Page 124 of These Summer Storms

“I’m not okay,” she said, softly, shocking them both with her honest confession. But she’d liked telling him the truth. Liked that he held it. Believed it. Accepted it.

Even now. “I know.”

“I hate all of this.”

“I know,” he said again, softer, pulling her a bit closer.

It felt good, being known, and Alice went willingly, looking down and taking his hand in hers, running her fingers over the compass on his bare arm. She spoke to the ink as she traced it. “I hate that it feels like you have to be here. That you’re only here to fix things. That you’re going to realize that I can’t be fixed.”

“You don’t need fixing.”

It was a lie, but she liked it too much to call him on it. Her fingers stroked over the inside of his wrist, his fingers curling with the pleasure of the touch, and she turned his hand over in hers.

She looked up at him. “How did you find me?”

“Saoirse came to get me. You know, your niece might be the most honorable of the whole family.”

The kids were all right. “Sam’ll make sure that doesn’t last,” Alice joked, softly. “He would have let me out, eventually.”

“Sure. Wednesday afternoon.” Alice shouldn’t have found thereference to the family’s ticking clock funny, but she couldn’t help it. He understood the game, and it felt like he was on her side. She tilted her face up to his.

That big hand landed at her hip again. Flexed. “I should go.”

“What if I told you I still needed a hero?”

He shook his head. “I’d tell you that I’m not a hero. Not by any metric.”

“Villain, then.”

“Maybe.” And then he kissed her, and it didn’t matter which he was, because all she wanted was this moment, all heat and strength and—how was it possible this stern man was such a tremendous kisser?

He set her on the edge of the desk, and she pulled away from the caress for a moment. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” He knew it was a lie, and they were kissing again, her hands in his hair, his on her dress, pulling it up past her ass.

“I haven’t decided if I’ll forgive you,” she said, gasping as one hand slid into the back of her underwear—was she wearing cute underwear? That hand grabbed her flesh and pulled her to the edge of the desk, and she realized she didn’t care.

“Understood.” They kissed again, his tongue stroking deep as his free hand slid down the outside of her thigh. “Is there anything I can do to help that decision along?”

She spread her thighs and he moved between them, pressing against her, strong and hard and—“That might help,” she said.

The sound he made was close to a growl.

He hooked her leg around his waist and returned his hand to her face, stroking his thumb over her cheek and running his fingers into her hair, tangled from being in the sea air all day. He swallowed her gasp with another long kiss—no one had ever kissed her like this. Had anyone ever kissed anyone like this?

“You should take your time deciding.” He slid a kiss across her cheekbone to her ear. “I’ll tell you a story while you do.”

“Okay,” she whispered, her fingers tangled in his shirt, chasing his buttons.

“On the beach,” he said. “When I kissed you?”

The words were hot at her ear, sending a shiver of anticipation through her. “Yes?”

“Those jean shorts.” The hand at her ass moved, tracing up, under her dress, stroking the skin there. Singeing it. “As though it wasn’t bad enough that I had to watch you on the boat wearing them—they were too fucking short for public view, Alice.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” The words were reed thin, their volume caught with her breath.

“I can, though,” he rumbled. “I’m paid to control myself. I controlled myself so well—when all I wanted was to take those shorts off. And that shirt. White and wet and fucking transparent.”