until her back hit the metal shelving, boxes rattling. She pulled him closer, fingers digging into his shoulders, kissing him like she’d been wanting this all morning. Maybe longer.
He slid a hand to her hip, thumb brushing the warm strip of skin beneath her shirt. She shivered, arching into him. He kissed down her neck, tasting salt and honey, feeling her tilt her head to give him more.
“I want you,” she whispered, breathless, tugging him impossibly closer.
He lifted her thigh, guiding it around his hip, and she let him—her body softening against him in a way that made every nerve in him fire.
Her fingers worked the button on his damp jeans, then the zipper.
He barely registered the sound, just the feeling of her hand slipping beneath the waistband, fingers searching, stroking, finally curling around him with a slow, deliberate squeeze that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
Joe couldn’t get a word out. Couldn’t even say her name. She was warm and sure. Her strokes slow and intentional as her hand moved in long steady passes from base to tip. She paused to brush her thumb over, and he felt his whole body shudder in response.
He kissed her hard, like he needed it to survive, and she answered without hesitation—mouth open, hungry, her body pressed tight to his.
His hand slid up her shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin at her waist before drifting down.
He found the button of her cutoffs and popped it open, slid the zipper down, eased his hand inside.
He gripped her hip, bare and smooth under his palm, fingertips brushing the edge of her underwear. She gasped into his mouth, rocked into him with every slow stroke of her hand, rubbing against the hard line of him, desperate and hot and beautiful.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—anywhere he could reach.
He was unraveling. So was she .
Her hand worked him with slow, practiced pulls, her body grinding against him like she couldn’t help it, like she needed more friction, more contact, more everything.
“I need…” she breathed, her voice low and demanding.
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. Because he felt the same. She wanted more. And he was going to give it to her.
And then?—
A bolt of common sense slammed through him.
He froze, his breath catching, heart pounding. “Wait.”
Krista stilled instantly. She looked up at him, pupils blown wide, lips red from kissing. “What?—?”
“I want you,” Joe said, voice hoarse. “God, I want you.”
Her breath hitched.
“But not like this. Not in a closet. Not fast. Not rushed.” He searched her face, needing her to hear him. “You deserve more than a quick tumble next to the mop bucket.”
A silence settled. It was hot, energized, still buzzing from everything they’d just done.
Krista exhaled, her hand still resting against his bare chest. “So do you.”
His lips curved, a little uneven. “Yeah, well. The way you kiss me? I’m about ten seconds from changing my mind, and this room doesn’t even have a real door.”
That made her laugh. The sound was soft, breathless, and completely flustered. “We really need to get you that shirt.”
He nodded, but didn’t move right away. “Just so we’re clear—me stopping doesn’t mean I don’t want this.”
Her gaze locked with his, equal parts playful and serious. “Just so you’re clear—I know.”
He kissed her again. He was gentler now, reverent almost. Then he slid his hand from her shorts, pressing one final touch to her hip before helping ease her leg down from around his waist.
Her hand slipped from him last, fingers brushing over him as she let go, and he swore under his breath.
They were both shaking a little. Her jean shorts hung open, zipper halfway down. His jeans were still unzipped, heavy and damp.
She exhaled a short, stunned laugh. “We almost had sex next to the bleach.”
He huffed out a low breath. “It’s not even the good bleach. Industrial-grade.”
That made her laugh again. She turned to the supply rack, tugging down one of the T-shirts they sold with trembling fingers.
And as he reached for it, brushing her hand again, all he could think was?—
Next time, wild horses wouldn’t stop him.