Page 45 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Dressed in the linen vest and pants she’d bought with Angie, Stevie realized her mistake the moment she finished bounding down the too-steep stairs and turned the corner.

Her interest in a drink and something to snack on was replaced with an entirely less satiable hunger, and her mind produced the sound printers made when they jammed.

She should have insisted on casual wear when Ivy had first issued the invitation.

She should have burned down the house, or at least burned Angie’s closet.

She should never have allowed herself to fall into this trap because she knew better.

She’d been here before. However, the last time she’d seen Angie in this dress she hadn’t known how she tasted.

When Angie, who stood in the dining room, turned to see who had just leapt the last three stairs to land with a thump, Stevie came face to face with a neckline that plunged and a waistline that clung to Angie’s natural curves like an oil slick, polluting Stevie’s thoughts with memories of Angie’s breasts teasing Stevie open, their brown tips wet with the damning proof of how much Stevie wanted her.

Light from the candlelit chandelier exaggerated the shadow of Angie’s cleavage.

Her hair fell in an unruly mass that too closely mirrored the way that hair had looked spread across the carpet for Stevie’s sanity.

“Not fair, Ange.” Her voice normally didn’t sound so gravelly but speaking felt like talking around a landslide.

“Why not? You look adorable.” Angie stepped forward to let a dog trot past. The others were either in the kitchen or on the deck. Someone could round the corner through the kitchen door at any moment and see them, but no one was present to save her.

Adorable. Children were adorable. So were kittens. Stevie was suddenly furious at herself and at Angie for making her feel this way and for making her buy the outfit in the first place.

Angie lifted Stevie’s chin up to meet her eyes.

She needn’t have bothered with mascara or eye shadow.

Her pupils were large and dark enough to consume her face, and her lips parted with the barest hint of caught breath as Stevie pinned her with a glare.

The white of Angie’s teeth sent shivers down Stevie’s skin as she remembered what those teeth had done to her and what her teeth had done to Angie.

“Adorable” had been spoken aloud for the others. Angie’s face spoke a truer language.

She trailed her finger down Stevie’s throat, over the hollow of her collarbone, and to the center of her chest just above the vest’s button, fingering the linen as if she might undo it.

God, if only. Stupid, stupid outfit. No undershirt.

No bra. The sheer linen was no match for Stevie’s nipples, which had hardened unbearably at the first brush of Angie’s eyes.

“No,” Angie’s fingers still toyed with the last of the vest’s three buttons, “ this is unfair.”

Footsteps approached from the porch. They were shielded from view by the staircase, but that cover would last only another second. Stevie wanted to pull Angie into her lap and objectify the shit out of her, with permission of course, running her hands over every curve.

“Please let me fuck you later,” she said as quietly as she could. “Let this weekend be an exception.”

Lilian appeared in Stevie’s peripheral as Angie said, “Do you even need to ask?”

“Stevie,” said Lilian. “You look—”

“Hot,” said Morgan, surprise shaping the word as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a charcuterie board. “You’ve got abs.”

“You know I have abs.” Stevie’s cheeks warmed. “Everyone has abs.”

“Not like that,” said Lilian, appraising her with a frankness that might have been amusing if Angie wasn’t still staring at her like she was one of the snacks on the cheeseboard.

Stevie had never been more aware of her exposed skin, not even when Angie had drawn her.

She’d put her hair up in a high bun, depriving herself of even that little protection.

“Cleavage tease, side boob action—”

“Let’s not turn her the color of your lipstick.” Angie interrupted Lilian. “You do look good enough to eat, though. Come on. I need something to drink now that you’ve made us all thirsty.”

Angie took her hand and tugged her out of the circle of oglers and toward the porch.

“Thank you,” said Stevie.

“No, thank you ,” Angie replied suggestively, holding open the door.

Ivy and Emilia whistled appreciatively, but did not go further.

Stevie busied herself making a cocktail while her face cooled down before starting on one for Angie.

The cold glass felt good in her hand. She held it till her core temperature reached manageable levels.

Back on the deck the arches framed the sunset, which cooperated beautifully with Ivy’s plans, staining the sky a brilliant orange.

Stevie did not know when she was going to propose to Lilian, but the way Lilian’s hand always rested near Ivy in case she needed her boded well.

Stevie met Ivy’s eyes and shared a conspiratorial glance.

“How did you know what I wanted?” Angie said as she took a sip of her cocktail.

“Lucky guess. Also, it’s what you always ask me to make you.

” She’d never told Angie, but she’d been developing this drink for years, catering it to Angie’s taste.

The recipe was secret. She always made the same one for herself, too, out of the childish belief that sharing something brought them closer, as if she could taste the lingering bitters on Angie’s lips.

She’d tasted everything but her lips. She stared at them now, ignoring the slow, self-satisfied smirk that quirked them upward. Angie had put on a plum lipstick, and the effect was hypnotic.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” she said as quietly as possible, unable to keep the words in. Angie hated compliments, but this was not a compliment; it was fact. Everything from that full lower lip to the black sneakers she’d paired with the dress was perfect.

If Ivy or Emilia heard her words, neither made any indication. Angie, however, looked down, biting that lip in a self-conscious gesture.

When she looked back up at Stevie, Stevie nearly dropped her drink.

She’d never seen Angie look at her like that, look at anything like that.

Her hazel eyes were stricken with a longing so intense it transcended definition, edging into grief.

There was also a hunger Stevie couldn’t name, soft-pawed and lean, yet tempered with something entirely Angie. It was raw. It was honest. It was—

Had she heard the words Stevie hadn’t said? Those three damning words that underlaid everything?

Angie slowly dropped her eyes, distracted by Stormy calling her name. Breaking that gaze hurt. Stevie stood reeling, dimly aware of Morgan’s sympathetic expression and the pounding of her heart.

She hadn’t known. Not really. She’d hoped and doubted and compared evidence, but she’d always thought that the thing between them was unbalanced.

She hadn’t known how torn up she made Angie feel, too.

Dinner promised to be a riotous affair. Everyone was in a good mood. Everyone was happy to be where they were. Everyone seemed sure of their place except Angie. Unable to look at Stevie for the time being, she sought gainful employment chopping vegetables.

“Can I help?” Stormy and Emilia had transformed the kitchen into a sauna of garlic-scented steam. Her mouth watered immediately.

“There’s—” Emilia began, but Stormy cut her off.

“Nope. Help by getting out of the way.” Stormy shooed her out.

“But—”

“You look too good to be in the kitchen. Go tempt someone else. I won’t burn my sauce because I’m too busy drooling over you in that dress.”

“But—” she tried again, this time with a whine. Forget appetizers. Stormy loved nothing more than light meddling before the entrée.

Sitting on the porch and chatting over drinks wasn’t a bad alternative even if Angie did feel guilty that Stormy and Emilia were not present.

She chose a seat opposite Stevie in the semicircle of rocking chairs and crossed her legs with intention.

The dress rode up her thigh, and she could almost hear Stevie’s internal curses of frustration.

The dogs spread out on the deck, each claiming territory without much more squabbling than a raised lip.

Ivy was telling a scandalous story about her youth on the island.

The others listened with rapt good humor, but while Angie ostensibly kept her eyes on Ivy she studied Stevie in her peripheral vision.

Stevie slouched a bit, taking up space in a way Angie was never quite comfortable doing.

The cut of the clothes fit her perfectly.

She wished she hadn’t left her phone upstairs because she wanted to snap a photo of Stevie pouting with frustration and trying to hide it, eyes mostly pupil as she snuck glance after glance in Angie’s direction. She suppressed a shiver of pleasure.

Control was relative. Angie could put the power into power bottom all night long.

The sunlight turned the liquid gold of farewell, casting them all in a light so warm and perfect it hurt her heart. She loved these people. Her people. Her family. She needed them in a way that terrified her, even if she had accepted that fear as part and parcel of belonging.

“. . . and then I had to find my way home across the island, totally naked, and sneak into the house without my mother hearing me,” Ivy concluded.

“You didn’t,” Stevie said, horrified.

“I still have a scar on my thigh from slipping while jumping behind a tree because I thought I heard someone coming down the path.”

Angie laughed with the rest of them. The faint scars on her upper inner thighs were from slipping too, just in a different way.